Chapter Text
~*~
After John Watson returned from the war, he allowed himself one month to come to terms with the loss. After that, he planned.
Turns out, he was very good at planning.
After that, it was almost like the war had never left him.
*
Business was going well. It took a few months to get the first real bites, but after that, his reputation spread; slowly, but steadily. Word of mouth in the underworld was surprisingly valuable, so a genuine reference was gold. John’s plans to date had a nearly perfect track record – the few snags that had cropped up were largely ‘user error’ and products of excess greed or impatience; easily seen as such. Those that followed his directions without deviation were almost entirely successful.
After he was established, building a proper network was relatively easy, if a little tedious.
*
Holmes was beginning to interest him. He had stumbled onto – no, that wasn’t fair – he had noticed a few of John’s projects, and solved them (more or less) for what they were. Not that they were part of a larger whole, but the crimes themselves, yes. It was impressive; John had been certain no one would ever realize what had been set up. The misdirection had been nearly flawless. (He was, in fact, familiar with the ‘evil overlord’ list; he knew better than to use words like ‘impossible’, no matter how much he planned.)
He decided to keep an eye on the man; might be someone worth toying with. Break the monotony a bit.
*
Meeting Mike was pure coincidence. He stumbled through the conversation as he would have a year previous, damaged and weary. It paid to keep up the image; pension-bound ex-army doctors were not, after all, generally under suspicion of being very (very) successful criminal masterminds.
When the flat share came up, he followed out of amusement, curious to see who Mike had associated him with. When they were introduced, John nearly fell over laughing. It had literally taken all of his effort to keep a straight face through the other man’s scrutiny.
Oh, fate could be a funny thing.
John had poked around Holmes’ website a bit – not nearly as interesting as the poor man seemed to think it was – toying with ideas on how to draw him out for more interesting interaction than the passive, spectatorship he’d engaged in thus far. The offer to sublet a room to the man before him had been sent off, posted to his forum on a lark days previous, just to see how he’d react (not at all, seemed to be the answer). That they were in the same room not-discussing a flat share he had nothing to do with, now, was just too rich. By the end of the conversation, he’d decided to go through with it.
He could play with Holmes for a while then, see how he ticked up close, and be in the perfect position to dispose of him when he was done.
*
Being ‘on’ all the time was a bit of a challenge; remembering, always, to be that invalided soldier – discarded, without value – the tension to his frame, the slightly strained expression; it took conscious effort to be what he was a year ago. But the act was engaging in a way the work never was. It was an interesting challenge, finding new ways to manipulate the people around him through subtle body language and their own expectations. Funny how easy it was to hide behind an openly expressive face, people assume you are completely incapable of dissimulation if they think they can see every thought cross your face.
Still… it was invigorating. In the first two days of their ‘acquaintance’, Sherlock managed to distract him into forgetting to limp. Twice! He’d made him laugh more, genuinely, that he’d done since returning, discarded, from his service. He was dismissive, and flighty, and couldn’t be bothered to think of others, but he was so alive, so wrapped up in the ‘game’, that he’d drag anyone nearby into his excitement (and along with the danger, given half a chance) without even thinking about it.
John was self-aware enough to recognize there was no special connection, he was merely giving the other man what no one else had thought to; attention, and the humour of their belief (and just a few, simple compliments for his ego), but it was almost easy to forget it wasn’t some shared secret only for him. Then the brother added an interesting challenge all his own, and the situation John had orchestrated as a minor distraction became very nearly more engaging than his actual work…
And then that damned cabbie had to try to muscle in on his game, tried to claim his prize, and that was a step too far. For all his success in his chosen enterprise, John had very few entertainments, and he was… vexed… that Hope had aimed higher than his station to take a shot at John’s. The stupid bloody man had gone with a known serial killer, too – if he’d been tricked into it, it would almost be forgivable, but John knew enough about him to recognize that would be no way to distract him from the drama and audience the MET had meted out upstairs – it had to be a bigger hook, more obvious bait…
So the pillock had gone knowingly to what would probably be his death without a word or a warning, not bothering even with a simple message that he’d left, expecting his own intellect to save him, when he had no idea how the game was to be played, or what would be waiting for him, there. And John was supposed to be the idiot. Jesus!
He had a little time – Hope enjoyed theatrics almost as much as Sherlock did, they would probably flaunt their intellects at each other for a while before the real danger began – but real anxiety burbled under his façade until the police left, and he could finally take off after his idiot pet.
When he finally arrived, John’s fears were about to be realized. The damned fool had the pill up to his lips, caught in the hypnotic lure of ego, taunt, and temptation that Hope had honed to a weapon. Conveniently out of sight, out of any awareness between the two men wholly wrapped up in their own drama, John sighted his shot, and took it. He made sure the injury left the option of later reprisals; permanence was far too good for someone who’d tried to take what was his.
*
Maintaining his act – after all the excitement and churning, turbulent emotions this rescue had kicked up – was just a bit difficult. He had time, however; he couldn’t be seen to arrive before the police, and they were not nearly as prompt as most people would like to believe. So John waited, and breathed, and calmed himself – letting the mask of ‘John Watson, invalided soldier’ settle back over ‘John Watson: incredibly annoyed Criminal Mastermind’.
It took a bit of time, but he managed it, before the first sirens sounded. He waited, letting them swarm the building, set up their cordon, make their conjectures, and manhandle Sherlock into an ambulance. The last made a tiny, possessive part of him rear up and snarl, but it was easily pushed back under; Sherlock should be checked out. Probably for brain damage, too, though John suspected that condition predated this encounter.
Bloody fool of a man.
Still, John had claimed him, so he would just need to care for him until it was time to put him down, like any good pet owner would do.
After what he deemed to be a sufficient time, John ambled – with a touch of affected confusion and concern – onto the outer fringes of the crime scene, waiting. It didn’t take long for Sherlock to notice him out along the edges, and he stopped mid-sentence, drifting over to John as if being pulled by an invisible force, focus suddenly all on him.
That was… kind of nice, actually.
And then…
And then, he proved how clever he really was. In part, at least. Calling John on the shooting that no one else would have seen – that he was almost certain Sherlock couldn’t have – asserting the quality of his shot, rolling with it as truth until John accidentally agreed... Damn. He thought he’d been better prepared than that. And yet, there was no derision, no alarm; suddenly, the attention Sherlock focused on cases was on John, really seeing him – or at least, the bits John let bleed through. The banter was comfortable and Sherlock was clearly convinced of John’s good character before ever prodding him on his motivations. Maintaining the moral high ground in the other man’s eyes, even with a known murder on his hands, was easy. The tone turned conspiratorial as they left, and John thought… perhaps he’d keep this, for a while.