Toy (Sherlock Phoenix x John Hamish Watson)

Sherlock was easily bored.

Money and power didn't really interest him, their value was scarce in his eyes, they were too fleeting, too empty, too stupid.

Science was much more interesting.
And so was crime.

His knowledge of the subject was imfamous in his clan, every one in trouble or in need would come to him for advice, and they would walk away thinking he was crazy.
He was always right though.

His family had never been more powerful, he and his brother were feared by everyone, and it was all due to his intelligence and to the way he could predict everyone else's moves.

Sherlock didn't care.

Somehow it was not enough.

He had never realized what it was that he missed.

He could have girls if he wanted. He could have boys.
But he knew no one really liked him.
He knew he didn't like any of them.


~~


John had been working for his family as an assassin for six months when Sherlock met him.
It was passing him in the hallway of their big estate that the older man caught his eye.

Nerves of steel. Army posture. Secret Services. Special Agent. Medical traning. Unwavering morals. Mole.

He smirked, and sauntered to his brother's quarters.
He knew what he wanted for his birthday now.


~~


Sherlock didn't tell anyone he knew who John was, but he had Mycroft reassign him.
He had never worked with anyone, and John was sure to get all kinds of warnings from the people he talked to.

Sherlock sat lazily on his armchair, resting his head on his hand as he looked at the door, waiting for the man who was supposed to answer his every whim from now on.

John Watson came from a medical background, trained to be a doctor then signed up for the army, served in Afghanistan before being sent home injured. It was whilst recovering in hospital that he met the man who would put him on a new career path entirely. He worked for the British Government. They were looking for ex-army men like John to enlist in the secret services. Dangerous, exciting, undercover work. John leapt at the chance. This was just what he needed. A fresh start, something new.

He settled in well. He started off doing office work. It was mundane and ordinary but the promise of something more kept him going. Finally he was given the chance to go undercover as a mole inside the biggest criminal web in London, possibly in the whole of the UK and continually threatening to branch out throughout Europe. It was ran by two brothers Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes, of which he was warned in particular about Sherlock. The man was evil, psychopathic and insane apparently.

His initial interview was with Mycroft, the older of the two, and John managed to impress him with his in depth knowledge of guns, and a quick demonstration with a sniper rifle on top of a rooftop. He was a crack shot and wasn't hard for him to land a job as an assasin. John was aware the job would involve killing people at some point but the victims were normally so far away it hardly seemed real, almost like a computer game, and he knew it would all be worth it when he finally helped to bring the Holmes brothers to justice. He would be saving hundreds possibly thousands of lives in the long run.

John was doing well as an assasin. He was making inroads. He was meeting people, getting to know about all the different jobs they had going on. He was disappointed and a little worried when Mycroft came to him one day to say he'd been reassigned to be Sherlock's personal assistant. He couldn't understand why, and he was pretty nervous about meeting this Sherlock after everything he'd heard about him.

Nevertheless it wasn't his place to argue. The very next day he was stood outside Sherlock's office. He took a deep breath and knocked on the door. Here goes nothing...

Sherlock's office looked like a live in studio, there was no desk, just a kitchen table filled to the brim with lab utensils and his latest experiment, on one side there was a sink and a kettle, a few dirty mugs and scientific books were laid everywhere, towards the window there was a sofa and two armchairs, also covered in what looked like rubbish.
It really didn't look like the place where evil plans were created.
Nor a place that belonged to one of the richest person in the country.

Sherlock was finely dressed and groomed, but his hands were discolored for the experiments he conducted and his hair always seemed to be a mess of black. His pale skin and high cheekbones stuck out in the dim light of London's winter afternoon.

His grey eyes sparkled dangerously when John Watson walked in.
"No breakfast today, John?" he asked as he took a good look at him, finding out more than people would ever willingly tell him.

John pushed open the door, then stared at the messy, dirty and disorganised room with an expression of surprise and horror. He had been expecting an immaculate office space with a shiny black desk, pristine leather chair, filing cabinets etc. There was none of that stuff. It appeared Sherlock Holmes did most of his filing...on the floor.

John struggled to hide his thoughts and was mortified when Sherlock correctly worked out he'd had no breakfast that morning. He'd been warned about this. That Sherlock could just look at you and tell instantly a million things about you. It was extremely disconcerting and made John a little twitchy.

"Quite right," he replied with a small nod, staring at a chemical stain on the floor. "Um....so...errr....Mycroft sent me." He looked up then, hoping Sherlock would give him a job to do so he could just leave this room.

Sherlock could see John was nervous. Of course he was. His deduction skills were infamous and no doubt the agent would worry his cover could get blown.
Most people would have driven themselves crazy by now, Sherlock was impressed by the man's nerves.

"Undoubtedly," he replied, standing up, walking around the smaller man as if he was his prey. "I asked for you," he added, watching the other's face for any sort of reaction.

"You seem to be an interesting person, John," he started, finally stopping in front of him, leaning closer and licking his lips very slowly. "Mysterious," he muttered sarcastic, "And rather sexy, I have to admit," he teased him, taking another good look at him.

John stiffened slightly as Sherlock began circling him. It was odd that he should be called to see Sherlock in this manner, and the thought crossed John's mind that somehow they'd managed to find out who he really was. He'd been so careful and the fake background information all checked out perfectly. Surely his cover couldn't be blown already. John forced the thought from his mind and told himself to concentrate on the situation at hand.

Sherlock's strange and seemingly flirtatious manner was making John rather nervous. He got a whiff of his aftershave as he stepped closer and couldn't help but shiver slightly. There was something alluring about this man, he decided, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. He had charm, certainly. His eyes were...startling. And his hair... John shook his head to clear his mind. What was he thinking? He was stood here with the most dangerous man in London and John was thinking his hair looked nice. Get a grip.

"Umm...thank you..." he stammered a reply when Sherlock called him sexy, then added, "...sir...." It would never do to piss off his boss by being disrespectful. "Erm...and...what can I do for you?"

Sherlock rolled on the balls of his feet as he stood in front of John, his eyes never leaving the other's face.
"You can call me Sherlock, formalities are extremely boring and we are going to spend a lot of time together from now on," he muttered and smirked, reaching out his hand, he placed it on the other's shoulder. "It won't all be hard work though..."

"You have so many secrets, it must be hard to relax," he whispered, his face moving even closer. "You have nerves of steel, and quite some guts, I am impressed..."
His finger moved up from the other's shoulder, the tip touching the side of John's jaw. "But you understand I need to keep an eye on you..."

John could feel his heart hammering as Sherlock moved even closer, so close could smell and taste his sweet breath. So many secrets. John gulped. What did he know? How did he know? Suddenly the idea occured to him that Sherlock might be able to just look at him and see everything. Panic rose in his throat, choking him. If Sherlock knew the truth he was a dead man.

"Y-you can trust me Sherlock..." he stammered with a small smile.

Sherlock smirked. He could sense the other's nervousness and it excited him oddly, he could almost feel it, touch it.
"Relax John, I am not like my brother," he said, squeezing his shoulder just a bit. "I am not obsessed by our family business..."

He pulled away just slightly, somehow breaking the tension that had gathered in his own shoulders.
"I sure hope I can, John... because what happens in here, has to stay in here," he muttered, spinning on his feet and motioning to his office.

"You keep my secrets, and I will keep yours," he said, eyes intense.

John shuddered at Sherlock's touch, a shiver running down his spine. His feet were rooted to the spot and he became conscious of slight pins and needles from standing in the same position for so long. He shuffled slightly, trying to relax as Sherlock had requested. He felt like he was standing to attention. He made an effort to drop his shoulders and found they'd been hunched almost up to his ears the whole time. He breathed out. He'd been holding his breath too.

"I can keep secrets," John replied, trying to sound confident. "I'll keep any secret you like. Erm...what do you need me to do?" Surely Sherlock must have some kind of job for him, John thought. Or would he call him here just to mess with his head? Hmm, knowing what he did about Sherlock, that wouldn't exactly surprise him.

Sherlock looked at him for a moment. "You are impatient," he muttered, thinking it probably was the only part of the other man's personality that was genuine at the moment. He ignored his question for the time being, too busy taking in the other's posture.
The other's body was like a tight wire, Sherlock was considering touching him some more just to check whether it would snap.

So he circled him again, and he stopped at his side this time, his hand settling on the other's back, the palm pressing on his spine as he leaned towards his ear. "You are a brave little soldier, aren't you," he whispered low.

"Did you get any medal for your injury?" he asked, his hand moving up the other's spine, going towards what he thought was the injured shoulder.

When Sherlock's hand pressed on his back, John felt like stepping forward, moving away, but somehow it appeared he was rooted to the spot, feeling the warmth from the criminal's fingers radiate down his spine and snake round to his stomach.

John shrugged at the question. "Nah...I didn't exactly do anything worthy of a medal...just...got shot," he replied dismissively, staring at the floor and shuddering as Sherlock's fingers traced their way up his back to his shoulder. How the hell did he know that was his injured shoulder?

"Not particularly brave at all...," he continued, "I suppose I saved a few lives but that was all part of the job."

But Sherlock knew it was much more than that, just the way John stood there in his office showed the nerves of steel he possessed. Sherlock was used to breaking people, but he was rather sure this one would take more than a few words.

"Don't be so humble..." he muttered, and patted his shoulder. "You did a lot for your country... you still do a lot... more than what everyone else imagines..." he muttered, and leaned a bit closer.

"You are going to work with me now, it's nothing like being an assassin... but most of the time you'll see I just need someone to take care of me... Mycroft thinks I am a bit clueless," he explained with a smirk.

"Do you think you could do that?"

Not that he had a choice.

John maintained his rigid position as Sherlock patted his shoulder. He was practically standing to attention, he realised. It was difficult to shake old habits.

He struggled to understand Sherlock's words, to read between the lines, get at the subtext and work out what he actually meant. Everything was just so damn cryptic. He was a strange guy, this Sherlock.

John nodded, as confidently as he could manage. "Yes Sherlock," he replied, wondering what the work would entail. "I'm pretty certain I could do anything I put my mind to. I won't let you down."

Sherlock smiled at that, this man was just adorable.
He frowned when he realized what he had just thought.
He pulled away, moving back towards his armchair and flopping on it.

"I retrieved a few cases from Scotland Yard, I need to look at them," he said, motioning to the pile of paper on the floor in front of him.

"I want a cup of tea," he motioned towards the kettle in the corner. "White, two sugars," he instructed.

"Then you can help me with this..." he said as he picked up a case and started reading.

John was relieved when Sherlock finally moved away and hurled himself into the armchair. He felt his body visibly and physically relax, his shoulders dropped and his muscles loosened. His focus was moved to the pile of papers from Scotland Yard and John wondered what they could possibly be, and the thought ran through his mind for a split second that they might mention him in some way, but he dismissed it quickly. He musn't think like that.

Instead he leapt into action and headed towards the kettle. "Yes of course," he muttered, whilst thinking to himself, 'I'm not your bloody tea boy'. He really hoped he hadn't been called here just to make Sherlock cups of tea and coffee all day long. He was hoping for something a bit more exciting than that, so was rather pleased when Sherlock picked up one of the files and started leafing through it.

John finished making the tea just as Sherlock requested and brought it over to him, placing the cup down on the table.

"Here you are," he said with a small smile, then indicated towards one of the chairs. "Shall I...erm...pull up a chair then or...?"

Sherlock was quickly engrossed in the file he was reading, almost forgetting John was there as well. He looked up surprised when he was handed the cup of tea, and nodded in thanks. "You can have a cup of tea as well, it's going to be a long day," he muttered, and motioned to the armchair. "I will give you orders at times, but as a general rule, you can do what you want in here, I do not particularly care about formalities..."

When John was ready to start working he put his hand on the pile of files. "I have noticed a pattern in a series of homicides the police has ignored, I am trying to find how many cases it actually affects..." he explained, his eyes sparkling softly in excitement.

"I need you to look through the files and put into a different pile the ones that mention traces of tobacco/cigarette ash on the body or in the crime scene, I will then check whether they correspond to the ones I isolated before," he muttered, motioning for him to start.

John pulled up an armchair to sit opposite Sherlock, with the files in between them on the floor, then he headed back to the kettle and made himself a cup of tea.

"Thanks," he nodded in appreciation. "I'm gasping to be honest..." He brought the tea back over and sat down, taking a sip before sighing with satisfaction, then glancing down at the files listening to Sherlock's instructions with a frown.

"Tobacco ash? Why are you interested?" he couldn't help but ask, surprised. He knew he shouldn't cross the line, shouldn't push this man too far, but he was genuinely interested. It just seemed like an odd request.

Sherlock looked up at him briefly when John came back with his own tea. "You should make yourself comfortable here, I don't care much for food when I am working, so you are going to be your own boss about that, eat when you want to, drink when you want to, and so on," he explained, the tone of his voice cold and uninterested, it was a boring subject for him.

He couldn't help looking up surprised when John inquired about the cases though, one, people never really asked him anything because they were scared of him, and two, people never really wanted to talk to him because he would yap on about things no one cared about.

For a moment he wondered whether John was really interested, and meeting his curious eyes he couldn't help the excited smile that formed on his lips.
"You see this pile?" he asked, pointing at the four files on the table. "Those are four murder cases that have no culprit yet, they are officially unrelated," he started, his voice becoming more and more excited as he went on.

"But I discovered a pattern, and the most common factor is this type of cigarettes that the murderer appears to smoke during the crime, that kind of ash has been found on all those crime scenes, and if I am right, which I think I am, the murderer has been killing for five years, 8 months gaps in between each victim... you know what it means if that is true?"

"That there is a serial killer in London and the police has been too blind to notice," he said finally with a short laugh.

John took a sip from his tea and listened as Sherlock began to talk. His interest grew rapidly, and soon he was putting the tea down on the table and bending over to pick up the first file off the floor. He scanned through it as Sherlock spoke, then moved to the next file and the next, seeing the gruesome photographs of the murder victims, the autopsy report, the scene of crime photographs and reports, everything.

God knows how Sherlock had managed to get his hands on these, he wondered. They were supposed to be top secret, classified, Scotland Yard only. John didn't like to ask. He was fairly sure he wouldn't like the answer.

"That's pretty amazing," he said finally, becoming engrossed in reading the reports. "I can't believe they didn't notice the pattern...it all seems so obvious now you've pointed it out...." John frowned then, realising something was odd about the whole scenario.

"Sherlock..." he began cautiously, nervous of the man's reputation. "Hope you don't mind me asking but...well...you know, you're really good at this...you would have made a great detective. How come you...well...how come you chose to do...this?"

That's pretty amazing.

Sherlock couldn't help looking up again, surprised by the man's reaction and words.
"People don't usually say that," he mumbled under his breath, but shook his head then, there was something in his chest, like a proud bubble ready to burst, and all caused by this man, this... undercover policeman.

"They are just a bunch of idiots," he said, shrugging. "And this man is clever, he clearly knows how police paperworks is carried out, he waited just enough time in between his victims for the connection not to be noticed, and the ash is the only clue he leaves anyway, probably on purpose," he muttered, tapping his lips thoughtful.

He turned the page on the file he was reading, his eyes moving up briefly when John asked him about his career choice. "I never had a choice about this, it's the family business," he said with a shrug, really not minding the question. He had no idea why John cared, but for some reason he liked to share. "Mycroft tolerated me doing this because it helps me be good at my job as well, it's good research..."

He took a long pause, frowning at his own thoughts. "Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to chase these guys, or maybe to get people like you to kill this kind of murderers... justice would be faster this way," he said simply, as if it was the most obvious thing.

"Would you do that for me if I asked you?" he said, leaning his head on his hand, truly curious.

John nodded, thoughtfully. "Well whoever he is, he's not as clever as you," he replied. "And Scotland Yard can be pretty useless sometimes," he admitted, although he was careful not to say too much, he didn't want to give away his position.

He plonked down the file on the flood and picked up his cup of tea, taking a long sip whilst considering Sherlock's question.

He was an interesting man, John realised, and a lot more complex than he had originally thought. He wasn't just a straight down the line criminal and to be quite honest, he was beginning to think he wasn't really as evil and crazy as people were making out. He clearly cared about justice, he'd practically just said so himself, which meant he wasn't some kind of cold blooded psychopath after all.

The idea of chasing down a murderer and killing them to bring 'justice' wasn't exactly the right thing to do and in any normal circumstances John would have argued against it, gone down the legal route. But right now he was undercover, he was a criminal, and expected to act as one. Even if he was being truthfully with himself he could see the people Sherlock was talking about deserved it. It wouldn't be a particularly big stain on his conscience to rid London of a few of those scumbags.

"Yes," he nodded finally. "Yes I'd do that. I wouldn't have a problem with it."

His head cocked to the side, Sherlock was not sure how to take the compliment. He could recognize adulation, he could recognize fake compliments, but this was just something different, something... honest.
"Mm, thanks, I guess," he mumbled, frowning at his cup of tea.

Sherlock couldn't help the half smile that crossed his expression when John replied positively to his question. This man was special, he had been right, but then again, he was always right.

"Then let's get this scumbag," he said, motioning to the files, there was still quite a big pile. "Read away, if I am right there is only one week until he strikes again..."


((Should we do a version of Study in Pink that fits with this storyline? We could jump ahead to when they find a new body and they can use fake documents to get to see the body? >> ))

John grinned, suddenly quite excited at Sherlock's plan, and pleased to finally be given something interesting to do and also something rather worthwhile. He felt like he might actually be helping...doing a good deed...even if it was slightly the wrong way to go about it.

"Great," he replied, taking a large sip of his tea before setting it back down and picking up one of the large files. "Looks like I've got a lot of reading to do then....better crack on if we're to beat this guy..."

He turned his attention to the report and got down to some serious studying.



((Yeah sounds like a good plan! Let's do a bit of time jump now then....))

Sherlock was used to acting, it was his second nature, he had been forced to learn when he was too young to understand, and now it was part of who he was.
So when he took out two fake foresincs badges, he fell into his part quickly, schooling his features.

"We are going to get in, look at the crime scene, examine the body and go, alright?" he told John, standing very close to him with his grey eyes looking at him intense. "Don't talk to anyone other than me, just follow my orders and do your job. You were a doctor, you can make it up as you go."

He stared at him again, his long pale finger tapping the other's chin, making him look up. "We are very close, John, don't mess it up," he said with confidence, before he pulled away and started walking towards the building in Brixton road, excitement clear in his step, but only to those who knew him well.


((we can go fast through the scene, you can imply that Sherlock deduced the hell out of the body if you want~ so we can get to Sherly going with the cabbie to the other building and John shooting him, and the aftermath of that in a few posts))