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John Watson, former army doctor, had his first target. An unnamed man was offering a large sum of money for the disposal of one Sherlock Holmes. The money would help him get on his feet, and help him find Harry, who had disappeared. But how to get close to Sherlock Holmes? Who was Sherlock Holmes?
Mike Stamford, find him a flatmate? Well, anything was worth a try. His target wouldn't pay off for weeks to come, maybe more, best to conserve money until the job payed out.
Now this! Was an attractive gentleman. John had long ago come to grips with himself being bi, though it had been a struggle. Was this to be his flatmate? This gentleman had a riding crop! In the mortuary? Interesting, and possibly concerning. Oh, now that could be troubling. This man, riding crop and inhuman abilities in all, was Sherlock Holmes, the man John had been hired to kill.
Less than two days into this acquaintance! God, it felt like a lifetime. He'd killed for the man! And the preposterous man had cured his limp. There was also the slight problem of John's mounting attraction. To use the silly schoolgirl term, John had a crush on Sherlock Holmes, and a rather enormous one at that. Now this, did complecate the job at hand.
Some days, it was easy to consider going through with the job he had been assigned. Sherlock could be aggravating, childish and stubborn. Those were the days that John considered it. The days the boredom burst into Sherlock's mind palace were the days John considered killing him. Detective Inspector Lestrade seemed certain they'd find Harry soon, and, while living with Sherlock, money was not an issue; however, that pesky crush was. It was hard to think of killing a man and think of kissing him at the same time.
He couldn't do it. John could not kill Sherlock. He knew that now.
The last case had been exciting, and dangerous and had almost gotten them killed. People do stupid things when adrenaline has control of them. Stupid things like kiss your best friend.
Sherlock knew. He had to know. John had given it away. He had to know that John had feelings for him. And yet the step was taken. And John felt his heart break in his chest as he ran to his broken form on the concrete. "He's my friend!" He choked. A friend and so much more. The funeral was excruciating. Harry was there, she'd been found passed out on the street. She hadn't said where she'd been. That night John sat in the flat at Baker street. His eyes were dry, tears wouldn't come. A knock sounded at the door, but it was a long time before John could tear his eyes from Sherlock's empty chair, and the cup of tea he'd placed in front of it, without truly realizing. He trudged to the door, finding a brief case outside it. "Well Done", the note inside said. The case was filled with money. John buried his face in his hands, and the tears finally came.