Promises Series

Broken Promises - Chapter Six

Nineteen Minutes Before the Meeting of Sherlock and Julia Holmes

Sherlock often thought of John whilst he was traveling. He would see something that reminded him of the doctor, and he would have to stop to breathe deeply to regain his composure. A man with dark brown hair and a bushy beard wore a ghastly green jumper reminiscent of John's. The woman walking by him on the street was exactly the type of woman John would take on a date - short, unremarkably pretty, seemingly dull.

Just a few weeks ago, he'd nearly passed out from hunger before he remembered to eat. Without John there to remind him, Sherlock just... forgot. It was hard to remember such trivial things as food or sleep when there were so many people to dispose of.

In all honesty, Sherlock hated what he was doing. He hated killing, hated the blood, hated the cold hands and lifeless eyes. He tracked down killers, for God's sake; he had them arrested. It had been his job, and now he was reduced to being like the murderers he helped put behind bars. It was disgusting. Sherlock could still feel the blood on his fingers. He rubbed his hands together absently.

The first kill hadn't been so violent, really. Just a quick bullet to the head. Simple enough, barely any trouble to carry out. He hadn't slept for two days after that, being fussed over and disguised to blend into the Serbian mafia. A few semi-permanent tattoos here, a couple of fake scars there, a bottle of blond hair dye, and he was good to go. After Mycroft's people had finished changing nearly every aspect of his appearance, they'd shoved him into a room with nothing but a large bed and a small table with only one chair.

Sherlock had, in a nutshell, shut himself down. He'd slept for about twenty hours, and, when he'd woken up, he was shoved onto a plane and taken to Serbia, where he put use the Serbian he'd learned in the forty-eight hours previous. It had taken him two months two climb the ladder of the Serbian branch of Moriarty's network. It was over quickly.

Now, on his last hit, Sherlock was waiting impatiently for his next target in one of the crappiest towns in Germany.

He had been sitting on this decrepit street corner for nearly a week before he first saw Sebastian Moran stumbling drunkenly past him and into one of the crumbling houses on his block. It didn't seem like the man was actually doing anything; he drank, he gambled, and he brought home prostitutes.

Sherlock was beginning to wonder why Sebastian Moran was so important to Moriarty, anyway. He was a useless Brazilian oaf that probably wouldn't even be that much of a trouble for Sherlock to kill. He just had to wait for the right time.

Every afternoon for three days, Sherlock watched the ex-assassin stagger back to his hovel, shitfaced and braying like a donkey, usually with a woman on his arm.

Today, however, Moran was walking back to the abandoned house alone. He was laughing to himself, muttering about having a toy at home. Sherlock rolled his eyes, and, after he saw Moran disappear into the house, he stood. Stretching his arms behind him, he sighed quietly. He bent backwards, cracking his back and loosening his joints.

It took him no time at all to pick the flimsy lock on the door. As he held it open, he heard Moran's voice drift down the staircase. Still talking to himself, then. Sherlock let the door slam closed, not caring that it brought attention to himself. He wanted the attention. Moran was drunk off his arse; he wouldn't be a real threat. All Sherlock had to do was lure him downstairs, which proved to be easier than he anticipated.

The man shakily made his way downstairs. Sherlock hid behind a wall and stomped his feet, effectively drawing Moran into an adjacent room. The assassin sauntered into the room, obviously trying to sober up to confront him. However, he failed to notice Sherlock pressed against the wall.