Chapter Text
John Watson was nineteen and in London as a medical student at St. Bart’s. He’d found a rundown flat off campus that was affordable on a working salary, and the pub he bartended on weekends—and occasionally during the week if he had time—paid him a bit extra for overlooking the shady business transactions going on in the back rooms. If anything, life was looking up for John.
Or had been anyway. Nothing like getting the shit kicked out of him behind a pub to ruin a good month in London.
Not that John hadn’t been in a fight before (you should’ve seen his high school rugby team), but when it was four against one with John a head or so shorter than the shortest of his assailants…He was pretty resigned to getting his arse handed to him. But hell if he was going down without a fight. At least, that had been the plan before Big Guys 1 and 2 grabbed his arms so 3 and 4 could use him as a punching bag. So far, John figured he had at least a mild concussion, two black eyes, and a pair of bruise ribs that might’ve actually been broken. Oh, and let’s not forget the cut across his thigh where the knife that barely missed his femoral artery and his quite-possible-broken right foot from where Big Guy 3—he thought it was that one at least. They had all started looking the same after the first couple punches—had stomped on it.
Bleeding and watching all the pretty dancing colours across his field of vision a little too happily, John tried to remember how exactly he’d ended up in this position. He vaguely recalled a pair of smashed pint glasses, a stallion, and something about his sister. Wait…Harry. Oh god, not again. Eighteen months without getting dragged into something by his twenty-four year old sister, was that too much to ask?
“I don’t suppose you could just forget about Harry?” he slurred, slowing down in an effort to sound more sophisticated. Not that it really helped. “I mean really, she breaks things over my head and spits on me all the time, but do you see me going after her with a cricket bat?” Speaking of which, where had that thing gotten to? Oh, was that what had given John the splinters in his left arm? No right arm. No, it was the left one. He was sure it was the left one. Wait, was he left or right-handed?
Didn’t really matter since he kind of needed both his arms if he was going to be a surgeon. He was studying to be a surgeon, right?
Damn Harry. She just couldn’t leave him well enough alone, could she? Not since he’d kissed Scarlet Weatherby in primary school behind the slide.
John’s head snapped back as Big Guy 3 popped him one in the nose, and he groaned as the cartilage gave. Just fucking perfect. He was going to end up with a crooked nose because there was no way in hell he was going to be able to set it with the shape his hands were in, and he doubted that these tough guys would be kind enough to drop him off at the closest A&E after they’d finished with him.
Big Guy 4 was just pulling his fist back for another rib-cracking hit when the back door to the Pasties & Ale opened. John’s four assailants froze, presenting a tableau of violence for the newcomer to see.
The newcomer was older, late thirties at the least, and greying at the temples. He scrutinized them with sharp black eyes for a moment before spitting out his cigarette, grinding out the dull flame under the heel of expensive leather shoes. “And what do you boys think you’re doin’ to my bartender there?”
John nearly protested that he’d never seen the man before (and he certainly wasn’t the owner John had met during his very brief interview), but reason broke through the concussed haze in his mind in time to snap his mouth shut and just be thankful for the rescue.
In a flurry of movement that left John dizzy, the quartet of brutes dropped John and fled down the alley.
“Oh, well, thanks for setting me down gently,” he groused after them. “You blokes’re bloody lovely.”
The mystery man knelt in front of John and held up one hand. “How many fingers am I holding up, kid?”
“No clue,” John responded without looking. “Already know I’ve got a concussion, and a broken nose. If you could just help me to my feet, I think I can stumble my way to the A&E a few blocks over.”
The man paused for a moment. “You’re a different kind of man, John. Smarter than you look at least.”
He had to fight against his urge to snort. Best not to aggravate his nose. “I look like I got the shit beaten out of me. Mm, think you could set my nose? Hate to lose my good looks—my only real redeeming quality.”
The other man chuckled, but obliged John, who grunted in pain.
“I could use a man like you: capable, but not without a bit of humour. If you don’t mind getting your hands dirty for a bit.”
“Hard to get them dirtier than they already are.”
The aging man paused in lifting John, asking, “How so?”
“Manslaughter—murder if you tilt your head right and squint—at sixteen,” he replied drowsily. “No one really investigated, and who’d think that the village golden boy could get himself a gun? Then there was the still rig me and a couple of the rugby boys had out in the woods. Danny Tucker swore I was the mastermind—which I was—but they others knew I’d kneecap them if they said anything and the coppers never even sent a cursory glance my way in the investigation.” John opened his mouth to regale more tales of his misspent youth, but stopped abruptly as he realized that there was a reason most of what he was saying had never been said before. “Uh...that was all the concussion. None of that ever actually happened. At all. My brain’s been scrambled.”
The other man chuckled, but let the slip slide. Still, he tucked a hastily scribbled on business card into the back pocket of John’s jeans before leaving him in the capable hands of the A&E nurses.
John found it the morning after, and stared at the card that read simply:
You know where to find me.
–Charlie Willis
)
Twenty-four year old John Watson leaned against the back wall of a dimly lit pub, smoking a cigarette that made his medical mind cringe and sipping at the glass of scotch in his other hand. But he wasn't golden boy Watson right now, studying to be a doctor on scholarship at St. Bart's. He was a man without a name—someone who knew a little too much and didn't mind getting his hands dirty every now and again. Not that he'd actually needed to get his hands dirty for the past few years, but there was just something about having a piece of cold steel in hand that put John at ease.
More than one prospective client had considered him a psychopath and, sometimes, John thought they were right. But then he'd be on his rounds at Bart's and remember that crime wasn't all he was. He saved more lives on average than he took. Still, something about spending the rest of his life in a safe little hospital cutting people open to save them, and sewing them back up seemed boring.
RAMC would definitely do him some good. There was just something special about gunfire and working under heavy pressure that just the thought made his blood sing with a faint rush of adrenaline.
John flicked his cigarette butt into the bin, downing the last of his scotch as his contact entered the pub. He eyed the tall, well-muscled man for a moment, cataloguing everything. Roger Moore was a downtown sort of bloke with a well-worn leather jacket covered with stitched rips (originally from knives no doubt), faded jeans, and heavy boots. His hair was a dull sort of brown that matched his eyes, trimmed short enough for John to see a bit of a scar that started just above his right ear and curved around the back of his skull for three or four inches. Moore, in his own way, was almost as unassuming as John was.
Too bad John had to kill him. Don't get him wrong: Moore was a decent enough bloke, but he was a mouthy one. Couldn't keep a secret to save his life and John couldn't have a man like that in his organization. It wasn't anything personal, but it had to be done, especially with how fast the Watson Underground was expanding. His network now had footholds in most of Europe, a handful of contacts in Russia, the Middle East, Africa and Australia; and talks starting in Asia, namely Thailand, Indonesia, and China.
If this kept up, he'd control most of the crime world in six years. Maybe a little longer depending on how the army panned out and how long it took him to find a competent but not ambitious second.
John set those musings aside as he smiled amiably at Moore, grabbing him in a brief, one arm hug. "Moore, haven't seen you in ages!"
"We saw each other just last month, Fred, don't tell me you're going senile already," he returned and John did his best not to wince at the alias. Definitely hadn't been one of his better identities.
With what he hoped was a good-natured laugh, John unobtrusively steered his contact towards the rear exit of the pub. "Whatever you say, mate. Now, about that job in Sussex I was tellin' you about…"