#johnnywatson

The night had gone well, been out to the club, brought back a girl and fucked her into his armchair, but now she lay out on the floor, neck twisted in an unnatural way. Now the man remained in his arm chair, smoking a fag with his shirt unbuttoned and pants still unzipped. He didn't feel like dragging the body out, nor did he want his flatmate to come home to a dead, half naked woman on the carpet.

  John Watson was a doctor. The definition of a doctor is someone who heals, in whatever manner they seem is proper. Medically is the most common form of treatment yet what did that do for his state?

 The rather short man stood alone in the apartment, the lights still dimmed since the main source of light came from the setting sun, casting a light glow of orange over the walls and to the high ceilings. The flat was quite the lovely one. Rather big and as the man took in a deep inhale he could nearly smell vanilla most likely from a lit candle from the previous night. Breaking in had not been difficult, though taking care of the residents which accommodated the flat below him had served to be quite the problem, but a silver eagle with a screw-on silencer did the job easily, hardly even splattered blood. John loved a clean kill.

 His target wouldn't be home for a couple of hours, though preparations were needed to be made, setting his bag down on his target's kitchen table, removing a velvet roll and resting the roll on the table before allowing it to unwind, all of his pretty tools, sparkling from their recent sharpening and shining. John's fingers brushed over his favorite tool, a particular scalpel with his initials engraved. A gift from his girlfriend, Mary, such a sweet girl. Sometimes he wondered how lucky he was to wake up, knowing he could lean over and inhale the scent of her blonde locks. For a moment, just a moment, the doctor stood in the kitchen, dreaming momentarily of his gal, the taste of her flesh and the gasping when he treated her rough.

She loved every moment of it.

  John did wander into the bathroom, flashing a smile into the mirror as he passed it to turn the faucet on, plugging it and allowing it to fill to the brim. Though as John moved back across the bathroom, he stopped before the mirror, smoothing back his slick hair, letting out a small content groan as his usually stubborn piece of hair fit perfectly into place.

 The last step was to wait, as still as a large cat in the brush, waiting to pounce on its prey, to tear its prey to bits and to taste the sweet red juices behind a thin layer of skin. John let out another small groan at the imagery that came to his head, eyes shutting and head tilting back, though not once allowing his hand to stray from the arms of the chair he had pulled to sit in as he waited in the dark for little Mr. Richard Brooks to come home, to give him the surprise party of his life.

 Only when John heard the clicking of a key into the lock did he become aware of his surroundings, the excitement making him as high as a bird. The man stood, having played this out in his head one hundred times already, though when it came to the actual moment, he could never decide how he wanted to take things. Indecision wasn't allowed though, not now, not as that skinny little silhouette of an actor appeared in the doorway, watching him shut the door behind him and only when the man flicked on the lights would be find himself face to face with a madman, the long end of a silencer having made its way before his face in the split moment of darkness.