Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Being sent away to jail in the dead of winter was terrible timing. John's first glimpse of his new 'home' was an intimidatingly large grey concrete building, housing the country's most violent criminals. Bare trees dotted the frozen grass, spike branched trees reached into the white sky as if trying to escape. The entire place was walled off by nine feet high of brick, spirals of barbed wire decorating the top, so not even an idiot would risk climbing over.

He shivered in the thin suit he'd worn for his unsuccessful trial, cuffs clanking at his wrists. The correctional officer, a tall, burly man warmly wrapped in a wool coat and snug scarf, smirked at him.

John couldn't bear to look out the windows for much longer, but this was the last he'd see of London until his sentence was done, so he made the most of it. The city was a grey haze in the horizon, yellow lights barely visible through the low clouds and fog.

Stupidly, John thought of the little things. He thought of the new books he'd never read, movies and TV shows he'd never see, music he'd never get to listen to. He thought of the world spinning on without him, changing and evolving, so much so that when the day came that he finally got out, he'd be a stranger in his own city.

The van passed through tall steel gates that crashed shut behind them, and John couldn't see the skyline anymore.

He was marched into the building. Before the trial he was John, Mr Watson, sir. Now he was nameless to them. He was uncuffed and taken through a disheartening number of security measures and locked doors by the CO, his papers checked by bored officials.

In a cold tiled room, he was ordered to strip. John wasn't bothered about nudity, he'd been desensitised to it after years of living alongside other men in cramped conditions, but the CO's gaze was definitely pushing boundaries. It was hardly professional disinterest. If anything, he seemed to take a twisted pleasure in emotionally torturing John.

After an embarrassingly thorough visual search of his hair and skin and cavities, John was pushed into a shower and decontaminated, then told to scrub himself down in water that was barely lukewarm. He felt acutely vulnerable when he stepped out the other side, pink skinned and roughly towel-dried.

"Uniform," said the CO, dumping a grey jumpsuit, underwear and a vest top in John's arms. "You look like a small. I ain't got time to explain everything, you can find that out yourself later. Any trouble, don't come running to me." He slapped his hand onto John's bad shoulder, and leant in to sneer, breath huffing on John's cheeks. "I'm a busy man."

John jerked away, and tugged on the uniform with hurried movements. It fit worryingly well, soft and old against his skin like he'd been wearing it for years. "Don't I get to keep anything?" John asked.

"Don't question me," said the CO. "Let's get you settled in, I want my dinner."

John was still shivering as he walked through the wide halls, bare feet on cold linoleum. He glanced up at the high ceiling, past three levels of cells, all lined up down the hall. The sight reminded him of battery hen factories.

A couple of prisoners were slouching by the bars, silently watching John with unmistakeable interest. John self-consciously straightened his posture.

He was led up heavy wooden stairs to the second level, and then shoved into an empty cell. The CO slid the door shut, and it locked automatically.

"Wait!" said John, gripping the bars. The CO raised an eyebrow. "That was a bit rushed, wasn't it?"

The CO sighed. "Don't start trouble, Watson."

"Can you at least give me my shoes?" John asked, as the CO strolled off. He was ignored.

The cell was small. John paced out what he could, and measured it as seven feet by ten.

A single bed was along the longest side, a mattress and a thin sheet. He hadn't been given any other bedding. There was a small desk in the corner opposite the door, and inbuilt shelves stretching up to the low ceiling. By the door was a curtained off area with his toilet and sink. The cell was painted a flaky blue-green. There were marks where graffiti would have been, but most of the traces had been scrubbed off.

Nicely enough there was a window, barred of course, that gave him a lovely view of the brick wall opposite. It was dark outside already.

John slumped onto the bed and pulled his knees up to his chin. He shut his eyes and ducked his head, willing away his emotions. It was a trick that had worked for him in the army before, when he had to be a machine and act rather than think. But here, in the lonely cell, it was difficult to switch off his brain. He'd been dreaming of coming home to London after his years of serving abroad. He'd had all these plans of what he'd do, the people he'd meet, the girls he'd fall in love with.

But all his hopes had been obliterated by one honest mistake. He didn't have a future anymore.

At some point, he must have fallen asleep. He dreamt of blood and sand and star-filled desert skies.

Chapter Text

The next morning was hellish. John had no idea what to do, and he still had no shoes. He had scraped his rumpled hair into a semblance of order for the morning count and then followed the rows of prisoners of B block filing down into the canteen, trying his best to appear ordinary and quietly confident. It was a persona he was used to projecting, and no-one hassled him, or even talked him. They certainly paid attention to him though.

He felt like he was in enemy territory, undercover and threatened from all sides, outnumbered by people who may or may not mean him harm, and so very far from home. As he sat at a mostly empty table and picked at his disgusting food, he tried to ignore the whispers and glances in his direction. It was like they were waiting for something, although John honestly had no idea what it was.

There was a ripple of activity around the room, and as if by some unspoken agreement, all conversations stopped.

"It's him!" someone hissed.

John glanced up as a pale man with a shock of dark hair stalked into the canteen, wearing his jumpsuit like it was formalwear. He was tall and imperious, with a viciously intense gaze that sought John out before John even realised what was happening.

Without even stopping by the kitchen to get his breakfast, the man moved over with predatory grace and slumped heavily into the chair across from John, pressing long, sinewy hands together in a prayer position under his chin. His eyes moved over John, lingering on his posture, his facial features, the way he held his cutlery. The stare was so scrutinising that John was reminded of his strip search.

"Hello," John said hesitantly, slightly in awe. He could hardly ignore the excited attention of everyone else in the room. The place had gone completely silent. Even the kitchen staff were watching out of the corner of their eyes.

"Hmm," murmured the man in a low rumble, icy eyes narrowing. "Murder, although you didn't mean to kill him. You were highly strung due to your PTSD and acted without thinking."

John gaped stupidly. "How..?"

He jumped as other prisoners came to sit with them, trays clattering on the table. "Did he get it right?" asked one, and John nodded absently, unable to look away from the apparently psychic man in front of him.

"How did you do that?" John asked, and the man smirked.

"He does this to everyone," said a brawny older man, stabbing at his gruel with a spoon. "Had a field day when he first transferred in. Outed that paedophile, remember?"

"Thank you, Angelo," murmured the tall man, as the people around them nodded agreeably.

John just shook his head. "I don't understand."

"Hardly unremarkable," said the tall man. "In answer to your question, I see everything. From that, I deduce everything. I could tell you more about yourself, if you were so inclined."

John pushed his food tray away and sat up straighter, palms flat on the table. "Try me." And there it was again, the eagerness of their audience was almost palpable, and it had John's skin prickling.

The tall man pointed the tips of his fingers in John's direction. "You were a soldier."

"So were most of the people here, I imagine," retorted John, although he was a little impressed.

The tall man smirked briefly. He reached forward, gesturing with his fingers. "Hand."

"What?"

"Give me your hand," the tall man said. The 'you imbecile' went unsaid.

John held his hand up, and the man snatched at it. He was almost inhumanly strong, and his long fingers were bony and rough, chemically stained in small areas like he'd been working with acid. John recognised the marks.

"Fading tan lines at your wrists. You were very recently stationed at either Afghanistan or Iraq," said the tall man, his fingers manipulating John's palm. "Which?"

John had to restrain himself from gawping. "Afghanistan. How did you-?"

"Frontline soldier, had to be, going by the wound to your shoulder that invalided you home, making you feel useless."

John yanked his hand back, feeling embarrassment well up deep in his stomach at being read so easily. His fellow prisoners just sat around smirking, watching John's reactions as though he were a particularly entertaining television show. He shrunk away, glaring.

The tall man just smirked. "There's more."

"Really?" snapped John.

"You haven't been sleeping well. Not just last night, or the nights during your trial, but ever since you've returned home from the war. Nightmares, perhaps. You're jumpy and suspicious, and loud noises affect you, although you know how to hide it." The smirk widened. "Not quite well enough, I'm afraid. So, I guessed PTSD. Have you been given an official diagnosis?"

"You've read my intake form," John said desperately.

Everyone around him shook their heads. "Nah," the man called Angelo assured him. "He's the real deal."

John couldn't help smiling faintly in astonishment. "You know all these things about me," he said. "And I don't even know your name."

"Sherlock Holmes," the tall man replied, the odd name rolling easily off his tongue.

"That was amazing, Sherlock," John said honestly. "I've never seen anything like it before."

"Of course you haven't," scoffed Sherlock. "I'm exceptional. Although, unfortunately, my powers haven't developed to the extent where I can deduce a name from a face."

"John, John Watson."

Sherlock looked thoughtful for a moment, distracted. He turned to his companions, brows creasing. "What does W do?"

A skinny skinhead piped up. "Kitchen duty in the morning shift."

Sherlock shook his head. "That won't do. I want him doing laundry work with me on the evening shifts. He can switch with Falder. That idiot's an incompetent anyway."

John was terribly confused. "Look, no-one explained anything to me when I first arrived. I don't really understand what happens here."

"Must've gotten Moran," the skinhead muttered morosely.

"Prison life revolves around mealtimes," said Angelo. "Breakfast at eight, lunch at one, dinner at six. Before every meal is a count, where you stand in front of your cell so the CO's can make sure no-one's done a runner. If you miss it, you're in big trouble when they find you. Everyone has to do a shift of work every day. Evening shift is after dinner. You work for four hours."

John blinked rapidly. "What about when you're not eating or working or being counted?"

Angelo shrugged. "There's a yard, a gym, a library. Or you're locked in your cell. Not much to do, mind. This ain't a holiday camp."

"The library is terrible," said Sherlock, glancing over John again, eyes like an xray machine.

A harsh bell rang through the room, and John had to fight the urge to duck under the table. When was he going to get over this?

Everyone started to stand, and Sherlock looked slightly less disinterested. "Fantastic. Rec time. Come along, John, I'll show you the yard."

John found himself following before he knew what was happening. It was far too easy to shadow Sherlock, people actually moved out of the way for him. They were first out into the yard, blinking into the grey sky. The concrete was cold on John's feet. Sherlock sat at a bench and lit up a cigarette, sucking in a grateful breath. He offered one to John, who couldn't disguise his disgust. Sherlock smirked.

"You're a doctor."

John grinned. "You've got to stop doing that."

"I thought you said it was amazing?"

"It is amazing," agreed John. "But no less scary."

A couple of prisoners headed over to sit on the bench, but Sherlock waved them away. John was growing more confused by the second.

"Who are you?" he asked.

Sherlock blew a mouthful of smoke at him. "You've noticed."

"Everyone here does what you say."

Sherlock shrugged. "They respect me. I'm the smartest man any of them have ever met. And I could probably take any of them in a fight, which helps a little with the ones that don't admire intelligence as much as they ought."

John sat on the bench next to Sherlock and pulled his feet up so he was perched cross-legged, shivering in the cold. Sherlock glanced at his feet and placed a warm, gloved hand over John's ankle, the leather buttery on John's skin. Where had he gotten gloves from?

"No shoes?"

"The CO wouldn't let me keep them," said John, shrugging.

Sherlock frowned and removed his hand. "You must have gotten Moran."

"Who is this Moran person? What's he like?"

Sherlock look disturbed for a moment, glancing away with a thousand yard stare. He sucked on his cigarette. "Moran's a sadist. He's the head CO, and reports directly to the new Warden. You would do well to keep out of his way."

They sat in silence for a while as the weak sun slowly filtered through the clouds, although the light was too dispersed to cast shadows. Prisoners shuffled around the yard like zombies, scuffing their feet, heads bowed. Beside him, Sherlock flicked away his finished cigarette and lit up another.

"I thought cigarettes were the currency in prison," John said, half joking.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"I mean," John clarified. "It's like you're burning money."

"I'm kept well-stocked," Sherlock said. "I have no difficulty getting what I want. I could get things for you, if you like. Trainers. Bedding for your room. Food that isn't that revolting canteen slush."

"Why would you do that?" John asked, smiling slightly.

Sherlock smiled back. It was an odd expression on his face. "I like you, John. An educated man is a rarity here. I do good things for the people I like. And no-one ever lays a finger on them, so you'll be safe as it is possible to be in prison."

"And in return?"

Sherlock tilted his head. "Companionship."

John frowned, shifted in his cold seat. "You don't mean conversation."

"No," Sherlock said quietly, eyes flickering over John's face as if deep in thought. "I don't."

John shook his head. "I'm straight," he said.

Sherlock smirked. "First of all, that doesn't stop the other straight men. If you think I'm the only one that will ask this of you, you're stupider than I thought. Secondly, you're not straight, you're a repressed bisexual. Life in the army has a habit of crushing people down. I'd also go as far to say that you saw someone come out when you were younger, and the result wasn't pretty."

"Oh, fuck you," retorted John, furious. That sort of deduction hit far too close for comfort. He leapt to his feet without another word and marched off to the other end of the yard, hand deep in his pockets.

When he looked back, Sherlock was surrounded by his companions, although he appeared to ignore all of them. John watched him pull out a third cigarette, Angelo reaching over to light it for him.

Bastard, thought John. I don't need him.

The cold was eventually too much for John.

He ducked inside and checked out the gym, which was full, and the under-stocked library, which was nearly empty. It was far warmer in here than outside, though. He flicked through the shelves and found a manual on the prison rules, and spent the rest of his rec time curled up on a plastic chair reading through it, until the bell chimed for the second count of the day.

***

Time didn't seem to pass in prison. Routine blurred all memories into a shapeless haze.

John hung out by himself, in the library when he was let out of his cell. After lunch he cleaned up and had a quick shower, and every evening he was in the laundry room, sorted the masses of washing. Sherlock, thankfully, never turned up for his shift, so John lived in relative peace.

Then, one day, when John was in the empty library reading up on geology, he was attacked.

The guards were watching over the yard, and the camera in the corner of the library was pointed in the wrong direction. There were two of them. One dragged John out of his seat and shoved him behind a shelf, throwing him to the floor. John shouted out, trying to scramble to his feet, but they kicked him back down.

He was winded by a boot to his stomach, then his chest. The shelves on either side blocked his escape and he curled against the wall, cradling his head in an attempt at protection as the kicks grew more violent. A fist curled into his collar and dragged him upright, and they slammed him against the wall, grinning. John didn't recognise them, these harsh-faced young men. They must have been from another block.

"Poor kitten," murmured the one who held him in that choking grip. "All on it's lonesome, no-one to help it."

"Get off me!" John rasped, lashing out, but the grip on his collar tightened, blocking off his breathing. John scratched desperately at the cruel hand, his vision growing fuzzy.

Would they kill him?

There was a shout and the grip loosened. John practically tumbled to the ground, hitting his head on a shelf on the way down and landing heavily on his back with a soft thump. He gasped and gulped in oxygen, clutching at his throat, and stared blearily upwards.

One of the men had run off, the other was being held in a tight grip by Sherlock Holmes, unconscious. Sherlock shoved the body to the side, and crouched over John, gently pulling him into a sitting position.

"Idiot," he said, with a hint of affection, smoothing out John's collar.

John clutched at the shelf and levered himself upright, staggering slightly, but he managed to maintain his balance. Sherlock stood with him, an easy, graceful movement. John's head span a little as he looked up at him.

"You're very tall," he muttered.

"You're very concussed," replied Sherlock, brows creasing together, his fingers scraping through John's hair.

John flinched away. "I'm not concussed."

"If you say so." Sherlock's voice was clipped. "Then you're in the right state of mind to come to an agreement. Have you reconsidered your stance on my offer of protection?"

John blinked up at him. "Uhh …"

Sherlock quickly grew irritated. "Do you always think this slow?"

"Don't, Sherlock," growled John.

"Or what," said Sherlock, derisively. "You'll bleed on me?"

Arrogant bastard, John thought, and punched Sherlock in his smug face.

Or would have, if Sherlock hadn't ducked like he'd been expecting it and slammed his fist into John's gut. John gasped in pain and doubled over, but Sherlock pushed him back upright, pinning him to the shelves.

"Look, John," he snarled. "You can be all independent and get beaten up by thugs like these whenever they find you alone, or you can give into me and spend your time here in relative comfort. I won't be cruel to you."

"Except when you beat me," John wheezed, trying to pull off Sherlock's hands.

But Sherlock was immovable. "Don't hit me and I won't hit you."

John shook his head. "I can't think, Sherlock. Give me some time."

"I gave you near a month. I've been more than generous with time."

John stared, his mind spinning furiously. "This evening," he promised. "Just … turn up for your work shift, and I'll tell you my decision."

Sherlock's eyes flickered over his face, and John kept still, knowing he was being read again. Sherlock seemed to come to some sort of conclusion and let go of John, stepping back.

"Fine," he said shortly. "I'll see you then."

He stalked off, leaving John slumped against the shelves staring after him in shock. John smoothed a shaking hand over his face and wondered what the hell he was going to do next.

***

Doing the laundry was a mindless task, and John did it on autopilot. It was tiring work that he shared with three others, and the overpowering noise from the washing machines and dryers discouraged conversation. But it wasn't an unpleasant job, the room was always comfortably warm and it smelled quite pleasant after a while, although he occasionally got headaches.

He was folding bed sheets when Sherlock Holmes strolled in two hours late, nodding at the young CO who slouched by the door. Dimmock, John remembered, who was completely under Sherlock's foot. Not that John would ever find out why. He deliberately kept his distance from prison politics.

Sherlock made a beeline for him, and dragged him behind the rows of shelves until they were right behind the dryers out of sight. John tugged out of the grip, staring defiantly up at Sherlock, the combination of the loud drumming noise and Sherlock bodily cornering him forcing him into action. He lashed out without thinking, but Sherlock almost lazily caught his fist. He pulled John close and whispered directly into his ear.

"Have you made up your mind?"

John froze. He pulled back to meet Sherlock's eyes and saw the want, the need, clearly expressed over his tight features. But he was restraining himself, waiting for the go ahead, his hand clenching hard around John's.

John let himself relax. He gave a short nod.

It was like he'd flicked a switch.

Sherlock went from still to movement in a second, bundling John to the floor and crouching over him. John fought back instinctively, for a moment thinking he was being attacked, but Sherlock pinned him down until he came to his senses and stopped struggling.

"Not here!" John exclaimed, tense in Sherlock's grip. "What if someone sees?"

"You've done the last of the sheets," insisted Sherlock, low voice barely audible over the tumble dryers. "There's no reason for anyone to come looking."

"Sherlock, there are people in here! You can't just-"

Sherlock ducked his head and nipped at John's ear, his breath hot. "You give me what I want, when I want it, wherever I want it," he muttered, unbuttoning John's uniform with nimble fingers. "Have you got that?"

John twisted away from Sherlock's explorative hands, his chest and stomach newly exposed in the warm dry air. Sherlock was entranced, pinning John's wrists and moving in to taste. He huffed out a laugh, inaudible over the rumbling but John could feel its sensual heat on his skin.

"I'm not your toy," John hissed.

Sherlock smirked, his face frightening. "Yes, you are," he said. "Bought and paid for."

John ended up having his first time with another man in a dusty corner of the laundry room, flat on his back with a bony hand pressed over his mouth to stop him groaning. Sherlock, as he promised, wasn't violent. John still hurt though, a stinging, stretching fullness that he couldn't fight off. He braced himself on the floor as the thrusts grew more forceful and stared up at Sherlock, who slowly came apart.

It was strangely beautiful to watch. Sherlock came with a silent groan, shuddering into John, his hips snapping desperately inwards. He grip was so tight that John could barely breathe, and the look on his face was almost vulnerable. John gasped at the sensation when Sherlock buried himself in as deeply as possible, and he felt a burst of warm wetness inside him.

The doctor in him called out about STDs and infections, but John was too exhausted to speak, like he'd been involved in an incredibly intimate fight.

Sherlock pulled out and lay over him for a moment, catching his breath. John stared up at him, noise ringing in his ears. He watched as Sherlock swiftly redressed himself, and caught the uniform that was thrown at him. Sherlock left without even looking back.

John wondered if it was always going to be like that.

He curled upwards into a sitting position, tugging his uniform on. Then he stood carefully, grasping at the shelves for support. There wasn't as much pain as he was expecting, just a dull, persistent ache he didn't think he would ever get used to.

There was a taste of salt on his lips from Sherlock's sweaty palm.

Once he felt recovered, he ventured from behind the shelves to continue sorting the dried washing. He still had an hour or so more to do of his shift.

***

If his workmates had any idea of what had happened right under their noses, they didn’t let on. John finished his shift in peace and was escorted back to B-block at ten in the evening, an hour before the count and lockdown. He walked into his cell, paused, and then walked back out again, thinking he'd made a mistake. But no, that was definitely his cell number.

Sherlock appeared as if from nowhere. "Do you like it?"

"Jesus!" John rasped, darting back into his cell. Sherlock followed, and flopped onto the bed which now had a mattress cover, two soft blankets and a pillow. John glanced around the room. He had a chair at his desk now, and a few snacks and books on his shelves. There was a pair of trainers on the desk surface, white Reeboks with a blue stripe. John picked them up and examined them closely. They were brand new.

"I noticed you found some shoes," Sherlock said, glancing scornfully at the old pair John had found abandoned in the laundry room. "But these are so much nicer, don't you think?"

"Where did you get all this?" John asked, bewildered.

"Called in a few favours," Sherlock said. He stretched happily out on the bed, eyes not leaving John. "It's at least habitable in here, now. I don't know how you were surviving on that bare mattress."

John went over to the books and flipped through them. There was fiction, medical journals, as well as a book on dealing with PTSD written by a former army medic. John waved that particular volume at Sherlock.

"What is this?"

"I don't like it when you're jumpy," Sherlock said simply. "Now come here, we have half an hour before I need to leave for the count."

John's eyes widened as Sherlock pushed himself upright and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He pointed at the patch of floor between his feet, and John shook his head.

"No, absolutely not," he said, alarmed.

Sherlock's relaxed persona all but evaporated away.

"Kneel," he said firmly.

The tone reminded John of his commanding officers many years back. He lowered himself down, wary of his injuries, and shuffled towards Sherlock. He wasn't really aware of what he was doing anymore.

Sherlock scraped a hand through John's hair, his fingers grazing the bruise where John had bashed his head against the shelf. John didn't even flinch, he just stared straight back at Sherlock. Sherlock smiled briefly, tracing the side of John's cheek with absent fondness.

"Still stubborn, even on your knees," he murmured.

"You don't own me," John insisted.

"I'm going to have to get rid of this obstinate streak of yours. It's not ideal."

John didn't say anything else. He just raised his eyebrows, challenging. Sherlock's amusement faded.

"Unbutton your jumpsuit. Pull it down to your waist."

Without removing his eyes from Sherlock's, John gradually exposed the line of his chest, flicking open one button at a time at a deliberately slow pace. He pushed the material down until he was essentially shirtless. The cold air brushed against his skin, but John didn't shiver.

Sherlock sat back and considered him for a good long while, his eyes lingering over John's naked torso.

Just when John started to feel uncomfortable, he moved, sliding a hand down the side of John's neck. Then he leant forward to examine John's scar more closely, fingers reverent over the puckered, discoloured flesh.

"The wound is a lot larger than I thought it would be," he muttered, intent. John nodded.

"The bullet disintegrated in me. It wouldn't stop bleeding. Had to dig out bits of shrapnel so I could heal properly."

"With a small scalpel, very well sharpened," Sherlock said, tracing the spidering cuts.

"Yeah," John said. "There's still metal in me, actually, but I never saw the need to get it all out." He shrugged. "I know it's ugly, but-"

"It's not ugly," Sherlock interrupted. "It's fascinating."

John blinked up at him. Sherlock was rapt, excited even, by the opportunity to examine him. And John knew it was stupid to ask, but he was seized by a sudden curiosity.

"Sherlock, what did you do?"

Sherlock glanced back at his face. "Sorry?"

"What did you do to get in jail?"

They were silent, for a moment.

"John," Sherlock said eventually. "There are some questions you don't want to know the answer to."

And he stood without another word, and left John kneeling on the floor.

Chapter Text

News of Sherlock and John's little get together must have spread (how could it not, after their not so discreet encounter in a not so private room), because people were starting to whisper. They shut up with the worst of it when Sherlock was around, but John had to put up with a lot of pointed stares, and it started to get on his nerves.

Sherlock didn't help. His method of introduction was a quick "He's with me," whenever they were around a new group of people, and grinning at the chuckles and homophobic comments that were, somehow, only ever aimed at John.

John realised that he'd been relegated to the bottom of the social heap for most of them, only to be bothered with because of his connection with Sherlock. He wondered if he'd made the right decision.

Angelo had been delighted, although he'd gotten the wrong idea about their arrangement. He'd whittled John a candle holder from a bit of softwood and stuck a tealight in it, presenting it to John with stage secrecy, grinning as he talked about 'setting the mood'. John kept it on his desk, and lit it sometimes when he was lonely late at night. The yellow glow reminded him of the city lights.

He rarely saw Sherlock anyway. The man never seemed to be around, only appearing for meals and counting, and the occasional times he dragged John away for impersonal 'companionship' in some dank corner of prison.

A rumour went round that he was digging a hole out of prison behind one of his posters, which got his cell shaken down by Moran, but nothing was found. Sherlock lost all of his cigarettes in the process, and was now constantly cranky.

He had John give him head massages once he'd discovered a particular talent in that area. There was something quite nice about having Sherlock's head in his hands, lolling about in pleasure. He practically purred at every stroke.

"Sometimes," he murmured throatily, as John massaged his fingertips over Sherlock's temples. "I wonder what else you could do with those lovely hands of yours."

"Strangle you," replied John, deadpan. They were stretched out on Sherlock's bed, Sherlock lying between John's legs, his head resting with comfortable weight on John's chest.

"I need to find more ways to calm down," Sherlock mused, his voice pleasantly low and rumbly. "I know everyone in here far too well, so there's no fun in reading them. And that bastard took every last one of my cigarettes."

"Cigarettes are bad for you," said John instinctively, hiding a smile. "And you smoke so much I'm surprised your lungs haven't curdled."

"Thank you, doctor. And aren't you such a marvellous specimen of humanity, a healer who kills people."

John kept his mouth shut and carried on with the head massage. He threaded his fingers through soft black curls that were warm against his palm, calming the giant intellect that lay under flesh and skull. Sherlock was in danger of sinking into one of his black moods, but without anything to argue against he eventually turned his attention elsewhere. John had learned that quickly.

"I like your feet," Sherlock said absently, sitting up to grip John's ankle with bony fingers. "Did you know, they were the first thing I noticed about you? They told me you were athletic, spent a long time wearing heavy boots, and that you'd been in the unfortunate circumstance of being taken through here by Moran."

"You spend a lot of time thinking about me," John remarked, watching the slim line of Sherlock's back.

"I like new things," Sherlock said easily, manipulating John's heel in his hands. "Once I find out everything about you, I suspect I'll get bored of you too. That's how it happens with most things. People, even."

"Right," said John. He knew Sherlock was intentionally riling him up, but the words still hurt. "So. How did you figure out what I did?"

"Simple," scoffed Sherlock.

"So tell me."

Sherlock slumped back onto John's stomach, his hands clasped together. "You're here, so you've committed a serious crime. You're not in A Block with the murdering rapists and gang lords, so there was an element of leniency in your case. You're still a murderer, or you wouldn't be in here for life. But something pushed you."

John slowly nodded.

"I noticed you straight away," Sherlock said. "You sat there at a table on your own, flinching at the loud noises of metal on metal in the canteen, signs of sleepless nights etched over your face. So, PTSD, obvious. You're a soldier from a violent war, they train you to react to danger. Someone frightened you and you saw them as a threat. So you killed them." He smirked, pale eyes glinting. "I tested this theory on you myself. You automatically react to physical threat with violence."

"Am I just some experiment to you?" John asked, voice carefully neutral.

Sherlock shut his eyes. His face was smooth and innocent in repose. "Tell me how you killed him."

"I was drunk," John said. "I don't remember much."

Sherlock's hand gripped painfully to his thigh, and John cleared his throat. It had been a while since he'd thought about what had happened.

"I was at the pub with some old rugby mates of mine. They were just the same, like nothing had changed since our uni days together. None of them mentioned my shoulder. I was happy, I had a couple of drinks. Then more than a couple."

Sherlock scoffed, but John carried on. He'd wanted to hear it. "I'd always had a tendency towards alcoholism, all my family has. But that night I just thought 'fuck it, it's your own bloody life' and though they left I stayed till kicking out time. It was dark outside, a dry cold that reminded me of nights in Afghanistan. I had absolutely no idea of where I was going, and no money for a taxi. I found out a little too late that I'd left my phone in the pub, and I wasn't sure how to get back."

"You were panicked, stressed," Sherlock noted. "Not good, when you're drunk."

"Yeah," John said. "Anyway, there was this thug coming down the street towards me, just as pissed as I was. Probably been chucked out as well. He was a good head taller than me, and he had this look in his eyes that made me think he was going to knife me or something. I don't really remember. We smacked shoulders as we passed, and he whirled around and starting hurling abuse at me. I admit, I was terrified. I saw white. Nutted him, kicked his legs out from underneath him, didn't stop kicking until he wasn't moving."

"How graceless," remarked Sherlock. "Then what?"

"Turned myself in."

He could feel Sherlock tense against him in shock. Sherlock rolled, coiling on top of John stomach to stomach. "You what?"

"I killed him," John said, more quietly this time. "He was someone's son, someone's brother. I felt … I feel terrible."

Sherlock's eyes flickered over John. "You pleaded guilty to everything the prosecutor threw at you."

"I was sick of life anyway."

"Did you let them know about your PTSD? Did you do any sort of plea bargain at all?"

John shook his head, and Sherlock seemed furious. "You idiot!" He tore at the buttons of John's uniform, practically ripping it off of him. John was momentarily stunned at the anger in Sherlock's actions. "You stupid, senseless, fool!" he hissed. He bit and sucked at each new bit of John's flesh that was exposed as he tugged off the uniform, mouth hot. "So naïve and over-emotional. Can't you see how weak these feelings make you?"

"God, Sherlock, not now -"

The sheets of Sherlock's bed were scratchy against his back. He could see out the bars to the other cells, and froze up in fear as he remembered leering faces. No-one had noticed them yet, but he wasn't quite ready to have sex in front of an audience.

"Do you have some sort of voyeurism fetish?" he hissed, and Sherlock's eyes seemed to clear.

"Under the covers," he muttered, wrapping an arm around John's waist and tugging him up to open the sheets. He pulled them both into the bed, and John was pressed on his stomach against the thin mattress, Sherlock hot and heavy against his back. The blankets covered them completely, letting in thin patches of light where fabric had worn thin.

"Condom," insisted John, as he heard Sherlock slick himself up, his head twisted awkwardly to the side so he could breathe.

"No," said Sherlock. He pinned John down with the weight of his body. "My terms. Considering how much you enjoy self-sacrifice ..."

John let out a startled gasp and clamped his mouth shut as Sherlock pressed his fingers in, stretching him open with practised twists, his knuckles kneading into John's smooth muscle.

Then he curled his fingers just so, and John felt the base of his stomach flutter. Sherlock huffed in amusement and repeated the action, and John groaned almost silently against the mattress.

"Prostate," Sherlock said, like John didn't know. "Ever played with it before?"

John shook his head.

"You don't know what you're missing," Sherlock sneered, and he fingered John ruthlessly until John was all but rutting against the sheets, his cock hard and straining. This was different. Sherlock had never bothered about John's pleasure before.

Soft lips crept over John's shoulder, neck, pressed to his earlobe. A low voice. "Slut."

John could feel the smirk against his skin. "Piss off," he retorted.

Sherlock yanked his fingers out, and John flinched.

He tensed when he felt the press of Sherlock's cock, and gritted his teeth as he was penetrated far too easily. The hurried movement reawakened old aches and pains, but this time, there was the threat of pleasure. It softened what would otherwise be a tight ache into something raw, intimate.

John bit his lips to muffle his groan as Sherlock slid in completely, feeling a sweet sensation spread through his groin, a larger, baser pleasure than from the fingers. He shifted against Sherlock's body, against the hands that held him down. He could feel Sherlock's cock throbbing inside him.

He was surrounded by Sherlock, the smell of him on the sheets that covered them, the heat of his body pressing over his back, the stretch that filled him so completely. Sherlock panted softly above him. John couldn't quite see but he could visualise him, sweaty and dishevelled, cheeks flushed with blood, a far cry from his usual pristine self.

Sherlock very gently rolled his hips, and John breathed a sigh of pleasure, revelling in the stretch of his own body.

"Mm," Sherlock murmured, rocking in and out, agonisingly slow. "This position is better for you."

John pushed back, wanting more stimulation, but Sherlock held him down.

"I set the pace."

"Sherlock," John muttered, annoyed.

Sherlock flattened himself closer to John's back to whisper directly into his ear. "It's a whole other world outside these blankets, John. If you would like to draw attention to what we're doing, then I'll gladly fuck you like the whore that you are. But then, I might as well throw off the covers."

"Somewhere else," John said, gasping. It wasn't enough.

"I'm open to suggestions."

"Loo. Shut the curtain - ah!"

Sherlock scooped the blanket around both of them and manhandled John the short distance across the cell. He pushed John to the wall and tugged the thin curtain shut. His body was made of pale, sinuous lines, and John was momentarily distracted.

"Better?" Sherlock murmured, so close. He leant in until their foreheads were pressed together, his eyes fixed on John, breathing through his mouth. He smelt of sweat, powerfully and undeniably male.

John threaded his fingers through the black curls he'd been tenderly massaging mere minutes ago, and Sherlock huffed against his lips, breath hot. He began to roll his hips, grinding his erection against John's belly, pressing the hard length of his entire body along John's until there was barely a gap between them. Up close, he looked wild.

John nodded.

Sherlock flipped him around, pressed him against the painted concrete.

"You're mine, John," he growled, slamming back into John with a brutal thrust. John scratched at the concrete, inhaling sharply.

"Sherlock!" he quietly gasped, as Sherlock took him, rolling in and out, carefully watching John's reactions to find the right angle.

"Who do you belong to?"

"You!" John groaned, and the grip at his hips turned iron strong.

Sherlock started fucking him in earnest. He smacked John against the wall and practically assaulted him, slamming him against the concrete so hard that if John hadn't been bracing himself he'd have bruised. His feet kept slipping as Sherlock lifted him. He struggled and twisted and smothered his own moans as Sherlock pushed him unbearably close to the edge, never quite reaching it.

"Sherlock," he pleaded. "Sherlock, I need -"

Sherlock snarled in his ear and pulled out, coming over the small of John's back. He gripped John's shoulder and spun him around, holding him against the wall. Ducking his head into John's neck, he pressed his lips against the skin, and his long hand curled sensuously around John's cock. John was so close that it only took a couple of pulls before he was almost silently crying out in pleasure, clutching at Sherlock's sides. It was like his spine was on fire. He was so helpless to the sensation he nearly collapsed.

They stood alone in the small enclosure, panting like they'd been racing. The world righted itself. In the sudden stillness, their breathing was abnormally loud to John's ears.

Sherlock handed him a tissue, clasped the blanket around his slim waist and went behind the curtain to get John's uniform.

John cleaned himself up and flushed the tissue down the loo.

"Uniform," announced Sherlock a few minutes later, dressed in a tank top and trackpants. John hurriedly pulled his uniform on, wary of the time. He needed to get back to his cell for count.

Just as he was about to open the curtain and leave, Sherlock pushed him back, seizing John's upper arm and leading him out of sight again.

"Sherlock!" John protested, but he was silenced by the press of soft lips against his own. Sherlock kissed like he was mentally cataloguing the contours of John's tongue, intent and hungry for knowledge. Something new about John to file away.

They broke apart, John wide-eyed, Sherlock lazily sated.

"You better get running," he said. "Get back in time for count."

John jerked his arm out of Sherlock's grip and ran, his heart pounding.

***

The doors clashed shut after the count to mark the end of yet another day. John still shivered from his encounter with Sherlock, pent up with adrenaline and overstimulation. He startled as he heard Moran marching up and down the lines of cells, footsteps tapping closer and closer, and instinctively shrunk away from the bars.

Go away, go away, go away-

Moran paused mid-walk outside his cell and swung around to face him, his tall figure cast in silhouette by the harsh fluorescent lighting.

"And where were you?" he demanded, cold. "Stumbling back, just in time for the count. Doing drugs? Offing a rival? Whatever it is you useless scumbags do around here to pass the time?"

John didn't reply, didn't trust himself to. Moran wore a stern look but that didn't fool John, who could see the smirk glinting in his eyes. He backed further away.

"There's no point in running," Moran sneered. "You're a rat in a trap, Watson."

"Running from what?" John asked, bolder than he actually felt. Even Sherlock was wary around Moran, this sadist with limitless power over all of them.

"The Warden's got some questions for you," Moran said simply. He unlocked John's cell, and the cuffs on his belt clinked, caught the light as he stepped in. "Wrists."

John was so hammered down by prison routine and obeying orders that he automatically raised his hands before he realised what he was doing. He changed his movement and jerked to attention, arms by his side. "Can't I answer them here?"

Moran's face morphed into something ugly. "Always the little problems with you, isn't it?"

"I'm just asking. Might … save us all some time."

"Do you know what will save us all time?" Moran abruptly pulled out his cosh and bludgeoned John over his wounded shoulder.

The pain was incredible, hammering against twisted muscle. John cried out and stumbled clumsily to his knees, clutching at his arm. Moran raised the cosh again. He wasn't hiding his smirk now.

"Stop-!" John started, but the next blow landed over his ear to pitch him to the side, and his vision blurred. His head rang. The flooring was cold against his body and he scraped desperately at it, trying to curl away as Moran laid into him.

The other prisoners started getting rowdy, John could hear them, a background noise to heavy blows. They clutched at the bars, some initially goading Moran on, but soon all the shouts turned indignant.

"Brutality! Guard brutality!"

"He's killing him!"

"Fucking pig!"

The beating stopped, and Moran stumbled backwards, hastily shoving the cosh back into his belt. John hesitantly uncurled and glanced up at Moran, who was hurriedly composing himself.

His shoulder ached. He was convinced that Moran had deliberately aimed for it.

"Stand up," ordered Moran, his voice a tight bark, tinged with panic.

John stood as quickly as he could and carefully balanced. He'd become very good at hiding pain.

"Wrists."

The metal was heavy on his skin, impossible to ignore. Moran gripped his upper arm and led him out of his cell, out of B-Block, glaring furiously at any prisoner he saw as being too close. Discretely, John looked in the direction of Sherlock's cell. It took a while for John to see him, but Sherlock stood there, in the shade, a little bit away from the bars. He was a too far for John to make out any sort of expression, but John could see his fists clenched, taut, like he wanted to rip something open.

"Eyes ahead, Watson," snapped Moran, and John stared obediently at the ground in front of him.

He was taken through a series of security measures that seemed to be intimidating by design, and then abruptly, he was walking on carpet through wallpapered halls. The admin area. It was like being back in an office block and John felt his heart racing at the thought of freedom.

Moran tightened his grip around John's arm and pushed him towards a large door marked Warden.

"If you threaten him," Moran hissed, "I'm allowed to use any force necessary to restrain you. Sometimes I overestimate. Comprende?"

John gave a short nod, and tensed as Moran reached over him to knock.

"Come in!" called out a voice that was far too cheery.

John had been imagining the Warden as an older man, ex-military, with an old fashioned office and everything kept in filing cabinets.

The Warden was none of these things. He was young, pale, with skinny hands and the largest black eyes John had ever seen. Sat at his sleek, minimalistic desk that was dominated by a gently whirring computer and its various accessories, he grinned up at John like a child who'd just seen what was for desert. His smile showed too many teeth.

"Dr Watson!" he cried. "Or should I just call you John? Probably for the best, you were struck off the medical register after the whole murder business, after all."

John could do nothing but stare, his mouth slightly agape. The Warden abruptly started laughing.

"Well, aren't you sweetly stupid. Sit down, Johnny boy, we need to have a little chat."

Moran seemed to think that John spent too much time dithering, so he shoved John into the seat across from the Warden and slapped him over his hurt ear as punishment. John winced, and clenched his cuffed fists.

"I must apologise for my chief CO," the Warden drawled. "He's very … enthusiastic."

John said nothing.

"You can talk, you know. Don't be rude."

John sat up straighter in his chair, his cuffs clinking. "Sorry, sir."

"Sir!" giggled the Warden, shooting an amused glance at Moran. "I like that!"

They were about the same height, John thought, although while John was in shape, the Warden had the figure of a computer geek who subsisted on nothing but coffee and the occasional bite of chocolate. But there was a nagging feeling that the harmless persona projected was nothing more than that, an act. His black eyes were anything but slow, they were sharp, bright, and hinted at a vast intelligence.

John shifted in his seat. There were very few parts of him that weren't hurting. "What did you bring me here for?"

"Ohh," sighed the Warden. "I guess I just wanted to get to know you better. I'm very interested in your hobbies."

John's mind drew a blank. "Hobbies?"

"Things that you poor rats do to keep yourselves busy. Plotting, conspiracy, escape. The usual rot."

"I don't have any hobbies."

"Moran?"

John gasped as Moran belted him over the ear again, a stinging open palm slap that left his head ringing. "I don't know what you're talking about!" he said desperately, Moran's hands holding him in his seat. "I'm not planning anything!"

"What about your friends?" the Warden asked. He'd turned away, absently tapping away at his computer like John wasn't there at the other side of his desk with bruises blossoming over his skin.

"I don't know about any plots," John panted. "Please, whatever you think I'm involved in …"

He couldn't help but cry out when Moran hit him again.

"Well, I don't believe you," said the Warden, swinging around in his seat, hands pressed together in a way that forcibly reminded John of Sherlock. "I've got CCTV showing you running off to secret meetings all over the complex with a known problem. A tall, skinny, smartass problem. What's that about?"

"If Sherlock's planning something, I honestly know nothing about it," John said instantly.

He flinched as Moran raised his hand again, but the Warden shook his head.

"No!" He leant towards John, palms down on the table, eyes narrow. "… He's telling the truth."

The Warden's black eyes bored directly into his own, a wide smirk slowly creeping up his cheeks. John was sincerely glad of the table that was between them. He'd rather be locked in the hole with Moran for days than have this strange man any nearer.

"Look at that sweet ignorance. You're not confidant to his plots at all. So, what are you?"

John stared back, swallowing. The Warden's smirk broke, showed white teeth.

"Oh, oh! That's just … well isn't that fantastic! Sherlock Holmes getting his hands dirty!" He sat back and guffawed for a good few minutes, practically clutching at his belly.

John grew more and more uncomfortable.

"Sherlock! Pure as the driven snow Sherlock!" The Warden finally sat up straight, rubbed his thumbs over his eyes. "Well, he's got urges like the rest of us, that's comforting to know. Take him away, Moran. We won't get anything useful out of a prison slut. Good god! And I thought you were a threat."

Moran coughed and shifted on his feet. "Uhm. Sir."

"What?" The Warden snapped. Then his eyes lit up, and he grinned from ear to ear. "Oh. Of course, I do apologise. How negligent of me." He spun around and tapped away at his computer, smiling absently. "I couldn't help but notice during our conversation, John … it seems you had a spot of bother this evening?"

The printer on the desk started whirring.

John blinked blearily at him, completely confused by now. "I'm sorry?"

The Warden raised an eyebrow, gestured to John's injuries. "You got into a fight with another prisoner. Did you see who it was? No? How unfortunate."

John frowned. "This wasn't another prisoner, CO Moran-"

"CO Moran got there just in time to pull the other prisoner off of you," the Warden interrupted. "You are grateful to CO Moran for his assistance."

"A prisoner who somehow got hold of a CO's baton?" John bit back.

"Well, they are getting very resourceful these days," the Warden remarked. He pulled the page out of the printer and neatly slid it to John along with an expensive ink pen. "Sign at the bottom."

John awkwardly raised his cuffed hands to get the pen, scanning over the printout. His brow creased. "I'm not signing this!" he said, indignant. "That's not what happened, Moran was the one who -- ah!"

Moran's fingers dug painfully into his wound and John momentarily saw white.

"Do you enjoy making your life difficult for yourself?" the Warden asked, fiddling with his neat fingernails. He was probably the type of man who got manicures. "It seems like a rather painful way to live."

"This is wrong," John insisted.

"Newsflash, sweetie, you're a murderer," the Warden retorted. "No-one cares about you. Do you think there are people out there campaigning for murderers rights? It's a smaller number than you might think. And most of them are murderers."

"There are inspections. Government inquiries," John said. "I'll start a fuss. I'll get everyone looking here, and they'll see the sort of shithole you're running. Where does the money you get go, exactly? You realise that a significant number of the prisoners in my block live in conditions that could be deemed hazardous? I'm guessing you don't spend it on fixing that."

"The budget is fixed," the Warden sniffed. "I'm not siphoning off any money. I send reports on my spending."

John didn't back down. In his experience of administrators, hospital overseers and army managers, none of them liked someone else poking around their kingdom. They'd go out of their way to avoid it. So he needled. "Are you sure? The government quite enjoy cutting unnecessary spending. They might have to … refine, your no doubt carefully constructed budget."

Moran's hands were threatening on his shoulders, but the Warden's scowl slid into a smirk, then he giggled. "I like you," he said, pointing a skinny finger at John's chest. "You're smarter than you look. Okay then, how about a deal?"

John tilted his head.

The Warden grinned. "A little birdy told me you've been asking around about the precise … nature, of Sherlock's crime. A difficult task, considering he hasn't told anyone. But I have his intake form right here in front of me." He tapped at the computer screen.

It was tempting, but … "I'm not signing away my right to complain about abuse just to hear what Sherlock did."

"Moran won't touch you again, unless you break a major rule and he has to intervene," the Warden said quickly. "You're already hurt, complaining about it won't fix you. I'll also give you a night in the hospital to patch you up, and you'll be back in time for rec as good as new tomorrow."

John's mind raced as he thought. "He can't touch Sherlock either. And I'd like some nicotine patches, a big supply."

"Consider it done," said the Warden. "Now, sign."

If John was smarter, he'd probably have been able to barter a better deal. But he'd never had the brains for the quick back and forth of negotiation, and besides, he just wanted to get out of this toxic office. He signed and the Warden snatched the paper away, handing over Sherlock's intake form. John folded it away to read later.

"You're quite bright, for a slut. Perhaps intelligence is communicable by bodily fluids," the Warden sneered. "Now, kindly get the fuck out of my sight."

Chapter Text

Prison routine must have sunken into John's skin, because the sudden quiet privacy of the hospital wing unnerved him. He lay in uncomfortable silence on a thin white mattress and resisted the urge to pick at the itching gauze over his cheekbone. Sleep seemed impossible. He spent the night twisting and turning, his eyes clenched shut, unable to find peace. He felt like he'd scratched the surface of a conspiracy, and now his mind was creating increasingly lurid scenarios to fill in the gaps.

As a result he was exhausted the next morning, already lying awake when the nurse came to give him breakfast.

"You look half-dead," she said, worried. "You should have told me you had trouble sleeping, I'd have given you something." John liked her. When dressing his wounds, she hadn't commented on the finger-shaped bruises that scattered his hips.

"I'm fine," John reassured her as he tucked half-heartedly into his gruel. "I guess I wasn't used to the surroundings."

He didn't go to rec, instead collecting his nicotine patches from a CO and heading straight back to his cell to slump, as if boneless, at his desk. Steeling himself, he pulled out Sherlock's intake form, smiling at the boldy scrawled signature at the bottom. Sherlock wrote it like he was giving an autograph.

"What's that?" came a low voice, and John jumped, flipped the paper over.

"Sherlock?" he exclaimed, whipping around to see the man himself crawl out from under the covers. John's covers. He looked pale and drawn, his eyes fixed on John. "How - what are you doing here?"

Sherlock didn't reply, instead standing and moving over to pull John to his feet. He smoothed bony hands over John's chest and shoulders, manipulating joints and muscle as if examining him. John flexed his fingers nervously, but otherwise stayed put.

"I saw him hit you," Sherlock said, cautiously touching the discoloured bruising on the side of John's cheek. His brow creased, irritation, anger, but not aimed at John.

"Moran introduced me to the Warden," John said quietly, jittery under Sherlock's touches. "He had a few questions."

Sherlock tilted his head. His hands settled around John's waist. "Oh yes?"

"He seemed to think I was involved in some sort of plot. With you."

"How paranoid."

John took a steadying breath. "Sherlock," he said slowly. "What the hell is going on here?"

Sherlock's expression was carefully neutral, but John could hear the hard-drive of his brain whirring away like the Warden's computer. He said nothing, just stared at John like he was seeing him for the first time all over again. "I can't tell you," he said eventually.

John grabbed Sherlock's wrists where they rested around his middle. "I have a right to know what it is if I'm going to be beaten bloody for it," he insisted.

"That's not how it works," snapped Sherlock, pushing John back. But he was strangely careful, apparently unwilling to cause any extra injuries.

"There's something going on between you and the Warden, and I want to know what it is."

"Let me get this straight," Sherlock snarled. "You're beaten and interrogated by two people about something you don't know, and the only reason they let you go is because they were finally convinced of your ignorance. Now that you're free and safe from harm, you want to find out what that thing was?" He sounded exasperated.

John pretended to have a good think. "Yeah," he said. "Pretty much."

Sherlock's lips twisted in frustration and he clutched at John again, held him, pale eyes latching on like he was attempting hypnotism. His voice grew softer. "Has it ever occurred to you that I keep you in the dark for your own protection?"

"It has never occurred to me," John said simply. He didn't move from Sherlock's embrace, but he didn't return it either.

"Then you are being deliberately obtuse," Sherlock muttered. His grip tightened, and John winced.

"Sherlock-"

"Look what they did to you when you know nothing. I'm not putting you in danger."

"The only person putting me in danger here is you," John retorted. "If I'd avoided you from the beginning, I wouldn't be in this mess."

"Not this mess, but perhaps another. You do seem drawn to dangerous situations." Sherlock reached up to stroke his uninjured cheek. John startled at the sudden change in mood, hands automatically flying up to push at Sherlock's chest.

"No, Sherlock, you can't just drop the subject like this- ohh."

Sherlock held John in place and dipped his head, his lips brushing over the sensitive skin just under John's ear. "I hate the thought of them touching you," he muttered. He pressed at John, moving him backwards, small steps, until his back touched the concrete wall. "If I'd been there I'd have ripped them both to pieces."

"Well, it's a good thing you weren't then," John said, voice shaking slightly. He gripped at Sherlock's shoulders. "Anyway, listen, tell me what's going on!"

"I quite enjoyed your orgasm last time, so I'm going to give you another," murmured Sherlock, pressed flush against John, his hands incessantly sliding and squeezing.

"I mean about the-"

"Shut up," ordered Sherlock, now unbuttoning John's uniform with hasty fingers. "Rec ends in half an hour, and I need to get back in time. So from now until I'm done, the only words you're allowed to say are 'yes' and 'Sherlock'. Do you understand?"

"Yes Sherlock," John panted, and Sherlock dragged the uniform down, exposing his bruising skin and hobbling him where it caught around his ankles. He self-consciously raised his arms around his body, but Sherlock gripped his wrists and pinned them over his head with one large hand.

"None of that," he said, and slid his free hand down John's stomach to his groin, leaning in to kiss him. His lips were searching, passionate. He curled his hand around John's half-hard cock and John gasped into the kiss, which Sherlock took as an invitation to deepen it, his tongue licking greedily. Hesitantly, John started to reciprocate. Lips locked, Sherlock released John's hands and expertly teased until John was panting, squirming, his skin flushing warm.

"Oh!" groaned John, clutching Sherlock's shoulders. He watched Sherlock's pale hand sliding up and down his cock, his long, elegant fingers, and tilted his head back. "Oh yes- Sherlock …"

He glanced at Sherlock, only to be helplessly drawn in by that fascinated gaze, pale eyes that seemed captivated by every expression of John's face. "That's it," Sherlock breathed. "Don't take your eyes off of mine."

John could feel it coming. His body was too hot, he was shuddering as pleasure built, and he stared with something like terror into Sherlock's penetrating gaze. "Sherlock, I …"

Sherlock grabbed John's hands and pinned them above his head again, leaning in closer. "Look at me, John."

John didn't want to imagine what he looked like when he came, crying out, shaking as Sherlock brought him to a toe-curling orgasm with his piercing eyes burning into John's the whole time. He'd never felt so exposed before. Sherlock caught every drop in his palm and tasted a bit himself, before holding it to John's face.

"Lick it off."

John was too drained, physically and mentally, to argue. He cautiously tongued it, registering the warm, slightly salty taste, then obediently lapped at Sherlock's hand until he'd swallowed it all. He looked up at Sherlock, who smiled almost imperceptibly.

Sherlock redressed him and half-carried him to his bed. Leaning over his head he kissed John again, softly this time, and John ran a tired hand through his black hair as he responded.

"What about you?" John asked quietly once they broke apart.

"That was me," Sherlock said with a smirk. He glanced over at the desk, picked up one of the packets of nicotine patches with a curious expression.

"To help you quit," John helpfully supplied. Sherlock nodded, then his searching stare landed on the intake form as if magnetically attracted to it. He flipped it over, and then immediately crumpled it once he saw what it was, his expression stony.

"Sherlock!" exclaimed John, sitting up. The bell rang harshly, interrupting them.

"Don't meddle, John, and I mean that!" warned Sherlock, and he slipped out of John's cell with the intake form crumpled in his fist. John slumped back, clutched at his forehead, wondering if he'd just been played. He felt like hitting himself. Why on earth hadn't he read it sooner?

***

The frustration bubbling up in the pit of his stomach caused his sleep to be fitful, and he followed the line to lunch completely drained.

He caught sight of Sherlock as soon as he walked in, sat as still as a statue, his hands pressed palm to palm as he studiously ignored his food. Pale eyes slid over to John, then back, a glance so quick that John thought he might have imagined it. Unusually, his group of associates had shrunk somewhat, and they seemed quite subdued as they silently ate. John narrowed his eyes.

"Move it, blondie," muttered a low voice behind him, and John started before shuffling forward to fill the gap in the queue, taking a quick look back. He didn't recognise the man, which was odd, because he was good with faces and he had everyone in B-block down by now. He could have been a new fish, but this aggressive older man was definitely familiar to prison. He had a nasty leer, and when John turned away he could still feel that stare creeping over the back of his neck.

"You better watch yourself," the man whispered. "Your boyfriend's not going to look out for you anymore, and we've been waiting for a piece for quite some time."

John refused to answer. He ignored the increasingly explicit murmurings and snatched his tray of food, his hands steady as he made his way over to Sherlock and sat across from him.

"You're very still," remarked Sherlock, awakening from his frozen pose to relax and fold his arms. "Someone threatened you."

"It doesn't matter," said John, digging into his dinner. The gravy was slimy over the scraps of processed meat, and he swallowed with difficulty.

"You missed the brouhaha over breakfast, didn't you," mused Sherlock, examining him. John glanced up, mid chew.

"Has something happened?"

Sherlock sniffed. "The Warden, in his infinite wisdom, has downgraded four A block prisoners to our section." He was hiding it well, but John had never seen him this agitated before.

"I'm guessing you don't get along?"

Sherlock didn't deign to reply to such an obvious question. John remembered how he'd looked that morning, pale and shaken in John's bed before snapping back into character.

When the bell rang to send them out to the yard, Sherlock's usual parting of the sea of prisoners didn't work. He was shoved and pushed into line with everyone else, although he kept close to John, possessively looming over him and glaring at anyone that even looked in their direction.

"I don't like this," said John. "What's going on?"

"Shush," said Sherlock, his hand over the small of John's back, guiding him.

Winter had long since passed into spring during the time John had spent locked up. There were the signs of approaching summer outside, with fragments of sun behind wispy clouds. The air smelt fresher. Sherlock led him to their benches and they sat together, a little away from Sherlock's friends, comfortable in silence. John was peeling off a disgruntled Sherlock's excess nicotine patches when a shadow cast over them, and he looked up.

Four men stood there, the A-block prisoners, and there was clearly a leader among them. It was his shadow, and John recognised him as the man who had whispered to him in line, now gesturing for Sherlock's associates to leave them. With an air of guilt, they slunk off, leaving John and Sherlock to face any trouble on their own.

"Alright, kitten?" the leader said, directly to John. He grinned, flashing large teeth in a smile that only suggested one thing.

He probably wasn't even attracted to John. It was nothing more than a challenge to Sherlock's authority. And Sherlock reacted instantly with bristling anger, and he stood and drew himself up to his full height to face his opponent, eyes icy and searching.

"Serial rapist," he said, after a dramatic pause. "You murder your victims after you're done. You get your kicks out of hurting them. They were objects to you."

The man looked alarmed for a moment, but he recovered quickly. "Yeah," he said disdainfully. "We've all heard about your trick."

"It's not a trick," Sherlock said. He glanced around the others, eyes narrowed. "You killed a women. No more, just that, and it was so shoddy and messy they found you without much difficulty. You, you robbed a bank at gunpoint. And going by your hair implant and the vanity surgery, you got away with it. For a while." He tilted his head at an older, heavier man, frowning. "You, I'm not sure about. I'd take an educated guess at sociopathic murder, though. This does get boring in prison, doesn't it? Hm."

"Sherlock," John warned, eyeing the now angry group of maximum security prisoners. He stood, but Sherlock pressed him back.

"That your pansy?" snapped the leader, his voice now sharpened with irritation.

Sherlock scoffed. "I'm sure even you wouldn't be stupid enough to start a fight where -"

The man shoved Sherlock out of the way and grabbed for John. He saw someone small and apparently defenceless, someone so pathetic they had to put out to avoid trouble.

But John reacted violently, punching his attacker in the throat. He felt the crunch of cartilage under his knuckles and the man went down, clutching at his neck and wheezing. John froze, a frission of fear running through his body as he realised what he'd done, when he felt a tug on his upper arm and blindly ran after Sherlock, who sprinted alongside the prison walls out of sight of the guards. They darted indoors past a weary looking Dimmock, and the door slid shut behind them as they slumped against the walls to catch their breath, boneless with relief.

"Jesus," huffed John, rubbing at his arm. "What the hell was that?"

"That," Sherlock scowled, "is what happens when you're not on top anymore. I suspect people might have wanted to see me fall for quite some time." He exhaled slowly, then glanced over John with an odd look in his eyes. "You need to get back to your cell. Come on."

"No, Sherlock, wait," insisted John. He wanted answers.

"I can't talk to you here," Sherlock said. "So come with me."

They hurried back, lonely footsteps loud on the linoleum floor. John ducked into his cell first, and Sherlock followed, alert with nervous energy. His bright eyes latched onto John and he seemed to hesitate for a moment. For that small space of time, his thoughts were clear to John. Can I trust him?

John didn't move, and he didn't look away.

"I know why you want the intake sheet so badly," said Sherlock, after a pointed pause. "I know everything about you, everything of importance anyway, and you know next to nothing about me. But you can't trust the Warden. Everything on that intake sheet is a lie."

John didn't know what to think. "… What?"

Sherlock's voice came faster. "You were right, earlier. This prison is … well, I'm involved in something big. With the Warden. It's been going on for years and I -" He cut himself off, started pacing back and forth. Abruptly, he whirled around and fixed John with a stare. "It's ending soon. That is, I'm nearly finished here. The Warden's panicking, he's been getting sloppy. No doubt the A-block men were sent down as a last ditch attempt to stop me."

Sherlock looked wild, slightly desperate. John knew he was being let in on something Sherlock had kept hidden for a while. Either that, or being duped again. But John knew Sherlock now, could tell when he was acting. "What's he trying to stop you doing?"

"I'll explain more this evening," Sherlock said, smoothing his hands over John's shoulders to get invisible bits of lint off his uniform. "I have to go now. Don't leave this cell, and don't go anywhere near those men from A-block. You need to understand, things are changing. I can't guarantee your safety anymore."

His usual haughtiness had been subdued somewhat, although it was impossible to ignore his authoritative tone. John sighed and nodded, putting both of his hands over Sherlock's, stilling them. He didn't really have anything to say.

Sherlock kissed him before he left, on his mouth, on the bruises up the side of his face. Then he straightened, his expression growing colder, tougher, and left.

***

That evening, Sherlock deigned to turn up for his laundry shift, out of place as ever doing such mindless work.

It was about an hour in before Sherlock came to him. John was folding uniforms for storage when he turned to see Sherlock silently staring, waiting for his attention. Behind the shelves, out of sight of the others, John was reminded of being forced on the floor with a bony hand pressed over his lips. Going by Sherlock's expression, he was thinking the same thing.

"I'll tell you what I can," Sherlock said eventually, flicking back to the present. "But you must promise not to make a fuss. Carry on working."

John continued with his folding as a response, neat and efficient, like he'd been taught through years in the army. Sherlock stood near, tense, his eyes darting around to spy out any eavesdroppers, hands clasped in front of his chin.

"I started the fight."

John twisted to stare at him. "What?"

"The men that attacked you in the library. I organised it."

John gaped at him and the washing dropped to the floor, forgotten. "You what!?" Sherlock stared pointedly at the washing, but John just folded his arms in response. If there was one thing he deserved answers for right away, it was this. "Call me stupid if you want, because I really don't understand your brain on this one. What the hell made you think you could … manipulate me like that!?"

Sherlock pressed a finger to John's lips, shushing him, and John ducked away, glaring up at Sherlock with genuine fury. Sherlock frowned. "I needed a decoy," he explained. "A justification to run around prison and be seen pulling favours from guards, and a prison wife is the perfect excuse. To tell the truth, I was waiting for you to start a fuss yourself and get in a fight without me having to organise it. But you were irritatingly well-behaved for a murderer, so I was forced to manipulate matters."

"I'm not a fucking cog in your machine," John snapped, struggling to keep his voice low. "I'm a human being, not a game piece."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes."

"I don't believe this!" John muttered, picking up the washing and shoving it onto the shelves before someone popped around to see what was going on. "There are so many ways you could have … I mean, you could have told me. We could have faked it."

"I didn't know your character," Sherlock pointed out. "I wasn't going to give you something like that to hang over my head. To be foolproof, I needed you to believe it too."

"Oh god," John muttered, and he could feel his face going red from the humiliation. It all sounded so reasonable, which was absurd because nothing about this situation was reasonable in any shape of the word. "Why me?"

"I needed someone new and unused to prison, so they would think before raising questions. Also, you are not unattractive-"

"That was one of those rhetorical questions," John interrupted, pushing the last of the washing in and slumping against the shelves. He pinched his eyes shut and rubbed his hands through his hair. Sherlock just watched him. "You're a complete bastard, Sherlock. And I should really be more mad at you. Like, punching you in the face mad."

"If I told you it was for a good reason, would you forgive me?"

"Saving a hundred lives good, yes, I probably would," John sighed. He opened his eyes and stared shrewdly at Sherlock, who hadn't moved. "Are you saving a hundred lives?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Another rhetorical question?"

"You do realise what you've been doing to me? This counts as rape."

"You agreed to everything we did together."

"I thought I was in danger! But the only trouble I've ever been in was the trouble you dragged me into!"

Sherlock didn't smirk, exactly, but John could see the edges of his mouth twitch slightly.

"I should hate you," he said weakly, blinking up at the ceiling. "I never meant for this to happen."

Sherlock raised his hands in resignation. "I never meant to get so attached to you. But here we are."

That statement resonated with John, because he felt similarly. Their relationship had started, in John's eyes at least, as a sort of business transaction. He thought Sherlock wanted sex, and in return life for John was made a little more comfortable, safe from harm. Now he didn't know what to believe. Sherlock always kept him off balance, although whether it was on purpose or not he never knew.

When it was time to be escorted back, Sherlock held John with him as the others trailed past. He slipped a pack of cigarettes in the CO's pocket, a meaningful glint in his eyes.

"Give us some time, will you?"

"Count's in an hour," drawled the guard. His small eyes flicked over to John, narrowed, and John could see all the implications scroll through his head. "… Everything alright, Watson?"

John coughed, cleared his throat. "Fine," he said quickly. "All fine. We're great."

"Yes. Great," agreed Sherlock. "An hour, you said?"

"Right," muttered the guard, still suspicious. But he left without another complaint, and the door swung shut with a clunk. There was the click of a lock.

John swung around and socked Sherlock in the jaw. "God, that felt good," he muttered, shaking out his hand and Sherlock stumbled backwards, clutching at his face making little shocked noises. John was feeling triumphant, perhaps too triumphant, when Sherlock actually pounced on him like some sort of predator and dragged him to the ground with brutal efficiency.

"So I take it you want this hour to pass painfully?" he snarled, holding down John's struggles.

"You deserved that!" John retorted, thrashing out, but it was difficult to get a hit in when held face down on the floor. Sherlock hushed in his ear, heavy over John's back.

"Calm down."

"I will not calm down, you possessive, controlling bastard!"

"Calm down, or I will make you calm down," Sherlock said icily.

"I'm not going to do what you say anymore."

"You like it when I tell you what to do," Sherlock murmured, his grip tightening, and John winced.

"That's not true."

"It is though, isn't it?"

John half-heartedly shook his head, and Sherlock sighed, leaning back to John wriggle away. John instantly shuffled back until he'd put a good distance between them, eyeing Sherlock with caution. Sherlock sat back on his heels and watched, head held high, his chin starting to discolour from where John had hit him.

He felt guilty for hurting Sherlock.

It was a stupid feeling. Sherlock had been hurting him physically and mentally for quite some time now.

"I don't have to have sex with you anymore," John said out loud, partly for his own benefit.

"No," said Sherlock carefully. "You don't."

"I feel so … stupid. For trusting you."

Sherlock had the decency to appear contrite. "I'm very good at getting people to believe me," he said. "You, new and trusting, with no connections, had no chance."

John swallowed around the rising lump in his throat. "Was anything we had real?"

"Lately, yes. I've stopped acting around you for quite some time." Sherlock paused, as if gathering his thoughts. "I'm not going to lie and say I never meant to hurt you," he said hesitantly. "Your feelings didn't factor into my decision-making when we first met. But now that I know you, I've come to care for you. And now, truly, I'd do anything not to hurt you."

"I care about you too," John said. "But what we agreed on wasn't a relationship."

"Perhaps at the beginning, yes," Sherlock conceded. "But you can't deny that what we have now is a little more than a bit of tit-for-tat. I still want you."

"You've still got me," John said honestly.

Sherlock smiled. "Good," he murmured, and stood smoothly, brushing the crumples out of his uniform. John started upwards, but stopped when Sherlock gestured for him to stay down.

"On your knees."

The change of mood startled him. Retorts flickered to the forefront of his mind and edged at the tip of his tongue, but John couldn't say any of them. He stared helplessly up at Sherlock, caught between pride and a powerful urge to obey.

"I'm not going to ask you twice," Sherlock warned, his voice quiet and low, almost gentle. 'Let me take over,' he was saying.

That exchange of power was almost a comfort.

John knelt, far, far too easily. He didn't move when Sherlock walked over and ran a bony hand through his hair, scraped over his scalp to the base of his skull, a thumb stroking the skin at the nape of his neck. He was overcome.

"I don't know what you want-" he started, blinking rapidly, but Sherlock dropped to his knees in front of him, his fingers still tangled in John's hair, and abruptly kissed him.

And there was his answer.

They parted just as swiftly, and Sherlock smoothed his hands over John's shoulders. "I've messed you around," he said, although it was an acknowledgement more than an apology.

"That's a massive understatement," John retorted, but he couldn't find the anger to make it properly cutting. Sherlock smirked, and leant in to kiss John again, sliding his tongue in. John made an appreciative noise, tilting his head to deepen it, his hand instinctively going up to cup Sherlock's slender jawline.

Sherlock's hand slid from his scalp to encircle his neck, long fingers pressing and finding a pulse that beat fast against his skin. He squeezed, first softly, then firmly, and John pulled back from the kiss to see Sherlock's hungry, roving gaze. His own hands fell loosely by his sides as he was held in place by that dominating grip at his throat.

Sherlock was eager to take control, and John felt strangely at peace, following him.

"You forgive me," said Sherlock, pressing his forehead to John's.

John shuddered, entranced. "I forgive you," he murmured, and was rewarded with a smug smile, and another searing kiss.

They undressed each other with hurried reverence, then Sherlock lay back, pulling John over him so John straddled his thighs. They fit together well, and it was easy to lean down again and press his lips over Sherlock's neck, his sloping shoulders, his pale chest. Sherlock carded his fingers through John's hair, then tightened his fingers to tug him back. John winced, stared into Sherlock's pale eyes.

"Who do you belong to?" Sherlock asked, voice soft. The question sounded different now, as if more honest.

"You," replied John instantly. "God, Sherlock, always you."

Sherlock appraised him, smoothed a hand down John's side to rest possessively on his hips. "Prove it."

The look in his eyes was daring, and John responded in kind.

Sherlock, interestingly enough, had lube in the back pocket of his uniform. John awkwardly reached around to finger himself open with it as Sherlock caressed his thighs, his stomach, smeared his thumb over the tip on John's erection to make him gasp. His eyes never left John's body, and John wondered what he was seeing that he hadn't seen all those times before, because he seemed fascinated.

"Come here," Sherlock breathed, and John leant down and almost crawled up Sherlock's body, pressed against him.

Sherlock gasped, his skin flushing, his mouth open. He gripped John and kissed him fiercely, although it was more like possessive bites, and rolled his hips so their erections slid over each other. John groaned in response. He could feel the muscles in Sherlock's arms twisting against his sides with every movement. There wasn't an inch of fat on him.

Sherlock looked wild, like he wanted to do nothing more than roll John onto his back and take him then and there. "You're mine," he muttered, his hands running over John's skin with admirable restraint. "Mine, mine. My John."

John leant back and took Sherlock's cock in hand. He teased the head over his hole, then moved it up again, repeating the motion until Sherlock's grip at his hips was painful with want.

"You said you know everything about me," John murmured.

"Oh, I do," Sherlock hissed, straining.

"And you're not bored?"

Sherlock's expression turned predatory. "Not yet," he snarled, and tugged down hard on John's hips, forcing him down onto Sherlock's now throbbing cock. John cried out at the sudden penetration, trying to wriggle back up, but Sherlock's grip was iron. He held John down on him until John stopped struggling and got used to the feeling of Sherlock inside him.

"Ride me," he ordered, smacking John's rear.

Guided by Sherlock's hands, John rocked over Sherlock's cock. Once they found a good angle they sped up in perfect rhythm, John dropping down as Sherlock snapped his hips upwards, thrusting harder and faster. John huffed with the effort, and Sherlock's pleasured groans steadily grew louder as he reached the edge. A primal part of John loved the way Sherlock felt, deep inside him, the slick give of his own body, and when he hit that spot --!

"Oh, yes," Sherlock moaned through gritted teeth, his thrusts losing rhythm and pounding erratically into John. He came, gasping out John's name, and then in a fevered rush of energy, rolled them both over so as to pin John to the floor.

"Ahh," gulped John, when Sherlock gave him a hasty kiss, eyes bright. He slid down wordlessly and sucked John between soft lips into his mouth. John groaned at the feeling and reached down to crumple his fingers into Sherlock's curls, but Sherlock gripped hold of his wrists, held him back.

"Sherlock," John muttered uselessly. "Yes, Sherlock, I … yes!"

Sherlock's tongue licked over the sensitive head of his cock, his mouth took him in, and then he was almost deep throating, making soft gagging noises as he swallowed around John.

John came apart.

Sherlock held him down as he involuntarily spasmed and cried out, licked up every drop of John's come. Spent and boneless, he didn't shift as Sherlock slumped next to him, scooped him close so they were pressed back to chest.

He felt a feathery kiss against his jaw, and smiled, soaking up Sherlock's body heat as he enjoyed the afterglow.

"For someone who's just insisted on his independence, you really do enjoy following my orders," Sherlock murmured, his voice a deliciously low hush over John's ear.

John heard the tease, but replied anyway. "Oh, well, it was … I like it," he replied, then furrowed his brow. "During sex, that is. I'm not going to get turned on if you tell me to tidy your room or anything."

Sherlock huffed a laugh, and clung tighter.

When they dressed, Sherlock pulled him in for one last kiss, which John gave him easily. "If anything happens," Sherlock said, "And we get separated, just know that I care about you. No matter what they say."

"What's going to happen?" John asked, playing absently with the buttons of Sherlock's uniform, stroking a hand down his chest.

"I don't know," Sherlock admitted. "But if they do separate us, I will come for you. I promise."

"You can't promise something like that," John said. "But I understand."

Sherlock brushed his fingers over John's bruises, and his brows furrowed. Then he turned, and banged on the door for the CO so they could be escorted back.

Chapter Text

The guard's presence held their tongues so they didn't speak a word to each other while walking to their cells. Whenever John sneaked a glance at Sherlock he saw only a stern profile, staring straight ahead. His goodbye was an almost casual brush of their hands as they were separated, seemingly accidental.

John spent the night wondering when this happened, when things tipped over from a simple arrangement to whatever they had now, full of emotions and honest desire. Somewhere along the line, Sherlock had stopped looking at him like one curiosity among hundreds and started treating him with genuine affection, started trusting him.

John had never had anything like this before. He was completely out of his depth, and Sherlock was no help at all. He could sit and think logically about their crazy relationship all night, but the moment he saw Sherlock again all arguments would go flying out of his head and he'd forgive Sherlock anything.

When had he grown this sentimental?

He punched his pillows into a more comfortable shape, and then curled up, willing himself into a dreamless sleep.

At breakfast, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. Normally, John wouldn't be bothered by this. Sherlock often skipped meals and wandered off for impromptu exploration, but as their situation became increasingly hostile, John felt unsafe without him. He sat at a table of mostly friendly faces and ate his food in silence, keeping his head down.

"Move it," came a low voice, and John glanced up along with everyone else to see the leader of the group from A block, then stared around in surprise as everyone around him left without question. He hurriedly grabbed his tray and went to move too, but a heavy hand on his shoulder stopped him rising. "Not you, kitten. You stay where you are."

John felt a jolt of fear through his chest and let the tray clunk back down. The man slumped lazily across from him, alone for now, but John could see his watchful gang a few tables down.

"I don't think we've been properly introduced," the man said, holding out a hand. "I'm Slaney."

John didn't take it. "Yes," he said, sitting up straight. "The rapist. I remember."

Slaney grinned, apparently unoffended, and pulled his hand back in a placating gesture. "Smart trick of his, ain't it?"

John frowned "What do you want?"

"Straight to the point, eh?" he replied, amusement becoming forced. It was unnerving to see that cheerful smile just under the cold, dead eyes of a psychopath, and John had to force himself to meet his gaze. "Well," Slaney started. "You've probably realised by now that me and your boy Sherlock don't really get along. In fact, I'm going to have to sort him out at some point in the very near future."

John blinked, a little confused. "Why are you telling me this?" he asked.

Slaney shrugged. "He's the annoying one. I've got nothing against you, blondie." He leant forward on his elbows, as if to whisper John a secret. "So I'm giving you the chance to … switch sides, so to speak."

John slowly nodded. "Right." He pursed his lips. "I'll think about it."

Slaney chuckled. "One time offer, here and now. Or you go down with him."

John's first instinct was to turn Slaney down, but he clamped his mouth shut and looked down at the table. Why was he so eager to put Sherlock's safety before his own? He owed the man nothing. But the fact was that even though Sherlock had duped him, his stomach still turned at the thought of double-crossing him like this. He couldn't see himself and … Slaney …

And god, what was wrong with him? He cared about Sherlock.

"No."

Slaney looked surprised. "No?" he questioned, sitting back again. His smile dropped off completely and his voice turned derisive. "You realise that Sherlock can't protect you anymore? He's a fucking no-one."

"It's not about protection," said John quietly, and he wasn't just saying it to put Slaney off.

The conversation obviously wasn't going the way Slaney had predicted. There was a moment's silence. "Don't be stupid, kitten -" he started, but was abruptly cut off by the bell. John scrambled to his feet and avoided the line for the yard, heading instead for the relative safety his cell.

***

Everything was oddly quiet, with most people outside to try and catch spare glimpses of summer sun. John sat by his desk and reread one of his novels, hating the brick wall that blocked off his share of sunlight. It was, he guessed, an hour or so later when he was disturbed by footsteps and turned to see Sherlock trailing past, deep in thought. He put the book down and sat up straight.

"Sherlock! Where were you?"

Sherlock startled and spun round on his heel to face him. His eyes narrowed, calculating reasons for John's unexpected presence. "You aren't in the yard. Why aren't you at the yard?" he pondered, as if talking to himself. "Has there been trouble?"

John thought, for a moment, whether or not to tell him. "I'm fine," he said eventually.

That caught Sherlock's attention. He stepped in, staring. "That's not answering my question."

"Why do you need to know about everything that happens to me?" John asked. He wasn't going to be intimidated. They were on equal footing now, and Sherlock was going to have to get used to it.

Sherlock sighed in irritation, and slumped onto John's bed in a melodramatic fit. "Why do you ask such stupid questions?"

John folded his arms. "You don't tell me anything about what you're up to, so why should I return the favour?"

"Here we are again," Sherlock muttered into his pillow. "Curious John. If I had any idea how nosy you'd be I'd have left you alone from the start." John raised his eyebrows at that, and Sherlock seemed to reconsider him. "The truth is, if it involves you it involves me."

"Oh, come off it," scoffed John, but Sherlock just looked faintly surprised.

"Surely you've realised by now that you're seen in here as my property?" he queried with a slightly amused expression that then slid into something serious. "If someone is threatening you then they are, by extension, threatening me. Any trouble you run into is my business. Why else do you think the Warden suddenly had it in for you? That was a message for me more than anything else." Any mention of the Warden got John interested, but Sherlock was quick to redirect any questioning. "What happened?"

"I got an offer," John said carefully. "To leave you."

Sherlock sat up slowly. "From the meat-headed leader of the new arrivals, I assume?" he mused. "You should have taken him up on it, I'm in no place to look after you."

It was his smug, slightly patronising tone that got John angry, and his utter lack of understanding where he was usually so perceptive. "Oh for Christ's sake, Sherlock, not you too," John snapped. "Why does everyone think I'm after protection? I bloody well hate that word now, you know. I'm with you because I want to be, no other reason."

Sherlock blinked rapidly at him, frozen in place. "Hardly the logical response," he said, after a choked pause.

"You don't seem too angry about it," John pointed out.

"No, I-" Sherlock broke off and stared past him, thinking. He abruptly sprung to his feet, pacing out on the concrete floor, and John watched him with increasing confusion.

"… What's the matter?"

"I have realised something important," Sherlock said, rubbing his hands together feverishly. He turned to John, and his far-away gaze became more immediate.

John stood almost automatically, placed a calming hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "What?"

Sherlock gripped him by the arms, but while it shocked him, it was a reflex not a threat and John wasn't afraid. Sherlock's eyes bored into his own, his anxiety almost tangible. "I have, perhaps, become too focused by my side of the case to bother thinking about what he would do with this new knowledge," Sherlock said, his words spilling out faster than John could follow. "It was stupid and short-sighted of me, but then, that's what prison does to one's brain. Obviously there are outside emotional aspects that I have been ignoring to factor in, that Moriarty has obviously-"

He cut himself off mid-rant and dropped John like it hurt to touch him. John blinked up in shock. "Case?" he said. "What case? Who is Moriarty?"

"The Warden," said Sherlock irritably, waving a hand. "That's beside the point."

"Sherlock, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Think about it!" Sherlock retorted, somehow managing to project a hundred insults relating to John's intelligence without actually speaking them. "Those men weren't just put here to disempower me, they were sent to get you. Because the Warden knows that nothing will derail me more than seeing you passed around like party entertainment for a bunch of sex deprived criminals."

The image made John blanch, and he felt nausea bubble up in his stomach. Sherlock's agitation seemed to rise when he saw this, and he backed towards the door.

"I need to go. Things to prepare in light of … new situations." He seemed quite unwilling to leave, but whatever it was, it must be important. John had never felt more overwhelmed. Even in the middle of a battlefield when fighting to save lives he could at least do something. Right now, he was limited to reacting at whatever was thrown at him.

"Why can't you just tell me what's going on?" John entreated, but Sherlock determinedly shook his head.

"Not now," he said firmly.

"Well, when?"

Sherlock inhaled slowly, thoughtfully. "When we get out of here, I'll tell you everything."

John straightened, eyes wide. Not if. "When?"

Sherlock seemed to hesitate, then he rushed back in and grabbed John's hand. "Do you trust me?" he asked, his voice low. The grip tightened.

John shook his head desperately. He wanted to, but … "How can I? You've done nothing but lie to me."

"Here and now, as if the past hasn't happened, do you trust me?"

"I don't trust strangers," John countered, and Sherlock bristled. He bit back an angry retort and smoothed into an unbalanced sort of calm.

"I don't know what my word means to you," Sherlock said quietly. "But you have it, that I will explain absolutely everything to you when it is safe to do so. Stay safe, don't get into fights and don't attract the Warden's attention, and I promise I will sort everything out."

John silently nodded even though his head was burning with questions, and pulled away his hand, watching Sherlock go. The room seemed too empty again. He sat heavily on the edge of his bed, then tipped backwards to land with a fluffed thump onto his pillows. "I hate that you're always the one leaving," he murmured, to no-one, to Sherlock who couldn't hear him.

***

Perhaps it was to make up for his absence that morning, but Sherlock practically shadowed John on the way to lunch, loath to let him out of sight. He threatened anyone who came near them and kept touching John, holding his arm when they talked, walking him along with a hand on his shoulder.

But despite his closeness John didn't feel safe. He saw Slaney and his gang a little way back in the line and their mere presence was enough to set John on edge. CO Moran's sharp eyes followed John wherever he went, his fingers twitching by his baton as though waiting for an excuse to use it.

"Watch yourself, Watson," he muttered in an ugly voice as John trailed passed, determinedly looking forward.

Despite his worry, he and Sherlock ate lunch in relative peace, side by side with their knees brushing under the table. It was only right near the end that he realised Sherlock had been keeping a watchful eye on Slaney using the reflective metal that edged the walls, a sort of blurry mirror.

"Sherlock," John said, his voice sharp with warning, when the bell went off and everyone rose in listless unison.

"I know," said Sherlock calmly, who stood and turned to see the A block men casually moving through the crowd towards them. He seized John's wrist, grip tight. "Follow me."

John apparently moved too slowly for Sherlock's liking, so he ended up being practically dragged around the edges of the room towards the exit, hurrying to keep up with those long strides and smacking shoulders with other prisoners as he went. They slowed to a walk passed the bored officers slouched by the walls, and darted into the hallway ahead of everyone else.

"Cells?" panted John, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

"Yes," said Sherlock, pale eyes staring down the hallway. "Come to mine."

And he raced off again. John was feeling akin to a ragdoll, the way he was being yanked about, when he was suddenly grabbed from behind and tugged against another body. His wrist was wrenched out of Sherlock's grip and he moved to struggle, to cause a fuss, but felt something sharp pressed against his ribs and instinctively froze in fear.

"Don't make a fuss, kitten," whispered Slaney, and applied a little more pressure to his makeshift knife to emphasise his point. "Just stand with me. Natural, like."

Sherlock whirled around as if to attack, but halted as soon as he caught sight of the weapon, his face slacking into blank horror. His eyes flicked up to Slaney, seething. "You keep your hands off of him," he snapped.

"You look ill, Sherlock. Stressed," Slaney observed, running a large hand down John's side. Down the hall, the rest of the prisoners were starting to exit the canteen, and no-one seemed to notice what was happening, or was willing to call attention to it.

Sherlock's eyes flickered between them, uncertain. "I don't know what he's promised you," he said quickly. "But whatever it is, you won't get it. You have no idea what you've just involved yourself in."

"Look at you, acting like you're still in charge," Slaney jeered. Out of the corner of his eyes, John could see the rest of Slaney's gang approach, chewing and sneering at Sherlock, who stood a little straighter. John felt a burst of fear for him. Even though John was the one with a knife to his ribs, in the end, this was all about Sherlock.

"He will use you and discard you," said Sherlock, his voice hoarse. "That, I can guarantee."

John felt Slaney tense through the hand at his waist. With a jerk of his head as a command, the gang surrounded Sherlock and held him back as Slaney casually walked John away, his knife scraping against John's uniform and slicing open worn threads.

Jesus, thought John, panicking. He turned just in time to see one of the A block men fist a hand into Sherlock's black curls and swing a powerful punch to his stomach. Sherlock retaliated. Violently. He was strong, fast, but it was three against one and the guards snapped into action as fight attracted the attention of the other prisoners.

"Sherlock!" yelled John, as Sherlock disappeared behind a circle of chanting men. He jerked towards him in Slaney's grip, and the knife broke fabric and drew blood from skin.

"You're coming with me," hissed Slaney into John's ear, pushing him further away.

The wailing alarms went off for lockdown as the guards moved in to forcibly break up the fight. John caught a glimpse of Sherlock from between the wall of bodies, bleeding from a broken lip, and something clicked in him. Perhaps it was a combination of the loud noises, the fighting, or the threat of violence. His panic switched off, replaced by a deadly sort of calm, and the noise and commotion faded into a faint ringing as if he were wearing earplugs. Focus descended, sharpening the world around him into crystal clarity.

Slaney was tough, but John had taken him out before. His grip was tight, but not unbreakable. John twisted and slammed his heel over the arch of Slaney's foot to knock him off balance, following through with a knee to the groin, taking perhaps a little too much pleasure in seeing him crumple in pain with a pained groan.

"You little bitch!" roared Slaney, and John ducked away, running full pelt towards the crowd.

"Sherlock!" he cried, pushing at the circle. He shoved his way into the centre, making the most of his small size to wriggle through. Sherlock was brutally laying into the A block men, fists flying in what John recognised to be the tightly controlled moves of a professional boxer. But he was losing. John leapt on the attacker closest to him, dragging him backwards and using the most of his momentum to send them both crashing to the floor. The man's head hit the ground hard, rendering him senseless, and the chanting quickly petered out.

"Stay the fuck back!" he yelled at the other two, who quickly backed off at the sight of the bruised, bleeding madman who'd just knocked out a man about twice his size. Sherlock dropped his bloody fists to his side, staring at John in something akin to wonder. John felt a huge surge of relief that Sherlock wasn't too hurt, marred by superficial wounds that would hurt his vanity for a while perhaps, but nothing else.

The rush of adrenaline that had fuelled John dampened down as quickly as it came, and everything went back to being busy, loud and frightening. He sat back on his heels and pressed a hand to his bleeding side, confused, for a moment, about when it had started to hurt. He stared helplessly up at Sherlock who opened his mouth as if to speak, but froze when he glanced upwards.

Heavy hands gripped under John's arms and dragged him to his feet.

"Breaking a major rule, are we?" came CO Moran's gruff voice as he cuffed John's hands behind his back. "I guess I'll have to intervene."

Sherlock's face turned manic, and he moved to attack Moran but was quickly restrained. "Moran, don't you dare!" he shouted, reaching forward as if to snatch John to safety. He was pulled backwards, thrashing in fury. "He has nothing to do with it!"

Moran sneered at him.

John had to be dragged to the isolation cell, fighting and swearing at Moran every step of the way. He was thrust into the small, grey, windowless room, and without the balance of his arms he nearly toppled to the floor. It was dank and uncomfortable, much like his cell when he first arrived, and had an odd smell, stagnant, that had him wrinkling his nose. There was the noise of heavy boot on the hard ground, and he looked up to see Moran step in too, slamming the door shut behind him. It locked with a solid clunk of metal on metal.

John backed away until he hit the wall, his mind blank in fear. Moran's wide grin reminded him of the Warden, a sharp white stretch of unhinged malice. This man wished nothing on John but pain and humiliation, still seething with resentment had having to obey an indirect order not to touch him.

"I've been looking forward to this." Moran pulled out his baton and gave it a thoughtful tap against the palm of his hand, before frowning and putting it away. "A rat like you deserves the more personal touch, I think," he sneered, clenching and unclenching his fists.

I'm not going to beg, John resolved, tensing, his hands already hurting in the too tight cuffs. Moran walked confidently forward, taking his time to manoeuvre John into a corner like a lazy tiger. I'm not going to give him the satisfaction.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked quietly, meeting Moran's eyes.

"I really, really don't like you." Moran pressed him to the wall. "And I can."

His fist slammed into John's stomach like a cannon ball, so hard and fast he was surprised when it didn't tear straight through him. He failed to hold in his cry of hurt as the gritty pain shuddered through his body, convulsing, and Moran just laughed.

It was torture, plain and simple. Moran used John as a punching bag, as stress relief, for an amount of time that John found uncountable. He gritted his teeth and never stopped glaring, refusing to be cowed.

"You know," said Moran eventually, as if they were mates chatting down the pub. "It's real tough and all, you not letting yourself scream, but it only makes me want to hit you harder."

"Piss off," hissed John, spitting at him.

Moran laughed, wiping the saliva off his shirt. "You're fucking gold, Watson." He wrenched John upright again. John's legs had given out a while ago and he could barely support his own weight, let alone withstand Moran's incessant, pitiless beating.

He shook his head, eyes blurring. The hot wetness on his cheeks made him realise he was in danger of crying.

Moran laughed, clenched his hand and the next punch took John's breath away. He couldn't help but moan in pain, legs collapsing beneath him, and he was allowed fall ungracefully at Moran's feet, his face pressed against the concrete floor. He shut his eyes.

"Had enough?" asked Moran, nudging him with a foot. "That was a cute little whimper you let out. I wanna hear some more."

"What the fuck do you want from me?" snarled John, tasting salt from his cheek and old dust from the floor. Moran kicked him over and John flopped onto his back like a ragdoll.

"I don't even know," Moran admitted, crouching down next to him. "Jim has fun playing his games with Sherlock, I have fun with you."

There again, that game that John knew nothing about. He turned away, but Moran's fingers cupped his cheek and turned him back again so they were looking at each other. John didn't hide his revulsion.

"You're quite hurtful, Watson, with your snide little looks. I hate to hit you, you know, but you bring it on yourself." The fingers trailed down his jaw and John flinched away in disgust. Moran sneered and stood again with a heavy grunt. "Still need to learn your lesson."

Please stop. "Fuck you." John's voice was painfully croaky.

Moran shrugged off the insult. He stepped closer and carefully raised his foot, pressing it over John's throat. He didn't press down hard, he just held it there, but John still froze at the imagery of Moran's foot stamping down on his neck with the sort of force that a man like him could easily summon. Moran seemed to recognise the look in John's eyes and he smirked. "Why do you act like you don't give a shit?" He pushed down slightly harder, and John choked, any strength left in his body to fight off his attacker long gone. "You try not to, since the beginning you wanted nothing more than to keep that stupid blond head of yours down, but I know you turn into Miss Marple whenever someone mentions the Warden."

What -" John snarled weakly, "- are you talking about?"

Moran sighed. He had the air of an exasperated teacher explaining the obvious to a dim student. A violent teacher with muscles like a wrestler, standing on his student's windpipe. "News travels fast in prison. Closed environment, snitches everywhere …"

"Fine. I admit it. I'm curious."

"I'm curious as to why Sherlock hasn't told you anything." Moran stepped off John's throat and hauled him up to his feet again. "You honestly know nothing?"

"The Warden believed me when I told him," John said, finding it difficult to hold his head up.

"Things have changed between you and your annoying boyfriend since then," said Moran, and at John's confused expression he sneered again. "News travels fast, remember?" Of course. The laundry room, Sherlock paying off the CO who reported to … Moran.

"Are you questioning me?" John asked. "Officially? Because this isn't how it's normally--" His head snapped back as Moran powerfully backhanded him across the face. He turned back, gasping, staring at the ground with blurry eyes.

"Don't be a fucker, Watson."

John felt fury rise. "Everything you're doing is illegal," he snapped. "And when I get the opportunity I'm going to make sure you fucking rot behind bars yourself--"

Moran punched him in the abdomen with a blow that seemed to force the last of the air in John's lungs out. He fell silent, gasping quietly, limp in Moran's grip.

"That's better," remarked Moran. "You're a mouthy little bastard, do you know that?"

John's eyes were too tired to even focus properly.

"There are so many things I'd love to do to you, Watson, but the Warden made me promise not to knock you up too bad." Moran sounded annoyed, and he tapped John's cheek with something like regret." Nothing permanent, he said."

"You don't scare me," whispered John, his voice embarrassingly small.

Moran was kind enough to let him fall in the direction of the bed when he was done, and left, muttering something about hospital staff. John lay there limply, on his side, his arms wrapped around himself for warmth. He fell quickly, gratefully, into a black unconsciousness.

He didn't know how long he had spent in the hole. He had vague memories of staring at the grey wall, of receiving his first meal and the staff member being shocked, of taken out of there as if it were an emergency. Perhaps it was. His memory, worryingly, was mostly Moran's fists in the dark, Sherlock's soft kiss on his jawline, and black.

The smell might have been what woke him, nicotine mixed in with antiseptic, unnatural and man-made. He opened his eyes, hurting all over, and realised he was in the hospital wing.

"You're awake, finally."

John twisted his neck painfully to see the prison doctor standing beside his bed, just back from a fag break going by the smell. He smoked Sherlock's brand.

"How are you feeling?"

"How do you think?" John replied angrily, then forced himself to calm. "Have you got a mirror or something? One of my eyes is a little fuzzy."

"Massive bruise," said the doctor, unconcernedly. "It'll go away soon. You just need rest and relaxation, so I've authorised you to have a few days in here."

John sighed, his mind foggy with bad painkillers. "I need a complaints form or something. CO Moran did this to me."

"CO Moran's gone," said the doctor, flipping through John's with undisguised boredom. "Left when the Warden did."

John sat bolt upright. "What!?"

"Jesus," exclaimed the doctor, forcing him back down. "Rest and relaxation! Now bloody well relax!"

"What do you mean the Warden's gone?" John said wildly. "Who's the Warden now? How long was I in isolation? What's going on?"

"If you don't shut up," threatened the doctor. "I'm going to jack you up with morphine. No-one's going to answer the questions of someone who's unconscious."

John lay back down.

"Good," said the doctor, a little ruffled. "The Warden left the night you were isolated. You were in there for about 36 hours before you were brought to me. You've been here for another 24 hours. Happy?"

John grasped at the sheets. "I know you'll want to say no, but I promise that this is of tremendous importance," he said. "I need to speak to Sherlock Holmes, another prisoner."

The doctor raised an eyebrow. "Sherlock Holmes..?" he said slowly. "You're too late. He's gone too."

John felt a sudden, sharp stabbing of betrayal work through his gut. "Gone..? How can he be gone?"

The doctor shrugged. "I don't know. Transferred out to somewhere more secure, I guess, after the fight. He was a troublemaker anyway. Could tell just by looking at me that my wife …" he coughed. "Never mind."

John slumped back onto his pillows, at a loss of what to do next.

Chapter Text

It took John a while to recover from what Moran had done to him. His body was evidence of sustained abuse; a patchwork of new cuts and bruises over old. Even though the doctor kept him pumped full of painkillers, he could still feel the raw ache of his injuries when he moved, spiking through that pleasant haze.

He'd been determined to get Moran for what he'd done, but his complaints went nowhere after it was discovered that the files on him had gone missing. Apparently, he'd fled along with the Warden, whose office had been found completely stripped of anything that could identify him. It was like they'd never existed, merely ghosts of memories that lurked in John's more violent nightmares.

The sweet nurse that John liked brought him his breakfast every morning. John perked up as she approached. She shook her head to ward off his hopeful expression. "Sorry, love." She sounded genuinely apologetic, as she did every time. "No messages."

"Right." John ducked his head, silently berating himself for even thinking about him.

He was still chewing dully at his food when the doctor sauntered in, picking up John's chart and glancing over it. "Feeling okay, Watson?" he queried airily, scribbling something at the bottom in his incomprehensible handwriting.

John swallowed awkwardly around his toast. "Better," he said. "Am I okay to go now?"

"Yeah, should be." The doctor peered at John over the chart, before clipping it back on the end of the bed. "Just a warning, though. Things have changed a lot in the last few days."

John had been expecting that. With a new Warden came new rules. "How so?"

"He's upping security after the fight. You'll spend most of your time in lockdown until he's done, I'm afraid." The doctor frowned as if it were a bad thing. But with Sherlock gone, John was being thrown back into the main population without anyone he could call a friend, but many he could call an enemy. Practically, being locked up for most of the day was more of a blessing than a curse.

He was escorted back by a bored looking guard that evening. The nurse waved him goodbye, and John forced a smile. It felt wrong on his face, a meaningless stretching of lips. He wondered when he'd started to feel so numb. He couldn't help glancing up at Sherlock's cell as they walked through the hall, but of course, the inside was dark and empty. The tiny spark of hope in his chest fizzled out, and he let his eyes rest somewhere in the middle distance, nodding blankly at the guard as he was locked back in his cell.

There was nothing in here, not even an apologetic post-it note. Although it was probably stupid to have expected anything like that from Sherlock Holmes.

John sat neatly at the end of his bed, hands resting on his lap. He remembered meaningful looks, and soft kisses, and "I never meant to get so attached to you," and clenched his eyes shut in frustration.

Idiot, he told himself, squeezing his fists so hard his nails dug into his palm. You're an idiot, John. He'd been played like a fucking fiddle.

That night, he was awoken by a furious shouting match and moved to the door to watch Slaney and his gang being dragged unceremoniously out of their cells. As Sherlock had promised, Moriarty hadn't left any provisions for them. Now they were being moved back up to A block, and going by their very loud complaints, that wasn't part of the deal. John let out a small selfish sigh of relief. Coming face to face with them again had been something he'd been dreading.

Morning came quickly and with it the new, stricter, regime. But routine was something John needed right now. He went through the next few days on autopilot, doing his best to distract himself from thinking

He hadn't realised how much his life revolved around Sherlock until the man was absent. In all his time spent in prison, he'd never made meaningful connections with anyone other than Sherlock. People had come to see John as an extension of him, an accessory, and without the main body around he was largely ignored, just the way he had been when he first arrived. It was something he was frankly thankful for.

Perhaps it was out of respect for the way things had been before, but he'd been allowed to sit unmolested wherever he wanted at mealtimes, as long as he kept to himself. And that, John told himself, was all he wanted from them anyway.

But Sherlock still scratched at his brain. He was quietly desperate at night, with nothing to do but think about a newly transferred Sherlock dazzling inmates with his deductions, picking up a replacement John to kiss and fuck and confide in. He wanted anything from Sherlock, even the most tenuous connection, something to prove that he hadn't been forgotten about completely.

The urge brought him to the reception every morning to ask if he had any messages. He always left empty handed.

"Look," said the CO who manned the desk when John turned up for the umpteenth time with a tentatively hopeful smile. "What is it you're waiting for anyway?"

John shrugged, shoulders loose. "I … don't know," he said eventually, and turned to walk away.

"Hang on a sec, Watson -" And John spun around a little too eagerly as the CO brought up a neatly stapled bit of paperwork. "Something's come through from the Warden." He scanned over the sheets. "You're eligible to be moved to a lower security prison as you're 'low risk', apparently. And for good behaviour."

"Oh," said John, trying his best to hide his disappointment. He picked up the clipboard and frowned. "Good behaviour? Really?"

Perhaps it was best not to remind them of the recent fight, and when he'd knocked another man out cold. But this was most likely the new Warden's doing. He wanted to clear things up, and John was probably on file somewhere as someone who, while not a troublemaker, was still very much involved.

The CO shrugged, uninterested. John diligently filled in the forms. "That would be good, actually," he said, attempting a smile as he passed the forms back over. "A fresh start."

The paperwork went through the system like clockwork and the next week, John was ready to be transferred. He was interrupted in the middle of rereading a novel by a guard brandishing handcuffs, and got to his feet with his wrists out, nodding along to the insincere small talk. He glanced around his room for one last time, the peeling paint, his window facing the brick wall, his collection of books far over the acceptable limit that had been passed along to him after Sherlock was done with them.
 
"We'll ship your effects down later," said the guard impatiently, noticing his silent farewell. "Come along, Watson. The bus is waiting."

John obediently followed. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw curious faces turn to follow him out the exit, down a passage he'd only ever been through once, when he'd first arrived. It was a fresh afternoon, a blue sky painted with clouds and a cool wind that swept cleanly at John's hair. He blinked up at the sunlight, his back to the prison, feeling in that small moment, free.

A hand at his shoulder brought him back to reality. "Get in," said the CO gently, pushing John towards the bus. John shook his head to wake himself up, his metal clad wrists clinking, and climbed in. The door slammed shut, leaving him with two sullen prisoners with their heads ducked, staring at their feet. John ignored them to stare out the back window and watched the prison grow smaller. The gates clashed behind them, and the bus sped up, bumping gently on its suspension as they took the corners. John watched the scenery grow faster, and realised with shock that he was actually, genuinely smiling.

"Look at that," said a horribly familiar voice.

John turned in shock to see the other two prisoners grinning up at him.

"Such a sweet smile," sneered Moriarty, his teeth white in the dim interior. He was unbuttoning his prison jumpsuit to reveal, ludicrously, a finely cut dark suit underneath.

"Won't look so sweet with a bullet in it," said Moran, calmly pointing a gun straight at John as he sat back in his seat, relaxed. The gun was military issue, a Sig Sauer, and John could tell by the way that he held it that Moran was worryingly familiar with it.

He could feel his heart thudding in his chest as Moran clicked the safety off. "I don't understand," he said, eyes fixed on the deadly metal, panicking as he realised that he had missed something huge, here.

"You don't have to understand," chuckled Moriarty, kicking his jumpsuit to the side with a little foot clad in Italian leather. He unlocked John's handcuffs with his skinny fingers and tucked them away in his pocket. "Just do what I say, mm?"

Moran cocked his head, tilting the gun this way and that as he aimed at different parts of John's body. John's mind was suddenly clouded by the painful memory of metal tearing through flesh under desert sun, and his stomach clenched in fear.

A rucksack landed on his lap, thrown by Moriarty. "Open it," he ordered. Then he smiled that terrifying smile. "If you don't mind."

John's hands were completely steady as he unzipped the bag and emptied its contents, second-hand clothing, onto the floor.

"Good boy," Moriarty purred, and John nearly jumped out of his skin as he felt skinny fingers scrape through his hair, but the threat of Moran kept him stock still. The fingers clenched and tugged his head back and John was staring into Moriarty's beetle black eyes, panting slightly. "Scared yet?"

John didn't answer, didn't trust himself to, and Moriarty giggled, pushing him away. John stared at the ground, trying to ignore the glinting gun in his peripheral vision.

"Get changed. We've got places to be, sweetie."

***

The world outside prison was wonderfully bright and full of life. John sat at a bus stop in his shabby clothes watching people go by, couples in love, shuffling little old people, hurried businessmen, school kids. The women especially were all shockingly good looking, and John couldn't stop himself from admiring the ones that walked past him.

He remembered how fascinating he'd found Sherlock, and wondered now if his attractiveness was real, or was just due to lack of comparison in a prison full of average looking men.

"Comfortable?" came a tinny voice directly into John's ear, and John shuddered, dropping his gaze to the pavement.

Things had moved quickly in the bus. Once he'd been forced into his new wardrobe, John had been hooked up to an iPhone with little earphones and told to stay, unmoving, at this bus stop, with a red laser sight pointed unwaveringly at his chest lest he start trouble. At Moriarty's prompting, he murmured the affirmative, and wiped a hand over his face to hide his grimace.

Moriarty giggled, his excitement filtering through the low quality signal and John just wanted to rip the earphones off at the sound of it. "You're in for quite a show, Johnny," he burbled. "And if you don't move, you might just see it through to the end."

The red light was coming from the second floor of apartment building across the street from him, glinting from between net curtains. Beneath the window, the citizens of London strolled happily along; unaware of any danger they might be in as people directly in the line of sight of a psychopath with a sniper rifle. John had watched Moran snap it together in the bus with growing anxiety, while Moriarty poked him inexpertly in the head with the Sig Sauer.  He'd been more worried of Moriarty. The man was obviously an idiot around guns, the type who might sneeze and slip a finger, accidentally firing off a killing shot. He'd probably laugh about it afterwards.

But whatever Moriarty's strange plan was, it appeared to be going off like clockwork. If nothing else, he must have incredible connections to be able to spring a murderer from prison that easily.

A mechanical click in his ear and a sharp trill of a phone ringing brought John back into the present. It appeared he was about to listen in to a phone conversation.

With a breathy greeting, Moriarty answered the line. "If it isn't the cop killer turned detective," he said cheerfully. "Glad to hear from you so promptly. How are you? Enjoying your … freedom?"

There was an icy pause.

"I'm having a fantastic time."

A cold sweat broke out over John's skin. He'd recognise that low voice anywhere, the sharp, authoritative tone discernible even over a tinny phone line.

"Especially regarding the stolen money that you were laundering using the prison. A clever plan in theory, but not against me, I'm afraid. I've managed to link your illicit spending to various crimes carried out by your organisation." The voice took a breath. "And the dead policewoman isn't dead, of course. She's with her DI, on her way to arrest you now."

Sherlock. John's chest welled up with painful emotion. He clutched at the bench.

Moriarty was giggling again. "Ah, you presume to know my location."

"Tracked your phone," countered Sherlock, monotone, as if bored.

And then all of a sudden, John saw him.

He stood on the other side of the road with a phone clasped to his ear, pacing up and down in front of the building with his swift, balanced steps. He was more beautiful than John remembered, even among all these other people, dressed with easy grace in a well cut suit and a long wool coat. He could see that alien stare, the sharp lines of his profile, even from where he was sitting. "I'm under your building now," Sherlock was saying. "And the police are just arriving."

Sherlock was every inch the free man. No wonder he looked so out of place in prison; he walked as if he owned the ground under his feet.

"Oh you stalker!" Moriarty crowed. "You're obsessed, Sherlock, you really are. Although, I admit … I'm a little flattered. I've never come across a man willing to lock himself up for a year just to be near me before."

Sherlock shrugged. "It's paid off," he replied, voice clipped.

"Oh, I've always wanted to knock you down one when you get like this," Moriarty muttered. "Do me a favour. Look … across the road, towards the little bus stop."

Sherlock glanced over, alert, and his eyes fell on John. Almost immediately, his face froze in alarm and he clenched the phone in a white knuckle grip. "Why is he here?" he spat.

"I have no idea why someone like you would get so attached to such an insignificant little scrote," Moriarty continued. "Such a terrible weak spot that someone like me would be almost honour bound to poke at."

"Who says I'm attached?" Sherlock answered a little too quickly.

"Oh Sherlock, really." Moriarty let out a little sigh, then changed the subject. "See the little red dot on his chest? That will become a hole if you come up here."

"You think I'd sacrifice all these years of my life hunting you down to save him?"

"I know you would, Sherlock. And you'd sacrifice much more beside that." Moriarty giggled again. "That's what makes this all so delicious, really."

Sherlock didn't reply. He'd gone deathly pale and still.

Moriarty continued his stream of verbal bile. "He's so very broken, I don't know how you can stand to be around him. An idiot motivated entirely by emotion. Ridiculous, really, how feeling he is."

"When you've quite finished," snapped Sherlock, almost grinding his teeth in fury.

"You better stay put, Sherlock, or I'll have him shot. It's not like they can add anything else onto my sentence!"

There was a clunking noise and John was abruptly cut off from the conversation. But Sherlock still angrily seethed into the phone, so it seemed as though Moriarty was still talking.

Suddenly, the sharp blare of sirens sounded through the air. John yanked out his now useless earphones and stuffed the phone in his pocket as two police cars revved down the road, screeching to a stop outside the apartment. Officers spilled out, setting up cordons and moving the public away. Sherlock jogged over to a slender black women, presumably a plain clothes detective. He pointing up at the building and angrily gestured away any officer that tried to move in. Their tense talk quickly spiralled into a vicious argument.

John stared helplessly up at the red dot, then down at his chest. Moran's aim was completely steady, the dot situated just over his heart.

Completely unmoving.

Something about the whole situation seemed off to John. He wasn't Sherlock, he couldn't deduce the specifics, but instinct was screaming in the back of his mind wrong, wrong, wrong. He stared up the unmoving light in the window with renewed curiosity, and narrowed his eyes.

To test his theory, he faked a coughing fit, shifting to the right and away from the laser. But the light remained pointing in the same direction, now threatening the signs behind him on the bus stop.

There was no-one in the apartment building. Moriarty had set up a distraction.

Sherlock was still preoccupied in his argument, bodily blocking any officer from trying to enter with panicked movements. As another police car pulled up and attracted everyone's attention, John slipped away. He was quiet and inconspicuous, the very picture of ordinary. No-one noticed as he darted around the side of the building, keeping careful count of windows until … ahah.

John was short, but determined. On his third jump he managed to grip the bottom of the fire escape ladder and clamber up, catching the ladder once he'd reached the top so he could silently raise it back into position. He could still hear snatches of Sherlock's frustrated arguments, his voice seemed to travel well. Once he'd entered the building, it wasn't difficult to locate the room that faced the bus stop. John padded through carpeted interior until he reached the right door. He pressed his ear to the wood, listening carefully for sounds of movement. There was nothing.

He was prepared to kick the door down, but that wasn't necessary. Moriarty had left it unlocked, as if inviting entry.

Slowly, oh so slowly, John opened the door. He instinctively kept an eye out for traps, tripwires but there was no need. The bedsit was empty and abandoned.

The first thing that caught John's attention were the two phones lay on the table, one still screeching away as Moriarty talked to Sherlock. It was how he'd fooled the trackers. Sherlock had been tracing a phone that led only to another, giving Moriarty the chance to shake Sherlock off his trail. But it was the setup by the window had John feeling like a damn idiot.

There was no gun at all. Instead, a lecturer's laser pointer was duct-taped to a stand, pointing directly where John had been sitting.

"Fuck," he muttered, running his hands through his hair in frustration, pacing backwards and forwards. There must be something he could do, some way he could help Sherlock …

The iPhone Moriarty had given him dug into his hip as he walked, and John had a sudden flash of inspiration. He quickly checked the numbers of the phones on the table and sent a text to Sherlock. Then, before his nervousness got the better of him, he picked up the phone connecting to Moriarty raised it slowly to his ear. "Jim."

He heard a snuffling inhale of breath. "Oh hello, you," chirped Moriarty. "Did you like my little trick with the laser pointer?"

There was a commotion outside, and John moved to the window to get a better look. "Yeah," he said, voice steady. "Very funny." Standing a little way back in case there were armed police trying to shoot the apparent sniper, John watched Sherlock hurry officers back into their vehicles.

"It's nothing personal, Johnny," said Moriarty, dripping with false sweetness. "If Sherlock had attached himself limpet-like to someone else, you wouldn't be involved at all."

"Is that supposed to make this all okay?"

A generous laugh. "I suppose not."

Sherlock slipped out of John's line of sight, a whirl of coat as he ran. John ducked away from the window. He had to keep Moriarty on the line. "Why are you doing this?" he asked.

There was a creak of material down the phone line as Moriarty relaxed. "A man needs to know when to cut his losses and run," he said lightly. "A man also needs to know how to distract the dogs that will inevitably try to chase him down." His voice turned teasing. "Surely by now you're familiar with being used as a distraction?"

John didn't rise to the bait. "So what, you're a step ahead of everyone else?"

"Oh sweetheart," Moriarty drawled, and John could hear the grin shaping his vowels. "You can't even see me. I'm over the fucking horizon."

And just at that moment, Sherlock walked in behind him.

John turned to look at him, the phone still clasped close with Moriarty's inane chatter babbling in his ear. Close up, Sherlock seemed unruffled and unperturbed, outwardly calm. But John knew him now, and the depth of emotions that lay behind the schooled expression. He looked so different in some ways, resplendent in his designer wrapping. But under all that he was still, simply, Sherlock.

They stared across the small room, a conversation without words and the instant realisation that each of them was still, inexorably, drawn to the other.

Moriarty's voice cut off with a shriek, and John carefully placed the phone on the table. That was that, then.

Sherlock's eyes followed it down, then he scanned the room in that quick and thorough way of his. "I got your text," he said quietly. He pressed a gloved hand to the window, the red laser light shining over his knuckles.

"So I see," said John. His voice was oddly choked.

Sherlock stared out the window, his eyes lingered over the bus stop. "A phone playing Moriarty and a laser light playing Moran. Simple, but effective." He sounded bitter, and John quickly continued the conversation before Sherlock spiralled down into a black mood at being so easily tricked.

"You traced the right number okay, then?"

Sherlock nodded briefly, and turned as footsteps hammered down the hallway. Both of them looked up to a silver haired man dash into the room, eyes alighting on Sherlock and a huge rush of adrenaline practically sparking off of him. "We got him!" the man crowed, slightly out of breath with a wide grin on his face. "Traced his actual phone and picked him up at his hotel suite, and his partner."

"Excellent," said Sherlock, a pleased smile stretching over his face for a split second. He gestured over to John with a lazy wave. "This is my friend --"

"John Watson!" the man exclaimed, the grin slipping off his face into blank shock. His friendly demeanour vanished.

Of course, things weren't going to be simple.

"DI Lestrade," replied John, carefully meeting his gaze.

Sherlock glanced between them, eyes narrowed. "You two know each other."

"He was my arresting officer," said John.

"Yes," said Lestrade loudly. "Watson turned up at the station one night, boots bloodied, and handed himself in for murder. I'm not going to forget that in a hurry." He reached around and there was a clink of handcuffs. The familiar sight didn't even faze John anymore, and he was raising his hands before Sherlock stepped between them.

"You don't want to do that, Lestrade."

Lestrade tinted red. "He's an escaped murderer with a life sentence. I've got to get him back to prison."

"He just proved himself invaluable in the capture of a criminal that we have been chasing for years," said Sherlock frostily. He didn't raise his voice like Lestrade. He didn't have to.

"That doesn't make him innocent. I can't just let him go," said Lestrade with a hint of nervousness.

"I didn't say let him go," Sherlock clarified. "Just don't take him back to prison."

"What, I'll leave him in lock-up limbo then?" retorted Lestrade. "It's either one or the other."

"Guys," said John, stepping forward, but Sherlock flung out a hand.

"Shush John," he said, his eyes still on Lestrade. "There is a lock-up limbo, Inspector. Put him in a holding cell at the station until my paperwork comes through."

"Paperwork?" repeated Lestrade, looking as confused as John felt.

"The documentation for his release," Sherlock said swiftly. "I went through John's old case files to re-examine the evidence. I also looked at his record in the army, his psychiatrist's notes, and got a second opinion on the stresses placed on him by his PTSD. He's getting his sentence reduced to manslaughter and a fine, which I have paid."

It was all so outlandish that John didn't know whether to believe him or not. Sherlock turned and grinned at him, perhaps searching for praise, but John just felt … bought. He smiled weakly in return.

"I've never heard of anything like that before," said Lestrade, brows creased together in confusion, a man completely out of his depth. John sympathised.

"I assure you that all of these things are in motion," Sherlock said smoothly. "John's release from prison is guaranteed. I recommend you follow my suggestion and put him in a holding cell until everything becomes official."

Lestrade wavered for a moment, conflicted, and then came to a decision. "Fine," he said. "Come along, Watson. Let's take you down to the station."

The clasp of metal around his wrists was a formality. John wasn't going anywhere, and they all knew it.

"I'll see you later, John," said Sherlock with uncharacteristic gentleness, pressing a hand to his shoulder. John stared up into piercing pale eyes and exhaled slowly, then nodded. He let Lestrade lead him away, leaving Sherlock to examine the bedsit.

The ride in the police car was mostly terse silence, broken up by small talk about the weather as both John and Lestrade danced around the subject of Sherlock, and John being an escaped convict that was sprung out of prison by a master criminal, and just what the hell was going on with Sherlock's suspicious paperwork. Sally Donovan, Lestrade's DS, was a lot more upfront about it. She cornered John while he was being processed in.

"What's this about Sherlock looking into your case?" she demanded. "It was open-shut."

"I know as much about what's going on as you do," John said, knowing that any sort of protest he made would be useless. Donovan struck him as the sort of person who, once she'd got an idea wedged in her head, wouldn't drop it.

"Have you got something on him?" she demanded. "Or did you two strike up a deal while you were in prison?"

"Come on, Sergeant. Leave off him. He's had a tough time." Lestrade swooped in, tired and dishevelled looking. John wondered when he'd last been home.

He was led down to a holding cell that was just a bit smaller than the one he'd grown used to, and hell of a lot more bare. There was a bench along one wall with a high up window above it. Lestrade gave him a sympathetic look and pushed him inside. "Your day just gets better and better, huh. "

John shrugged. He'd had worse.

***

The sound of footsteps stomping down the hallway woke him up from his dozing. He heard DS Donovan first, and she was a lot terser than she'd been with John.

"I shall be fine," retorted Sherlock, his voice travelling better. They were approaching his cell. John sat up straight, feeling much a puppy at a pet store when a customer comes in. Sherlock!

"Okay! On your own head be it!" There was the jangling of keys and the door swung open, revealing an irritated Donovan and a quietly seething Sherlock. He turned to John.

"Sally seems to think that you'll murder me as soon as I step in this cell. Are you going to murder me?"

"Well, I wasn't planning on it," John said quietly.

Sherlock smiled widely at Donovan, who scowled and shoved him inside, locking the door behind them. "Bang on the door when you want to get out!" she yelled, and they both heard her footsteps tap away. John looked at Sherlock, who seemed ridiculously out of place in such a drab little cell. He held a folder under his arm, and stared over John with absent fondness.

"Hello."

John gazed wordlessly up at him, his groomed hair and expensive clothes. He didn't move. Sherlock's look turned curious.

"What's the matter?"

John tilted his head. "Can't you deduce it?" He'd been hoping to get a reaction, but Sherlock remained perfectly calm. "You left me there," John continued, and his throat rasped as he forced his words out. "They told me you'd moved to another prison, and I never heard from you again. It was like you dropped off the face of the planet! There were nights when I thought I'd dreamt the whole damn thing."

Sherlock inhaled sharply, the corners of his mouth pulling downwards. He turned away, and for a moment John thought he was going to march over and bang on the door to get out, but it seemed he was merely examining the wall of the cell.

John took a shaky breath. "You dragged me into that whole mess with Moriarty that got me beaten black and blue. I'm still fucking bruised, you know. You told me you cared about me, and then you acted like I was something you could just pick up and drop whenever you pleased, whenever it suited you." Sherlock remained unnervingly still. "For god's sake," John blurted out. "At least look at me when I'm talking to you!"

When Sherlock twisted around, the harsh light angled his features into something haunting. John swallowed, but didn't look away.

"I care about you, Sherlock. I went through hell for you. And you don't give a damn -"

He realised belatedly that he was shaking, full body tremors from the effort of willing himself calm. His voice broke and he let himself slump, drawing his knees up to his chest and terrified that he was going to burst into tears. Not here, he pleaded with himself. Not now.

Sherlock was beside him in seconds, pulling John's head to his chest and rubbing over his back with heated strokes. John clutched at his shoulders and pressed his cheek against the scratchy woollen scarf, his face screwed up as if in agony. Sherlock murmured a stream of apologies in his ear, and held him tighter.

"That is untrue," he muttered fiercely, after John's paroxysm subsided. "I care about you more than I can say."

And John pushed back, furious. "It's not just that!" he exclaimed. "You can promise me over and over that I mean something to you, but until that starts influencing your actions they're just words." Sherlock frowned, and tried to pull John back to his chest. John resisted. "And now I find out that you've been looking over the reasons for my arrest behind my back? Christ, Sherlock, I'm not one of your damn cases!"

"Yes you are," Sherlock argued. "Did you really think I was going to leave you in there?"

"I didn't know what to think. I never do with you." John pulled away completely from his grip, and folded his arms over his chest. "Anyway, prison is where I'm meant to be."

Sherlock grew cold and furious, much the same way he did when John first told him about the murder. "You must stop this ridiculous self-sacrificing streak of yours," he spat. "I've had enough of it."

The vehemence in his voice made John flinch back. "I killed someone," he replied. "So I go to jail. It's not self-sacrifice, it's punishment."

Sherlock looked like he wanted to strangle him. "You weren't yourself when you killed that man!"

"I hadn't magically transformed into a different person," John insisted. But Sherlock scoffed at him.

"As I proved to my satisfaction many times over, you were suffering from PTSD brought on by whatever horrors you saw in Afghanistan." He thrust a finger in John's direction, smirking as he startled. "And thus reacted violently when provoked. With these conditions exacerbated by alcohol and fear, I am unsurprised by the turn of events."

It was such a dry way of putting what happened. John pulled his knees up to his chest and fought the urge to hide his face from Sherlock. "Someone like me shouldn't be allowed to walk free," he murmured.

"Why ever not?" Sherlock seemed surprised. "You are a good man, John. Rash and over-emotional, yes, but good. Besides, you've killed before."

"Yes, in a war, with people who knew what they were signing up for, and it's not like I slept easy over that either." John countered.

Sherlock was unimpressed. "You hardly going to pay reparations by rotting away in jail."

Reparations? John looked up from his feet. He licked his lips, confused. "What would you suggest I do?"

God, but Sherlock had a stare like an x-ray machine. His lips were tense, unreadable. "Take your compensation for being wrongly imprisoned and give it to the family of the man you killed," he said smoothly. "Then and come to live with me. I need an assistant, and you have already proven yourself remarkable. You can help me make this world a little bit safer." He tapped compulsively at his folder, seeing that John was unconvinced, then abruptly dropped it onto his lap. "Try this for a bit of bedtime reading."

John flicked through the classified documents of specialised crime as Sherlock narrated, feeling a burst of nausea at the occasional violent photograph.

"Take, for example, James Moriarty. The spider at the centre of a web of crime that stretches across Europe. I've been on his trail for years, and that spell in prison was my latest attempt to get something on him. DI Dimmock accompanied me as a correctional officer, and I went in under the pretence of being transferred." John stared up at him. Sherlock was looking quite determinedly at the wall in front. "But he grew suspicious of me. That's why I brought you in."

John nodded silently, remembering the confession.

Sherlock waved a hand. "And in the end, as you know, I wouldn't have been able to capture him without you. Don't you see?" He spun around to face John, excited. "You can make a difference, John, rather than wallow in all this useless self-loathing."

"I am not wallowing," John muttered. He snapped the folder shut, but still held it, picking absently at the edges. "If I don't want to work for you," he asked carefully, a little afraid of the answer. "Will I be sent back to prison?"

Sherlock looked taken aback, but he recovered quickly. "You're going free whether you like it or not," he replied. "But the choice of whether or not you want to live with me is entirely up to you, although … I would greatly prefer it."

There was an honesty to Sherlock's voiced feelings that was difficult to ignore, and John smiled, passed the file back over. "I'd like it too."

"Really?" Sherlock sounded surprised, and John nodded.

"But," he started. "About us personally …" He stared at his fingers. "I want us to start afresh. Separate bedrooms. Take it slow."

He heard Sherlock's little inhale of breath "You are unsure of your feelings towards me now that you're out of prison," he said slowly.

"No, no!" John assured him, raising his hands. "I want us to work, Sherlock, I really do. But … I don't think what's happened so far is a good basis for a lasting relationship." He stared nervously at Sherlock, expecting him to be sulking, but on the contrary; Sherlock looked rather pleased. He leant closer to John and was about to speak when there was a bang on the door. It was Lestrade.

"Sherlock, your brother is here!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and sprung to his feet as Lestrade unlocked the door. He peered in at both of them, staring especially at John.

"And is everything to your satisfaction, Lestrade?" Sherlock queried, nodding towards the papers Lestrade clutched in a worried hand. Lestrade looked apologetic.
.
"Yes. I … I had no idea. Anyway." He coughed awkwardly. "It seems like you're free to go, Watson."

Sherlock turned to look at him as he tugged on his gloves, treating John to his I'm-so-clever smirk. John supposed he should be feeling ecstatic but in reality he felt lost, a poor swimmer that had been washed out to sea. He stared helplessly at the ground, a million thoughts spinning through his head and all of them useless and inconsequential. His grip on the bench was white-knuckled.

"John."

John stared upwards to see Sherlock in front of him, his hand held out. The meaning was clear, the order simple. John felt a sudden rush of gratitude for him and took it, curling their fingers loosely together, and Sherlock stroked a warm leather thumb over his own. His touch was like an anchor.

"Let's get you home."

***

John woke up alone, swathed in clean white sheets, his head resting on feather-down pillows.

He sat up, slowly, and took in the airy room with its large windows peering out over Baker Street, his little wardrobe and dresser with a mirror over the top, the light curtains that brushed the floor. The pain that had plagued him for so much of his recent life had finally faded, leaving him lighter, with no constant  jarring at every movement. Instead he was laden down with the pleasant ache of an enjoyably used body, the morning after sex.
 
The carpet was soft underfoot as John padded barefoot out of the room. He'd pulled on a dressing gown that was still a little stiff next to his skin, but he was far too content to care and made his way down the stairwell into the front hallway with easy movements. A room branched off to the right, and he could hear the telly from where he was standing, the report of a high profile arrest. The familiar names jolted John out of his happy restfulness, and he followed the sound into the living room.

Stretched out over his grey-green armchair with ankles crossed and eyes fixed on the morning news, was Sherlock Holmes. He turned his head to take in John, dark hair falling over his forehead, and smiled briefly. "Morning."

"Morning," returned John, carefully lowering himself into his own armchair.

They'd been living together for nearly a month now, and had settled into an odd domesticity as John adjusted to his new life and Sherlock acted with carefully courtesy around him. He'd only snapped last night after the adrenaline pumped conclusion to a case, crowding John into the wall with a needy, anxious kiss that ended up in John's bedroom, bottled up desire spilling out in quick, jerking, movements as they divested each other of every last scrap of clothing. They'd both forgotten how desperately they used to need this.

Sherlock hadn't taken his eyes off of John since he'd appeared from upstairs, mentally cataloguing his changes as he did most mornings. John's recovery appeared to be something of interest. Then he nodded towards the TV, which was currently showing two very familiar faces under the reporters serious expression. "Moriarty and Moran got several life sentences, with no possibility of parole."
 
John frowned. "Good."

"They are, fittingly enough, being sent to the very same prison we've just come out of."

"Oh really?" It was actually sort of funny, if John was the type to laugh at those sorts of jokes. He raised his eyebrows, and Sherlock smirked at him over steepled fingers.

"Mm. Sometimes things just play out so aptly, that one wonders if the whole thing was planned."

"I know the feeling," John said, reaching for the newspaper. Sherlock was on his feet in an instant, gripping his wrist to stop him. "Good god!" John exclaimed. "You move way too fast."

"Let's not waste any more time on the news this morning," Sherlock said, eyes wild.

John blinked up at him. "Okay …" he said hesitantly. It was clear that Sherlock had something to say.

"You wanted us to go slow, and yet yesterday we went from polite friendship to fucking in your bedroom in about five minutes." Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and his grip on John's wrist tightened. "What was that about?

"Sometimes," John said slowly. "I don't know what I want."

"Not until I show you?"

"There are other methods of revelation," John said drily. "Anyway, what does it matter? We both wanted it. I enjoyed myself, even if I don't want to do much running today. So we're in a relationship."

Sherlock abruptly dropped him and swept over to the radio. He put on a CD, and a slow, languid tune trickled out of the speakers, a tinkle of piano and low brass. John watched him in increasing confusion as he rushed about the living room, shutting doors and curtains, until the place was dim, closed off. Secluded.

"What are you doing?" John asked, as Sherlock dragged him to his feet.

"Putting things right," Sherlock replied. He placed on of John's hands to his shoulder and covered the other with his own, before pulling John towards with an arm around his waist. John nervously thumbed the material at Sherlock's shoulder.

"In what way?"

Sherlock levelled a benevolent smile at him, and leant in. "As much as I enjoy having you, John, I'd been looking forward to seducing you," he murmured, his lips ghosting over John's ear.  "Looks like we both ruined that game for ourselves."

They were dancing, pressed close by the lamplight, the music soothing over them and removing the need for speaking. In the shrouded atmosphere Sherlock had created, John felt like it was evening, an hour or so before bed, swaying like a married couple to an old melody.

"Consider me seduced," John whispered back, arching his neck up to wordlessly request a kiss. But Sherlock just smirked at him, the hand at John's waist moving to tug on a knot, and John's dressing gown fell open. His hand slipped inside the fabric, skin warm over John's.

"Do you trust me?" he asked, and under his fingers, John could feel the tension in his shoulder.

He slipped to his knees in reply, still clutching one of Sherlock's hands in silent connection.