On June 18th, 2010, Captain John H. Watson was captured by four members of the Taliban whilst on a night raid on a terrorist-inhabited building on the outskirts of Kabul. He was held captive in a base two miles away from where he was originally kidnapped and stayed at the location for 3 days before breaking loose. He murdered the four Taliban goons who had shanghaied him in the cold-blood, taken their guns and extra ammunition, and began his day-long trek back to his platoon's base; where he murdered the rest of his team – four of them, mind you - because (quote) "They didn't protect me, so they won't protect each other any longer". When forces arrived at noon the next day, they found the sight of the Captain attempting to set the base camp alight by piling their stockpile of grenades and unloading the I.E.D.'s from the Humvee and dousing it in petrol. Forces took hold of him – by force – and shipped him off to home (London, England) where he was tried in court for homicide (specifically androcide), and sentenced to minimum 50 years in prison. He was then sent to the HM Prison of Wakefield, where he had now spent a miserable 2 years climbing up the 'corporate ladder' of said institute.

You could ask John if he regret what he did, and he'd glare at you, shrug, and go back to stuffing his canteen potatoes in his mouth. Inside, deep down in what the 'average' people had dubbed his 'murderous brain', he did regret it. He'd slaughtered his friends – no – his brothers, in the cold blood. His hands had been stained a dark crimson because shooting them was far too loud, stabbing them in the throat was far more effective; plus, he adored his knife.

There was Jason, they called him Jackoff, because he was a real klutz, the classic 'comic relief' guy. No matter how dismal your week had been, there'd be the five minutes where everyone had been pissing themselves because Jackoff had cracked out one of his smart-arse jokes when they were lounging about at the base.

Paul, was the platoon's medic (John had originally been enlisted for that position, but soon swapped over after a long and tiresome chat with the head of the division). Big heart, he had. Always the legs, you could tell it was him because you'd see him running with his funny little bow-legs; the face of pure terror was also a dead give-away. He fixed everyone, anything. A few bandages, three stitches, and a needle full of a local anesthetic could make you shiny and new; although that didn't work when he choked on his own blood from a stab in the jugular.

Liam, oh what a precious jewel he'd been. John had always wondered why the hell he'd ever wanted to go into the army. He had a family, pretty wife name Ingrid and two little girls – Kimberly and Rebecca. He always had a picture of them in his left breast pocket of his uniform, right over his heart. Liam had always said that he'd want his death – if he had one out there – to be quick, and painless. So, being a supportive friend, John tried his best with that one. He saved him for last, and shot him straight through the head.

Harrison liked guns. He liked them a lot. Gun under the pillow when he slept, hand wrapped tight around it like his life depended on it. The man could shoot his way out of anything, and the crew called him Hawkeye because damn, that hulk of a human being could blast your head off before you bet him he couldn't. Clearly he didn't see his untimely death coming, either, and it was rather sticky with his blood spurting profusely.

There had been something dark and primal that had awoken in him when he'd been held captive in that dingy room. His friends had abandoned him; they'd fled and saved their lives before his. Why didn't they save him? All they needed to do was take out those nasty Taliban fuckers and get his sorry arse out of the semi-demolished kitchen before that damned van pulled up. It made him sick to his stomach to fathom the thought of abandonment in that wasteland, and knowing while he'd be alone and dying, his friends would be chortling along with Jackoff. Healthy, happy, and carefree.

There were rumours floating about the prison of some new inmate who'd been transferred. Big Ben said his name was Sherlock Holmes. Only here for a week, but John hadn't seen the elusive young man.

It was Sherlock's first week in prison, committed for a murder he was too drugged to remember. By now he was aware that dropping the soap was a very bad thing. Even though he'd only been there for seven days he was already being passed around like party favours. The prison slut, as the men called him when they'd had their way. Each man was worse than the man before him. Twice he'd been dragged away from his lunch and taken to the one loo with a broken camera and taken before he could scramble away. None of it was consensual, heavens no. It was rough and dirty, and no one would call him by his actual name. He'd heard a Susan, Yvette and Andrew (that man was obviously gay, he'd deduced, although there was the thought that maybe that was the former 'prison slut'). No matter who took him, they always muttered something about John Watson. Sherlock had heard about him, heard the whispers of his dominance and the power he held in this prison. He was highly respected by the other inmates for his 'creative mind' and if they were too stupid to realize his brilliance, they respected him for his fighting ability. To be honest, the 21 year old was excited to finally meet and bonk heads with this mythical man because maybe, if he was lucky, the first thing he wouldn't do to him was stuff his cock in his mouth.

It was the eighth day of his incarceration, and Sherlock had been at his usual table in the far corner, alone and at rest, eating his 'gruel', when a sandy-blonde haired man slid into the seat opposite Sherlock, plonking his tray down along with his bottom. Sherlock flicked his gaze upward, eyes scanning the man. Immediately, he knew exactly who he was. John Watson, it was him. Needless to say, the man that sat in front of him was not whom he'd been expecting. He looked… well, average; yet everyone cowered in fear. Was this seriously their makeshift ruler?

"You must be Sherlock," he greeted, picking up his black plastic fork and stabbing it into his peas. "I trust that you've been acquainted with my name?" John cocked a knowing brow at him.

"Mhm," Sherlock nodded, chewing disdainfully.

"Had a nice first week?"

Sherlock swallowed, letting out a soft chuckle, his eyes focussing on his tray. "Obviously not. It feels like it's been a century, and I've been raped far too many times for it to be 'nice'," he sucked in a deep breath, twiddling the fork between his fingers. "Please tell me you aren't coming over here to ask if I want a shag because I most certainly do not." With that John snorted, shovelling a forkful of potatoes into his mouth. He'd learnt to enjoy the potatoes, and if you asked politely, the man at the canteen would but just a tiny dollop of extra butter on them. Potatoes weren't exactly his favoured choice, but you were eating what you were given, or you went without.

"Mmph, 'hag? Nuh-uh," John gulped down the potatoes hungrily, "No, not just a shag. My mates – if you'd like to call them that – have said nothing but praise about you. Not only have they commented on how pretty your mouth looks," he laughed, "but a few have told me about that brain of yours." John raised pointed to Sherlock's forehead, his index finger rotating in small circles.

"I've the IQ of Einstein."

"I'll be the judge of that. I'm hoping that you'll accept my offer of companionship."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. Companionship? What did he think this was, some sort of stupid reality TV show that adolescents watched because it was 'thrilling'? There were no companionships in prison, there were cliques; if you weren't in the right one, you were mince-meat sooner or later. He didn't fancy having himself served as the special on Saturday evenings before the guards hauled out the TV and the men fought for a good seat when football came on. With a soft sigh, Sherlock locked eyes with the murderer and said, "Do extrapolate."