John pushed through the big double gates of Whiterun. It was one of the places in Skyrim where it didn't snow (thank Talos for that), and it wasn't too crowded, which was good news for a newbie thief. A few years back, John never would have thought that he would become a burglar, but these were hard times, and it was when a man would do anything to stay alive. The war was raging, and to make matters even worse, the dragons had returned. Big, brutal, scaly, element-breathing, violent dangerous, immensely strong dragons, which were attacking villages at random, destroying homes and taking lives. That was why John was a thief, and no longer a man of honour. Honour did not matter anymore; fighting did.
John slithered along the outer wall of the city, hiding from view. His plan was to break into a few houses, get some gold, and get out; and to be quick with it. He halted and observed. An old woman was leaving her house. She locked the door behind her, probably knowing that people were getting desperate in those hard times. John walked closer to the house, trying to look casual, before he pulled out a lock pick. Checking again for guards, he inserted it into the keyhole and fiddled around until he heard the click. He slipped inside, and went straight for the bedside table. He ripped open the top drawer and shuffled the contents around, looking for his gold.
"Stop right there, criminal scum!"
John whirled around and saw a Whiterun guard standing at the door, his sword at the ready. John raised his hands.
"Please, I'm not armed, don't kill me! I just need money!"
The guard marched forwards and grabbed john's shirt pulling him close.
"I should run you through right here, but the Jarl believes in giving people a second chance. Just. One."
He was taken to the dungeon and thrown in a cell. The dungeon smelt terrible, and the floor was hard and cold. There was a wooden bed frame with a sack thrown over the top in the corner, and a grate on the floor leading to the sewers beneath. John sat frozen in the place where he'd been thrown down, before he looked up at the sound of movement. He looked through the bars into the cell next to him. A figure glided out of the shadows. The man was tall and thin, with dark curly hair and high cheek bones – definitely an elf. He looked intrigued at the sight of the short Nord man in front of him.
"What do you do to get thrown in here?" he asked in a smooth deep voice.
"I broke into a house." John admitted, ashamed.
"In broad daylight? Are you thick?" the elf asked.
"It would seem so." John replied, a bit annoyed at the other prisoner's attitude. "So how about you then? You been here long?"
"A while. They don't treat me too well, considering I help them an awful deal."
"What do you mean?"
"Those guards have no idea how to fight off dragons. They have to beg their prisoner for help."
"Who are you?" John asked, wondering if this man had been locked up for being insane.
"I'm Sherlock. Pleased to make your acquaintance…"
"John."
"Well John, pleased to meet a fresh face. Literally, it's not half as dirty as the others I've seen."
"So Sherlock, what's it like in here then?" John asked, eyeing the dark dungeon.
"Dull. It gets ever so boring. That's when I annoy the guards; it's fun. Don't you try it though; they'd probably kill you on the spot. They don't need you."
"And they need you?"
"Yes actually. I told you, to fight off the dragons."
"I'm sorry, but I find it hard to believe a man in a cell can help slay dragons when the Whiterun guards can't."
"Don't discriminate against cell people; you're one now."
John dropped his gaze. That was true. He was now just like the other criminals.
"You two, quit your lollygaggin'!"
The rest of the day went by silently before John tried to get comfortable in the sorry excuse for a bed. He didn't think he was going to get much sleep that night. He tossed and turned when he heard the dungeon door creak open. He laid still and shut his eyes. He heard the footsteps come closer.
"Dragonborn," the guard's voice said.
"What?" John heard Sherlock voice mutter.
"There's an attack on Rorikstead. Come and sort it out."
John heard a shuffle and another pair of feet hit the floor. A cell door was slid open and two pairs of footsteps moved away before the dungeon door shut again. John sat up and looked into Sherlock's cell.
He was gone.
