Rumpelstiltzkin

ONE

He was almost right, which was a rarity for him. He was always – no – almost always right. You'd think he'd recognise the substance which had caused the scratches. After all he was no stranger to it.

'The names Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.' He knew that, but played along like a good little soldier and glanced at Mike with an expression of consternation and disbelief.

'Yes, he's always like that.' But he knew that too.

He silently let himself into the flat, he had intended to surprise her, but as soon as he eased open the door he could sense that something was wrong. Soldier's instincts. Always right. He could see her reflected in the hall mirror, she was slumped in a chair, her hands tied behind her back. But it wasn't her he was looking at any more, his eyes bored into the back of the figure looming over her, sizing him up, assessing his weak spots. It took him less than ten seconds to form his plan of attack, less than five to execute it, and less than two for him to be completely overpowered.

He had to have known he was coming, and he couldn't have seen him, he knew her flat like the back of his hand and there were no reflective surfaces in her living room to give him away. He had to have been warned. These weren't the usual kind of people she dealt with. Somehow she had got herself involved with something much, much worse.

It wasn't until he was tied up next to her that he got a good look at the bloke, he was tall, taller than he had first thought. His face was chiselled and, well, beautiful really. In different circumstances he was sure he would have admired him, in different circumstances, and if it wasn't for those eyes. It was looking into those eyes that he felt a thrill of fear for the first time. Because he wasn't looking into the eyes of a man, no, he was staring into the eyes of an animal. An untameable beast, who looked ravenous for what was to come.

You'd think the one woman to beat Sherlock Holmes would be her. The woman. But you'd be wrong. She was a small, tired girl – hardly a woman at all, and their paths never crossed directly. But she still forced him to confront himself in a way he rarely had to, and didn't like. And maybe that's why it all meant so much in the end.

He prowled around them both, a snarling smile on his face, clearly enjoying his predatory position. He made a sudden move towards her, and she trembled, John struggled, he couldn't let this happen.

'Now, darling,' the man spoke in a gravelly Killarney lilt, and delicately picked up one of her small, trembling hands, 'You owe us don't you? What shall we take? One of your pretty little hands? Or…' he slid his hand down to her thigh, 'Something else?' She shuddered and the man grinned at John, who was now struggling wildly at his bonds.

'Now, I know I'm not your usual type,' he chuckled humourlessly, 'But I'm sure you'll be accommodating.' His hand travelled roughly to the apex of her thigh and a fat tear slid down her face as she closed her eyes.

'No!' John gagged out, once he realised there was no way of escaping from the intricate knots the man had tied, 'Stop!'

'Oh, what do we have here? Has the little lion man found his voice?' he taunted, leering over him with that terrible grin.

'Just stop, stop it,' he said quietly, looking at the ground, 'I'll take it. Transfer it, I'll take her debt.'

'John, no!' Her eyes snapped open and she stared at him wildly. But the man beast laughed deeply, drowning her out.

'Good, very good, this is very good,' he whispered as the opening refrain of a Michael Jackson song erupted from his pocket. He looked down at it with a sick grin on his face and sauntered out of the room.

'John, please don't do this for me.'

'I think it's too late.'

'I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry.'

And with that the predatory man was back in the room, smiling at him in the most disturbing way, untying him with uncomfortable brushes of his skin. Chatting to him in a way that could have been, should have been normal if it wasn't for those damn circumstances again. His friendly chatter made his skin crawl as he placed a gentle hand on the small of his back and steered him from the room. He took one last look at her, crumpled and crying, and knew that he had had to do this. Because, really, what kind of soldier, what kind of man, couldn't protect his own sister.

They met at the flat he had seen the inside of, hundreds, no thousands of times, yet he still managed to pretend it was the first. With an ease that surprised him, actually. Sherlock acted exactly as was to be expected, a fact that he was sure would have caused him great consternation. Within the hour he and the 'consulting detective' were sat in the back of a taxi on their way to the scene of a murder.

'So, how did you know?' John asked, knowing that to give Sherlock the chance to showcase his great mind would speed up the 'bonding' process.

'Know what?' Sherlock asked, although John was sure that he already knew.

'All about me. When we first met, at the hospital.'

And so Sherlock explained how he had deduced John's entire military career from his haircut, sun tan and posture. How he had known about his sister and her problems from the phone he had carried.

But this is where he was wrong, this is where he had been beaten, where his brilliant mind had sheltered itself from itself. Because of course the scratches on the phone's surface came from an addict, but of course it wasn't alcohol she was hooked on. It was drugs. Cold, hard, unforgiving drugs. Specifically cocaine. Well, usually. And if Sherlock had looked at his phone he would have seen nearly identical scratches. Which of course he had.

John praised him anyway, told him he was amazing. But he wasn't lying this time… wasn't trying to sweeten him up, for nearly the first time. He couldn't deny the thrill that it gave him to observe his undeniably astounding mind. Ironic that.

'People don't usually say that.'

'What do they usually say?'

'Piss off.' John couldn't help but chuckle at this, and to his surprise neither could Sherlock. It was the first time he had seen him laugh.

He moved in that night, saved Sherlock's life the night after that. Turns out there are certain things that once shared, create an irrevocable bond. Saving each other's lives is one of these things.

The man beast had escorted him to a car, that under any other circumstances, he would have admired for hours, but those damn circumstances seemed to be spoiling everything. He did however feel a perverse thrill as the engine purred into life beneath them, sending expensive vibrations tingling up his legs.

'The names Moran. Sebastian Moran.' The man beast, who turned out to be Sebastian, told him. The information surprised him, it could mean one of two things. He was about to kill him, therefore it did not matter if John knew his name. Or, well, actually he couldn't think of another eventuality, so he'd better saddle up.

They arrived at an anonymous warehouse in an anonymous industrial estate in an anonymous suburb of London. John had tried to memorise the route they had taken, but had found it impossible. Even once Sebastian had shut up. Which John wasn't sure whether he preferred to the disturbing chatter, the silence seemed more sinister. Although Mr. Moran seemed like a man who liked to play with his food, so perhaps like the enigmatic divulgence of his name it could be taken as a good sign?

However, as they were let into the warehouse by two massive men clad in black, he sensed that Sebastian was not top dog in this operation. And if Sebastian Moran, the man beast, was only muscle, who on earth was he about to meet?

Sherlock and John became Sherlock and John, you didn't get one without the other, it was like Morecambe and Wise or Ant and Dec. But, you know, a sociopathic detective and his army doctor instead of comedians. They could read each other with a glance, coexist when no one else would. John became used to Sherlock's habits, became endeared by them, became endeared by him. They became each others crutches, one day John woke up and realised that he needed Sherlock. Probably couldn't live without him, and he couldn't really pinpoint when that had happened. It was all rather sudden really, and unexpected. And rather fucking inconvenient.

'So, Johnny boy,' he breathed, 'What's it to be?'

John stared at the man's hands, they were constantly moving, smoothing an eyebrow, adjusting a button, twirling his fingers. John was looking anywhere but in his eyes really, because he had thought Sebastian's eyes were bad. Terrible. But they were nothing, nothing, compared to the dark abyss' in this small man's face. He'd looked into them and seen nothing, not an animalistic hunger, not anything. It was like looking into the face of a corpse, which he had done plenty of times without even flinching, but now it terrified him. Literally terrified him.

'I SAID WHAT'S IT TO BE!?' he screamed slamming his hands on the table between them. John's heart leapt in his chest, and his eyes snapped to the dead mans, and he knew he had to do it. Because if he didn't he'd be dead. Within seconds. This man would kill him without hesitation, he didn't have a trace of humanity.

'I'll do it,' he said quietly, hating himself.

'Good, that's very good,' the man's voice took on the sing song quality it had had at the beginning of the meeting. When he had explained to John what he wanted from him. He didn't want money. He didn't want sex. He didn't want him to do hits. He didn't even want his life. He didn't want to take it away, anyway. He wanted him to infiltrate another man's life, find out everything about him and feed it all back to this man. He was to make him depend on him, need him, make him addicted and then upon this man's instructions leave. Leave him high and dry.

And so John was briefed on his task, told about this man, Sherlock Holmes. Told what he would need to do to prepare further. Told to write a blog to report back to him. Throughout the instructions John nodded numbly, and got up on shaking legs when he was finally told to leave, helplessly relieved to get away from those dead eyes. But reluctant to be alone with his mutinous thoughts.

'The names Moriarty by the way,' the dead man said, when John reached the door 'Watch out for the name.'

So, it turns out there is no such thing as coincidence. Especially not a happy one. It was all orchestrated by him, he had them all strung up and liked to watch them dance. They did exactly what he expected. Exactly the way he suspected. Of course they did. They were so fucking ordinary.