John stepped into the sun of their courtyard. He stopped and looked around. Sherlock, a buddy he had made in the clink, was gone. He was the one John usually hung out with during their time out in the yard. He wandered to the fence and leaned back against it, closing his eyes to let the sun soak into his skin. He had almost dozed off when he was prodded by a small finger through the fence. He sighed and glanced over his shoulder to see a small blonde woman staring at him.
"Can I help you?"
The woman smiled and glanced around the men's yard for a moment before directing her gaze back to him. "Have you seen Jim? Jim Moriarty? He usually meets me here."
John shook his head. "He's dead. Went crazy during lunch and offed himself with a spoon or something. Sorry, Doll." He heard a thud in the dirt behind him and saw that she had sunk to her knees, staring blankly at the ground through the fence. He crouched down, trying to look her in the eyes. Reaching through the fence, he gently took her hand. "Hey, are you alright?"
She shook her head and looked up at him, tears beginning to well up in the corners of her eyes. "Why would he leave me here? He said we'd get out of here together." She frowned and squeezed his hand.
"I'm sorry. But, I've gotta ask, what's a girl like you doing with someone like Moriarty? He was a crime lord."
"I know. I was his soldier. His sniper. His right hand man." When she felt him tense she clung to his hand a little bit tighter, for fear he would draw it back through the fence. She didn't want him to leave her. He sensed her need and, despite his better judgment, stayed. "Tell me about you?" And so he did, about his adventures in bank robbery until the whistle was blown and they were sent back to their cells. He promised to come see her the next day, marking the spot in the dirt as she watched with a smile.
She was on his mind that night as he gazed up at the bunk above him. He wasn't strong enough to win the top bunk from Mycroft, and the man got most of his food too. He assumed it was Mycroft when he heard footsteps, but he soon realized they were too soft to belong to him. He looked over to see a woman's lithe form headed towards his bed. Surely he was imagining it. But the pressure against his side wasn't his imagination, and the gentle kiss on his cheek wasn't his imagination. Sebastia curled closer as he wriggled over to make room for her. "I don't like to sleep alone," was all she whispered before her breath evened out and she drifted off. John wasn't sure how she got in, probably bribed a guard or something, but he wasn't complaining. For a killer, she was pretty sweet. And he was pretty sure she had claimed him.
He was in trouble.