Chapter 2

"He's lying." Sherlock concluded, sitting on a chair. He was facing their newest prisoner, whom was chained up to the stone wall. His head hung low, blood oozing from his neck, arms, and thighs. He was barely breathing in result to his windpipe being strangled by his captor.

Jim glared back at their captive. The katana in his hand, still dripping with blood, was raised to his chest. The sword threatened to pierce the sensitive skin.

"Tell me the truth." Jim spat through his teeth, inches away from the prisoner's face. The prisoner was inaudible, mumbling unintelligibly. The caused Jim to press the sword enough to create a small cut. The prisoner screamed, his voice ringing in the ears of anyone nearby. Blood began to drip from the little gash. The prisoner had lost so much blood that he was nearing unconsciousness. "If you can scream that loud, speak that loud!" Jim growled.

But the prisoner's body fell loose, the only things keeping him up were his chained hands. His body sagged, the chains cutting against his skin. Jim sighed in anger and frustration. He threw the katana across the room and it landed with a loud clang. Jim brought his hands to his face, wanting to scratch it off. He brought his hands up to his hair and curled his fingers, pulling at it.

"When will they stop?!" He shouted in frustration. Sherlock stood up, cautiously walking over to his furious lover and wrapped his arms around him, pulling him closely to his chest.

"Not until they find us." Sherlock murmured. Jim instantly relaxed.

"They give up so easily, don't they? The captives?" Jim snorted, looking over his shoulder at the beaten man.

Sherlock pressed his lips together, fighting the urge to disagree with the whole system.

"Perhaps we should hire a nurse or a doctor of a sort." Sherlock suggested carefully.

Jim looked up into the glasz eyes that peered down at him. "What for?"

"To look after all these people." Sherlock explained. "We can't keep killing them off."

"Why not?"

"Because we don't have enough information. We can't keep killing off the only source of information we got."

"We have Sebastian, Sherlock." Jim pointed out, pushing out of Sherlock hold. He folded his arms suspiciously, slightly disappointed in Sherlock's caring humanity; sentiment.

"You're getting soft-hearted." Jim retorted with disgust, walking over to the corner of the room to pick up his katana.

Sherlock bit his lip. "How well is Sebastian doing since he was shot?"

"Damn assassins." Jim muttered under his breath. "Okay, I see your point. I'll see what I can do."

Sherlock sighed in relief. Jim smiled, making his way back to Sherlock whom kissed his forehead before exiting the dungeon. Once Sherlock left, Jim turned around facing the opposing wall of the beaten man.

The opposing wall had a row of assassins they kidnapped, all injected with a drowsy chemical. The chemical was beginning to wear out and a few already noticed where they were and what was happening.

"Who's next?" Jim smirked.


Sherlock sat on his chair, staring outside a window.

The view was marvellous. They were completely isolated in a prairie, overlooking a valley. When the sun rose at the beginning of dawn, the light would illuminate the field, creating shadows when it hit the uneven curves of the ground. Laced patterns of pink, orange, and yellow iridescently painted the sky while little patches of white clouds added a little brightness.

Sherlock looked away, closing his eyes as he entered the comfort of his mind palace. Jim rarely ever interrupted Sherlock when he was in deep thought and rarely, he'd make an appearance. One of those rare moments were happening.

Sherlock, standing in the middle of his mind palace, stared at the apparition of Jim. Jim looked emotionless, blank, and unstable. His beady black eyes were an empty voice of hatred and lust. This wasn't the first time Sherlock has seen Jim like that.


~Mind Palace~

"Get out of my head." Sherlock demanded, his voice echoed with authority.

Jim just stood still in place. He was wearing all black: his t-shirt, his pants, and his shoes. His hair was messy, dishevelled. He looked like a true serial killer. If he had a gun in his hand and an army of his own, he would be deadly. Sherlock saw that plainly in his eyes. He always knew what Jim was like underneath the layer he only allowed Sherlock to see.

"Get out!" Sherlock yelled. His voice boomed loudly, affecting his throat. "Get out of here! I don't want to see you!"

Jim's right arm bent behind his back and slowly came back into view. Except this time, a pistol was in his hand. He raised his arm, the gun pointed directly at Sherlock's face. His finger placed itself on the trigger, his thumb pulling on the hammer before aiming between my eyes.

"You're a monster. A cold-blooded murderer." Sherlock said shakily. "You feel nothing. You never have. You're not human."

What happened next surprised Sherlock. Jim laughed. He laughed coldly, hatred now overpowering the lust in his eyes. He didn't look amused.

"Do it." Sherlock taunted, raising his voice. "Do it! Kill me!"

Without wasting so much as a heartbeat, Jim pulled the trigger. The shot rang through Sherlock's ears as he collapsed onto the floor. For the last second of his life, he saw Jim lower the gun and walk away, leaving him to die in his own mind.

This happened often.


"Sherlock?" A sickly sweet voice called out. "Sherlock, are you okay?"

Sherlock opened his eyes, breathing out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He was met by the worried gaze of his partner, whom reached out to touch his shoulder. Sherlock jerked away, getting up quickly and brushing past Jim. He stopped in front of the window, concentrating at the sun's light. It fiercely shone, and Sherlock's eyes didn't steer away from it. He needed something to keep him distracted.

"It happened again, didn't it?" Jim whispered, his voice small like an innocent child trying to apologize for wrong doings. Sherlock didn't respond. He heard Jim sigh and slowly approach him. He could feel his presence, the feel of his arms snaking around his waist as he forced himself not to cringe at the touch. "You know it isn't real, right?" Sherlock didn't say anything. "Sherlock? Come on, talk to me." Still, Sherlock stayed quiet, unmoving. As the seconds ticked by, he felt the absence of Jim's arms around him and turned around to realize that Jim left him alone. He sighed.

It wasn't the same anymore. At least, not for him. The euphoria he once felt with Jim was gone. He was no longer happy, but tired, annoyed, and lonely. Yes, although Jim was his partner, it only benefited him sexually. Sherlock may describe himself as a sociopath, but he isn't as phlegmatic and oblivious as he leads on.

If Jim ever found out how he truly felt, he wouldn't be able to live. Not because he will lose one of the few people that cared for him, but because Jim simply wouldn't allow it.

Not without a fight.