"Oh ho, this is nice, this is very nice," Jim remarked looking around his new living quarters, "Off you pop," he told the guard who left promptly, locking the door behind him.

Jim was thrilled with the new facility. He had his own toilet with a detached sink, a telly, a book shelf, an extra chair for when company came over...

This is lovely, just lovely. Is that a down comforter?

He fluffed the square pillow and fell on to his mattress that was on a real bed frame.

"Oh, this is nice," he said once more.

There was no dress code; he could lounge around in his sweats all day if he wanted to. He had a great view of the yard from his window. But most of all he loved the fact that he was isolated from the general population.

Jim reached up and placed his hands behind his head. He closed his eyes and let out a content sigh. He couldn't help but smile to himself.

"This is perfect," he said with a purr.

Belmarsh was absolutely gorgeous to Jim. It was a newer build with all the amenities of home and plenty of breathing room.

Most of the men called it 'Hellmarsh'. It was the last place on Earth they wanted to be sent. Bang-up was twenty-two hours a day and rarely were they ever let outside. It was heaven for Jim. It was far easier to get work done on the inside.

Most of his friends that he met in the cells of Old Bailey had been dispersed. None of them followed him to Brixton. They'd all moved on to bigger and better things while he remained stagnant.

Brixton was overcrowded and Jim hated sharing his oxygen with other inmates, so in the middle of the night, he repeatedly strangled one of his cell mates until the guards were forced to move him to another cell.

He'd been playing the prison game for two years and frankly he was bored with it. He tried sending Sherlock some letters but he never responded. So he started writing them to the elder Holmes instead.

He knew the letters were being intercepted somewhere along the line and he knew big brother loved his Sherly so dearly. Of course Mycroft never replied either but he knew he'd made a dent in him the moment he was transferred to Belmarsh.

His letters were never threatening, quite the contrary, he spilled his soul into those letters, pronouncing his undying love for Sherlock, detailing all the things he wanted to do to him when he got out.

He only had twelve years left on his sentence. Once they would decide he was clinically insane he'd only have another five. It was manageable but not ideal.

He wanted Sherlock so desperately. His name was always on his lips as he touched himself. Surprisingly his cellmates left him alone at Brixton, even after he came out. Apparently there was an old saying that seemed to float around, "Never stick your dick in crazy." Diseased ass-pussy was one thing, you can cure a disease; you can't cure crazy.

There was a fine line between sociopath and psychopath and Jim liked to keep himself on the border, but sometimes it was just so hard. He didn't like getting his hands dirty but it hurt watching the other men playing pool. He just wanted to crack a pool cue over their heads or smash their fingers with one of the pool balls.

"They won't provide mirrors in fear I'll shank people with a broken piece of glass, yet they'll give me a pool cue and expect me not to hit anyone with it," he confided in his therapist, "It's just not fair."

Jim looked up at his therapist and noted her grotesque weight problem, her flabby belly, varicose veins, greasy grey hair, shoulder length bob, the wart on her chin... chins. He cringed on the inside.

"You're very pretty," he said before he could stop himself.

Ooh, she does not like flattery.

Jim smiled brightly.

"I can't help it," he said out loud with a laugh. He bit his bottom lip and nodded before he shook his head side to side, "You must think I'm crazy."

The therapist, JoAnn it must have been, tapped her pen on her pad of paper. Jim's face kept contorting into a smile. He had her, he had her good. She had her lips pressed into a thin line.

I have you. I have you.

Jim kept repeating the mantra in his head and smiling.

Tone it down, no padded cell, just get us out of here. This can't be going any better. Come on JoAnn, you can do it old girl.

She wrote a check mark on her list and Jim near let out a scream.

Psychopath! I'm a psychopath! Yes, baby, check that list, God, give it to me JoAnn, you fat bitch. GIVE IT TO ME!

Jim recognized the Hare Psychopathy Checklist that she was so desperately trying to conceal from him.

Where will they send me? Somewhere nice I hope. Nothing with "Asylum" in the title. Wouldn't want anyone thinking I've gone mad.

He told JoAnn his made up sob story about his parents beating him, locking him in a cupboard, feeding him dog food. It was the same story he told his teacher and the police all those years ago. They couldn't find a mark on the boy and were baffled at how detailed his story was and how consistent it was.

The only thing little James couldn't do as a child, was cry.

He tried his hardest to cry. He'd gag himself, throw a pillow over his head, beat himself mercilessly, but he couldn't cry. That would make him so angry he'd shout and throw things.

He felt remorse, he really did. When he broke his recorder he felt terrible. His chest felt tight and he almost had tears in his eyes as he held half the instrument in his hand.

He clenched it tight and whined and growled at it but no tears would come.

"Why don't they believe me?" he shouted at the broken toy flute. He'd spent five pounds on it, his own money. He was so distraught that he'd broken it in one of his tantrums.

"God damn it," he said, discarding it on the floor. They were late for church and he couldn't remember why he'd thrown the fit in the first place. It was likely something his mam had said.

He retreated down the stairs and informed his parents he was ready to go. He had been an only child for eight years and his mam and da were threatening to bring another child into the equation.

He was their 'miracle' and they were trying In Vitro fertilisation to have a second. Jim was sickened by the news.

He'd done his research and he knew the odds of them having multiples. His parents being devote Catholics would have to keep the litter.

And how they wanted a little brother or sister for little James. They spent loads of money trying to get pregnant and there was little Jim could do to sabotage them, save make up stories about their abuse.

He'd tell anyone that would listen.

"They make me watch them have sex," he told his teacher, "They say it's what God wants."

It wasn't a complete lie. He'd walked in on his parents having sex before. He was mortified. They tried sitting him down and talking to him about it but he didn't want to hear it. That night he set fire to a patch of grass in the garden. He didn't expect it to catch so quickly, but it hardly spread, and he was highly disappointed when it extinguished itself.

He let out a heavy sigh and placed his hands on the ground to stand up. He stopped a moment when he felt an intense pain in the palm of his right hand.

He turned it over and noticed it was bright red and stinging. The pain was excruciating and felt never ending.

Even as his mam held his hand under ice cold running water he continued to scream in pain. He was inconsolable.

His hand began to blister and his mam finally took him into the A&E.

"My da did it, my da did it," he repeated to the doctor who applied silver nitrate to his burns, "He held my hand on the burner, you've got to believe me, nobody believes me," he contorted his face into a cry and sobbed as he covered his face, concealing his eyes so the doctor couldn't see that he wasn't producing any tears.

Jim held his breath, hoping his eyes would water. He was so worked up that he managed to knock himself out.

The police were called; he spoke with a social worker, and was released to his concerned parents.

"What did you say to them?" Jim shouted in the car. He kicked the back of his da's seat and screamed at the top of his lungs.

"James! Quit!" his mam shouted.

"I hate you!" he said in his best demonic voice. The words resonated in his chest and he continued to growl at his parents.

They took him to church, he was doused in holy water, and they prayed for him.

After the little 'incident' with the fire he started seeing doctors who gave him loads of happy pills.

"Sweety! The doctors said not to chew it!" his mother tried prying the pill from Jim's mouth but he continued to break through the enteric coating, into the double dose of antipsychotics.

They stopped giving him extended release tablets and he couldn't be any more grateful. It meant more pills throughout the day which meant more room for error. He took them from the moment he woke up, before each and every meal, and at bedtime before prayers. He liked it a lot. He was just so happy all the time.

He liked to sneak more. He started wetting the bed and they gave him antidepressants on top of it all. Sometimes he'd come up with his own tics, barking, twitching, hopping, just so they'd try something new.

He loved to chew capsules, they were his favourite. They turned to jelly in his mouth and they'd spewed their contents on to his tongue. He'd let his tongue hang out and would watch the little granules dissolve on his tongue. He had to keep from laughing as he watched himself in the mirror.

He hated chewable tablets though, unless they were effervescent and made him foam at the mouth like a mad dog. His mam would get so frightened when he'd try swallow the carbonated tablets whole. She really needed to stop turning her back to Jim. He was all sorts of trouble.

He found the more he rolled around on the carpet and drooled, the more his parents loved him, and the less time they had for making babies.

Then he hit puberty and started to change.

He didn't like it at first, the hair, the pimples, his changing voice, but erections were fun. He'd always had them but never cared for them. Now they'd spring out of nowhere and were loads of fun.

Of course the side effects of many of the medications made him constantly horny and he'd spend most of his time rutting against his mattress.

"I need an outlet," he told himself after a particularly long masturbation session. He was becoming desensitized to his left hand and there had to be an easier way to get off.

He tried hanging around bars but nobody would let him in and they were all frightened of the young boy that kept lurking outside.

Women in particular were very picky and refused to give him the time of day. He was fourteen, looking for a shag, they should have been all over him.

"What, am I too good for you?" he asked as two older women completely disregarded him as they left the bar.

"Go home little boy!" they shouted in unison.

"I'd love to snip their Achilles tendons," he snarled. They obviously overheard him and walked a little faster to their parked car.

He debated following them home. He knew they didn't live together and one would have to leave her friend's house eventually. There was a good chance he could take her down with a blow to the back of the knee if she was still wearing those high heels.

He wouldn't take long and by the time someone called the cops he'd be done and long gone.

Instead of bothering with the girls, he decided to go on Holiday in Dublin where he found the gay scene.

It was absolutely perfect for Jim. The men were loose and he was free. He had better luck patrolling hotels, staying close to where they'd be ending up for the night. That way he didn't have to rely on transport.

He found an exceptionally seedy gay motel and lurked around the doorways, waiting for someone to pick him up.

He pretended to be drunk even though he'd never had a drop of liquor in his life. At first he met several men that were interested but no takers. He kept his sob story to a minimum, covered up his age, and tried to appear as normal as possible.

He kept his standards high, borderline unrealistic. He realized he was secretly protecting himself. He started having second doubts.

Just as he was about to pack his bags and head home an unreasonably gorgeous young man, fresh from a long-term relationship, came up to him with a stack of cash.

He was piss drunk and looking for love in all the right places. Jim gladly took his money and escorted him to his room.

The only problem was Jim didn't know what to do with him when they got there. The man insisted he'd never done anything like this before.

"Yeah right," Jim mumbled as he counted his money.

He licked and nipped at Jim's neck and Jim shied away from him. He gave him a look.

"M'not your boyfriend," Jim told him, making sure he knew he wasn't looking for anything serious. The man looked at him sorrowfully and stroked his hair.

Jim rolled his eyes as he stripped off his sweats. Jim folded down the elastic band on his pants and just barely pulled himself out.

"Make me come," he told the man.

Jim was expecting him to touch him or something. He really didn't know. He probably should have listened to that sex talk his parents were willing to give him.

The man leaned over and wrapped his mouth around the head of Jim's cock. Jim made a shocked 'o' face. He'd never thought to stick it in a person's mouth before.

He ran both hands through the man's hair and laid back to enjoy his splendours.

A song came into his head and Jim started humming along, tapping out a beat on to the back of the man's head. He became distanced from the situation for a moment or two, but then it started feeling really good.

"Mm," Jim hummed, licking his lips, "That's right, suck it."

He held the man's head in place and bucked his hips up. It felt even better. He started moaning and thrusting, trying to bring himself there. The man gagged around his dick. Jim smiled to himself, gave it one last thrust, and came down the back of his throat.

Jim was addicted but he quickly found most grown men weren't willing to pay to suck his dick.

This was inexcusable.

"Don't touch me," he growled at one of his clients who was trying to play with his ass.

"You took my money you slut," the man said through clenched teeth.

"I'll tell the police, I'll tell them everything if you don't leave," he threatened.

The man grabbed Jim by the face, squeezing his chin tightly. He spit in Jim's face.

Jim smiled.

He'd never seen a man so frightened. He just loved the effect he had on grown men. He collected his money and left.

It wasn't long before he found cocaine or rather, cocaine found him. Ten kilos worth.

Jim was elated. He'd never done anything illegal before. He was excitedly running his fingers over his lips, shaking in his seat, as this representative of some drug cartel told him about taking a Holiday in Venezuela.

"All expenses paid, all you have to do is take a little something back with you," he explained.

"And customs has been paid off?" Jim asked with a grin. They showed him the bulletproof vest, filled with large packets of cocaine.

They placed it over his shoulders and he remembered how it felt like it weighed a tonne. They stitched up the shoulders and Jim felt astonished at how well it was concealed under his clothes.

"The flight leaves mid-afternoon, right when everyone takes off for lunch," the man said with a crooked smile.

Jim mirrored him and was excited to get things underway.

He waved goodbye to his new found friends and took himself and the ten kilos of high quality Colombian cocaine across security, snacking on a large stick of beef jerky as he walked past a sniffer dog. He smiled and waved at the dog who stepped forward to smell him. His trainer quickly jerked back on his chain and scolded the dog.

Jim just smiled and walked through the airport. He approached the cafeteria and found a small girl waiting at a table.

"Where's your mummy?" he asked.

The girl just gawked at him. She had in front of her two boarding passes. Jim never really fancied going to Venezuela, he thought a nice trip to Holland sounded much better.

"Trade me?" he asked the little girl. He pressed a finger to his lips and swapped his boarding pass for the little girl's mother's.

He walked off, in search of his gate. He found another flight, one gate over, leaving for jolly ol' England. He swapped out the stolen boarding pass with a man who had his back turned and his briefcase wide open.

Once the man approached the gate to board with the stolen boarding pass he was flagged down by security and in all the commotion, Jim was able to add his name to the list on the flight out to Heathrow.

Jim printed off his boarding pass and thanked himself for all the help. He boarded first class and settled in. The flight attendant arrived with a glass of champagne and Jim lounged back in his seat, enjoying his new life.

London was a breath of fresh air for Jim. He was up half a million pounds and could finally afford for men to suck his dick.

He could have retired at age fifteen but he got greedy. He built his web and was living the life of luxury until Mycroft Holmes started sticking his nose in things.

Somehow her majesty was 'threatened' by Jim's little operation, though Jim hardly saw why. Mycroft was always on his case, riding his ass, and it was getting annoying.

Finding Sherlock was a stroke of pure luck.

If only he'd been a good little boy, Sherlock would have been a perfect little pet. Jim could hardly blame Sherlock for his misfortune. DC Gregory Lestrade on the other hand, he was a good target for Jim's anger.

Once Lestrade is out of the way, Sherlock will be all mine.

Jim was interrupted from his thoughts when the guard announced he had a visitor.

"I just got here," Jim scowled.

"He says it's urgent."

"Who the fuck does he think he is? Tell him I'm busy," Jim said, dismissing the guard.

"It's Sherlock Holmes, sir."