The prospects of John's 'proposal' to him during his lunch-hour were intriguing, to say the least. It was two parts; both a valuable friendship – Sherlock wasn't certain friendship would be the correct term – and an equally as valuable, and not to mention fulfilling, sexual relationship. Giving the nature of the men in this prison and despite how soft John appeared outwardly, Sherlock knew he wouldn't be getting away with no sex in this 'companionship'. Most of the inmates hadn't been out in years, and if they could find someone to pin up against the wall and fuck senselessly, then so be it. It was truly mortifying, and Sherlock had given his best shot at bringing up this startling discovery on his second day, after witnessing incredibly raunchy behaviour in the showers.

"Excuse me, but are you aware of the actions your… men are engaging in?" He'd asked, face flushed red and his hair still sopping wet. "My shower was rudely interrupted by two of them shagging on the bathroom tile. It's repulsive, and you must put an end to it immediately." The guard he was speaking to burst out in laughter, bending over and slapping his knee. Oh, so it was funny, was it? "Excuse me!"

"Hey, lad, just let them be. We've all blocked it out by now, it's perfectly normal."

"Perfe- Perfectly normal? Are you insane? They were biting each other like… like savages!" He'd cried, running a hand through his wet locks, droplets of water snaking down his face, "This is seriously fucked up." Instead of staying around to listen to the guard's speech, Sherlock stormed off to the bathroom to finish washing his hair in the sink; where he also got a taste of what he'd just witnessed.

Being with John would offer protection in this hell-hole. No more rape when he was trying to smoke outside, no more taunts of "Hey-ho, prison slut". No more fat, stubby fingers poking and prodding him when he made his way around the prison. It would be his warped version of paradise.

So, Sherlock took up John's offer and the pair quickly became friends; sitting together at their lunches, chatting about the outside and their previous interests before they were jailed. Never had the two murderers jumped on each other like rabid dogs – at least, not yet. John was controlled when it came to his urges, and young Sherlock wasn't going to force his companion into anything. Just because you're a murderer doesn't mean that you have to eliminate all of your etiquette and common courtesy.

"I was the best student in my year. So smart that they decided I could skip a year of university; much to my relief. Even being a year ahead wasn't a problem. Hell, I could have passed with my eyes closed. I'd sell my left leg to be there instead of here," Sherlock told John one afternoon while they were on the yard. "At least they're giving me fags here."

John nodded along with Sherlock's ramblings, his eyes scanning the courtyard lazily.

"This establishment is far better than some in the States, from what I've gathered. You've heard of Guantanamo Bay, right? Horrendous place. Apparently that's where they ship off some people; although I'm fairly certain that it's not for people like us; perhaps men – or women – who have much more awful felonies than you and I. They're downright savages."

John stopped walking, a look of utter disbelief on his face. "'Much more awful felonies'? Sherlock, I killed eight men. Is that not an 'awful felony'? According to everyone on the outside, I'm a sick, psychotic murderer who'll snap your head if you piss me off. I'm a savage, Sherlock. I'm more dangerous than you, than all of these men combined. I could end your miserable little life with a fucking blade of grass." He raised a hand pointing to the younger man with a scowl, "I could be in that prison if they wanted me there. Don't fucking reason with me. Do you think I want to be here? Did you think I truly wanted to murder my platoon? Fuck no!" John shook his head at Sherlock and turned around, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. God, he felt like he was on fire. The careful and practiced hands of a soldier, made to protect and to serve, were also created for destruction. They balled into tight fists, John's nails digging into his palms fiercely.

"John, I didn't-"

"Shut up."

"John."

"Fuck off." With that the shorter man stormed off to the courtyard doors, and shook the handle roughly to get someone from the inside to open it, leaving Sherlock dumbfounded and alone.

That night, Sherlock had lain in bed pondering over John's unexpected outburst earlier today. Everything he'd said was laced with heavy remorse and regret, the words had stung both to hear and to say, Sherlock was sure. The way the ex-soldier had swept himself away from the scene sent a clear message that he was dissatisfied with what he'd done, but his shoulders had slouched and his body had clearly relaxed after he'd yanked on the door handle – so, despite his best intentions to remain in a froth of discontent he was… relieved that he'd gotten the burden off his chest. The balled fists represented contained anger and a sign that he had the urge to let off his steam on something – or someone. But not Sherlock, he had grown fond of him; too fond to let himself unleash his fury on him.

So what did John do? Did he choose to take out the rage on an inmate? No, that was out of the question. Even though he seemed to be a ruthless criminal, he wouldn't mess around with any of the inmates; he only ever touched the new detainees. But even if he did bash one of the new men, he wouldn't beat them senseless, that truly only occurred when they had got him worked up themselves.

Or maybe…

John couldn't help it. After Brant had let him in from the yard, he'd pushed everyone out of his way and stomped off to his cell, slamming the heavy steel door behind him. Just that bout had made him exhausted, and he merely wanted to let himself rot because the memories came flooding back.

Each of his comrades appeared in his head, grinning from ear to ear and carefree. His mind swam with their joyous pictures and snippets of memories, and then it would play through the gruesome murder of each of them. His brain tortured him further, pulling up the all too vivid replays of how the smell of the petrol and the bitter scent of the day-old blood. His insane laughter as the helicopter landed, four soldier cuffing him and dragging him off, body flailing weakly.

He was insane.

Wasn't he?

John collapsed onto his bed, body curling into a ball and he pressed his face into his knees. It was the first three months all over again. The last of his willpower dissolved and he let out a soft sob. You are insane, John Watson, the most insane man to ever roam the earth. A killer, a cretin. You are the mud on someone's new shoes, the rain on a couple's wedding day. The father that abandons his child. Imperfect, unwanted and reckless.

He's the perfect disaster.