As he nervously waited for his cellmate to return, he busied himself spreading his blanket over his bed and tucking his few personal items on shelf that looked fairly unoccupied. Mycroft had tried to arrange for him to bunk with Trevor but couldn't guarantee it. He highly suspected his cell mate was at least twice Trevor's size by the look of the large indent in the bottom mattress.
He thought back to what Mycroft had told him. "I'd like to send you in as a captured prisoner to gain his trust. Then, you'll get him to tell me where Sebastian Moran is hiding Moriarty."
"Oh, it's that simple, is it? He's just going to tell me because we're prison buddies? I'm sure I'm the last person Trevor wants to see. I'm pretty much the reason he's in that hell hole to begin with. He may just put my lights out when he sees me."
"Oh," Mycroft said placing a tenuous hand on John's shoulder. "He will want to listen to your offer. I don't believe he'll last another two years in that prison. He knows it, too. He'll be receptive to a plea bargain. I'm positive of it."
John wanted to shrug the man's pale hand off him and barely managed not to growl at the unwanted touch, but he held it together. If he could do this mission, he'd be free to live his life again. He wanted that freedom very much and as much as he hated Mycroft Holmes, he knew he would keep his word. He could reproach himself all he wanted at this point, but he was in it now. He'd just have to do his best and try not to get himself severely injured or killed.
John paced the small, squalid cell for over twenty minutes. He only had enough room to go ten paces across. He couldn't bring himself to sit on the disgusting floor. He kept seeing the unsettling laugh of the guard when he'd placed his stuff on the bed. He still didn't know if the top bunk was going to be his so he just took everything back off the bed and shelf and put it in a neat pile next to the wall. Finally, he heard the clump of approaching footsteps, more than three or four men judging by the sounds they made as they approached. John nerved himself for his face to face meeting and with his old mate, Trevor.
"What the fuck is this?" John heard a heavily Australian accent just before he saw three men peek around the threshold of the open door. "Looks like I've got company." The owner of the voice pushed past the other two and strode into the room. He stood at least six foot five. He looked like he'd had an intimate relationship with metabolic steroids prior to his stay at St. Peters and was younger by ten years than the other two. He trundled up to John and shoved his massive chest into John's face and pushed him right into the wall.
A show of dominance right off the bat, John thought. "You are in my fucking space, little rat. This is my room. Who said you could be in here?"
He could see Trevor hovering in the doorway watching the scene in front of him with great interest but decidedly not wanting to get involved. From the look on his face, he didn't seem to recognize him just yet.
John knew he had to assert himself, not too aggressively, or he'd be a pile of whimpering flesh on the floor in a few minutes. Mr. Australia reached out one meaty arm and placed it on the wall just above John's head and glared daggers at him. He reached up with his other hand and traced a curled finger along John's cheek. "Kinda pretty, little one."
John huffed but kept his cool. "I've been assigned this cell," John said keeping his eye contact firm. But, he couldn't help clearing his throat twice, a nervous habit he knew he had when faced with antagonistic situations.
"I'm your cellmate. My name's John," he continued punctuating his explanation by throwing a glance at his meager pile of possessions on the floor next to his feet as if somehow the presence of these items would explain everything.
Mr. Australia kicked his heavily booted foot through John's pile scattering everything and sending his tin cup rattling under the lower bunk bed. John spared a quick side glance and saw his little black comb snap in half with a sad little plastic pop. He turned his gaze back to the man looming over him and squared his jaw. "I'm small and don't take up much room. I'll stay out of your way."
"Watson?" John heard from the doorway. "Is that you?" Trevor finally came into the room. It already felt crowded with just the two of them and stood next to the glowering Australian. "Walt. Stand down," he said authoritatively and to John's eternal thankfulness, the beefy man stepped back.