Warnings-Non-con kissing, touching. Threats of non-con sex. Lots of swearing.

Chapter 8

The long, dark trek through the London sewers ended when the giant shoved John face first into another ladder. John was too relieved at the possibility of escape to care about his face; really, how trivial. He clung to the ladder for a few seconds, before he slowly and stiffly began to climb.

He didn't care even where it let them out. Just so long as he was out of that damned sewer.

At the top, a strong hand pulled him out, by his left arm. His bad shoulder protested but John forced all that to the back of his mind, again, how trivial.

"Johnny, you were ordered to aim for his head," said Moran, shaking the sodden blond a few times.

"The head shot was blocked. The mark was hiding his face behind a book. I think he was hiding from all the cameras. They were snapping photos, and he was hiding his face." And I'm babbling, thought John, a bit disoriented by that endless slog through the sewers.

The former colonel tightly secured the mandatory cuffs and blindfold.

"So I went for his chest," continued John, back in the dark again. "I had no other choice. The round probably hit his heart. He's dead now, isn't he? Isn't that what you wanted?"

"Maybe, the boss is awaiting confirmation," said Moran shoving John into the back of yet another car.

"Confirmation? What kind of confirmation does he need?" asked John. "What? Is he gonna stand over the dead body and gloat, like in a two-bit Spaghetti Western?"

That earned John a cuff to the head. "You watch your mouth Watson. You always have to mouth off, don't you?" growled Moran. "The boss is a genius. He knows what he's doing. He's got a doctor at St. Bart's who'll confirm the kill. You're not off the hook, and you don't get paid until that doctor sees the body."

"Well, what if they take the body somewhere else? What if…"

John was interrupted when Moran's fist found his face, again. The ex-army doctor tasted copper as he licked his sore lip. Oh good, a split lip, that's going to feel lovely. Hope it doesn't need stitches; I hate stitches in my lips. He kept his comments to himself.

"...you listening to me? I said, you tell the boss you hurt your face in the sewer," demanded Moran loudly. "It's your own fault you got hit anyway. You asked for it with your smart mouth. I don't get what he sees in you, but he won't like you all banged up, pretty-boy."

John was nonplussed. He hadn't been called pretty boy since secondary school, and he wasn't all that pretty even then. For God's sake, he was an army veteran in his thirties. He wasn't a little boy, and he wasn't even very good-looking, and Moran was an idiot, a jealous idiot. And John wasn't going to take the threats from an idiot anymore, but then hands clenched impotently, trapped within the handcuffs.

He was helpless for now, which infuriated him.

"Oh, right. Why the hell, should I cover for you?" asked John.

"Because otherwise I'll kill you, and I'll kill that bitch sister of yours too."

John froze, then he began to chuckle, then he began giggling. Oh my God, thought John, do not get hysterical, John Watson, do not.

"What?" demanded the Colonel.

"You can't kill Harry because your boss is threatening her. You can't both kill her, and he gets first dibs," said John gasping a bit and trying not to laugh. John tried unsuccessfully to curb his irrational laughter.

"That's gotta be some kind of double jeopardy, and it's…it's…double jeopardy, it;s against the law," John gasped out and giggled some more. Oh shite, I'm hysterical.

"What the hell are you going on about, Watson?" asked Moran, irritably. He really wanted to hit the stupid little wanker again, but Jim wouldn't like that. And he already had a fat lip and a new bruise on his cheek. And at least the wanker was brave, better than the usual sniveling cowards he ended up with.

"Look, it's…it's a joke, Colonel. But seriously, you and your boss already have Harry and me on death row. You can't both kill us twice."

"I could torture you," said the Colonel.

"You're already doing that," taunted John.

"I could rape your sister," threatened the Colonel.

"I could kill you, rape your twisted boss and then kill him too," threatened John, his voice suddenly harsh.

Moran slammed John's back, knocking the shorter blond into the car door, laughing. "That's a good one!" John was confused.

"I forgot why I liked you, Watson. You're a funny one." Moran chuckled. "Sometimes I don't get what you're on about, but you can be real funny."

"You? Killing me? What a joke." continued the former Colonel. "But, you know, I like your spirit. I guess I can put up with you for a while. The boss'll just want to play with you for a bit, and then he'll get bored. He's a genius; he always gets bored. Then, he'll come back to me, Johnny. He always comes back to me. And then he'll give you to me, so you better stay on my good side."

Moran subsided, chuckling darkly. He muttered, "rape the boss and kill him, that's a good one Johnny."

Glad to be of service, mate, thought John sarcastically. He tried to think of something pleasant, like Mary or that Christmas when home was home and when he got a puppy. Or. how about what it felt like when the consulting detective touched him. And what his voice sounded like, deep and rich. And those cheekbones?

Exhausted, blindfolded and cuffed, John drifted off, not thinking of Sherlock Holmes at all.

"Get out of the fucking car, you load of shit," John broke out of his half daze. Someone, not the Colonel, grabbed John's half-dead arm, and dragged him out of the car. Of course his cramped legs gave out and he crumpled to the ground. The stranger, tugged on John's shoulder (the left one, naturally), which sent sharp pains down John's arm and across his chest.

The former soldier scrambled to a stand and nearly fell again when the rag covering his eyes was yanked off. Sebastian Moran was nowhere to be seen. He tried to take a description of the car and get its plate numbers, but his vision was much too blurry from being blindfolded.

John was back at the underground bunker cum offices. He was led to a new room and shoved inside. He shuffled in and came to a stop on an expanse of pristine white carpet; it looked like freshly fallen snow. The walls, too, were white with canvases of black and grey abstracts. The furnishings were glass, and metal and black wood. In the center of the room was a huge bed, covered with a silky black duvet. The pillows and sheets looked to be black silk too.

Judging by the decorating, someone was really into melodrama.

The only spot of color was an enormous bouquet of blood-red roses. Red roses and black silk sheets. John felt sick; luckily he hadn't eaten anything all day. He tried to imagine how he could kill himself or Mor-whatever, before he was forced onto that bed. When nothing immediately came to mind, he decided to count the roses. What if Sherlock once again asked him, 'how many'?

NO! Idiot! I'll probably never even see him again. I hope I never do see him again, because he'll hate me for almost killing his brother. I couldn't face that.

John carefully counted the roses. Oh God, I wonder if I killed him for real; it sure as hell looked real. Well. Of course it looked real. It was supposed to look real. God, I hope it wasn't real. I've lost it. I've lost my mind…Count the roses again, Captain Watson. It's better than having a panic attack in enemy headquarters.

The door opened behind John. Idiot! You've forgotten all your training. Always keep your back to a wall, and always face the door.

"Look at my carpet!" screeched the Irishman.

John turned around slowly. His footprints had left a trail of sludge across the virginal white carpet. The snowy expanse was further defiled by fetid mucky, water dripping off his clothes.

"My pet is ruining my carpet! He's filthy! And, Sebby, who's been beating on my pet. No one hits him, not without my permission!" said the petulant crime boss. He was pouting, actually pouting with his bottom lip stuck out; it was almost cute, in a macabre sort of way.

Well, I guess the stress has been too much. I'm losing my mind; it's kind of sad, thought the doctor.

The businessman wore a perfectly tailored, charcoal grey, pinstriped suit. His shirt was white and the tie was blood-red, like the roses (24 roses, John had counted them three times to be sure). Mor-whatever's hair was slicked back with hair gel…

John abruptly realized that Mor-whatever was standing right in front of him. Speaking softly now, and somehow that was more alarming than the shouting. "Now Johnny, I asked you a question. Who hit you Johnny?"

"Moran hit me once this afternoon, before he realized that I didn't betray him, um betray you, you guys," said John. Moran's face darkened like the sudden eclipse of the sun.

Stupid Colonel. Wait till I'm done, thought John. "Then I fell in the sewer. I worried that I might've knocked a tooth loose, and I split my lip,' lied John, running his tongue over the cut. Mor-whatever watched John's tongue avidly, as Moran's face began to lighten.

Good news, the eclipse was over and Moran was happy; bad news, I just flirted with a madman. Yep, I've lost my freakin' mind, thought the blond soldier.

"Well, that's alright then. You need to be more careful, Johnny-boy. And speaking of careful, you made a mess on Daddy's carpet," his voice was rising in pitch, ending high and teasing. John's blood ran cold, expecting some exotic punishment.

Just then a large gorilla of a man with faded blond hair and ruddy cheeks came in.

"Oh, goodie!" chirped the barmy businessman. "Franklin? Did you bring my pet in here and let him make a mess all over my carpet?" Mor-whatever's voice purred softly, like a lover's.

"It was orders boss. You said to put Watson in the guest suite…"

"But he made a mess on my carpet!" shrieked the well-dressed lunatic.

The Irishman's eyes were wide and somehow empty. He snapped his fingers.

The ex-colonel smoothly pulled out his side arm, and shot the gorilla in the head. The man crumpled and lay bleeding extravagantly on the formerly pure carpet.

The glistening carmine shrieked violently against the virginal white carpet. John remembered to take a breath.

OK. Well, now there's a bigger mess on your carpet, thought John. Turning to look at the psychopaths behind him. John very softly hummed under his breath, "I would not be alone if my Mary were here but she took off and Lord I'm lost…*"

"Now, now Johnny, Daddy went to a lot of trouble to bring you such a nice dinner. If you don't clean your plate; you won't get your deee-ssert," teased the handsome lunatic, in a sing-song voice.

John smiled his fake smile. He sipped some more wine; you've had enough wine Watson, he thought, you can barely focus as it is.

John was freshly showered and shaved, wearing a navy blue suit with pinstripes. It was almost identical to Mor-whatever's suit, except the color. And somehow, it had been perfectly tailored to fit John, which was creepy, when you got right down to it. The jacket emphasized his shoulders and muscular chest. John had thought that the trousers were a bit snug, but Mor-whatever had clapped his hands in approval when John modeled his new suit.

The Irishman had selected a dark-blue tie with claret-colored stripes and tied it on for John, as if they were really a couple.

They sat in an enormous dinning room. The table dressed in white linen with candles, the requisite red roses, fine china and silver. The gourmet food was beyond probably fantastic, but it tasted like ashes to the ex-army doctor.

John tried to eat his bloody steak, but if he ate it, he was sure he'd be sick. Change the subject.

"So… Daddy," Mor-whatever had insisted that John call him Daddy. "Um, what do you, um do for…fun?"

"Well, Johnny I'm glad you asked that," said the Irishman, chewing a mouthful of steak, the bloody juice trickled down his chin. John was mesmerized; it was like looking at a vampire, right before it attacked.

"I like holding hands with my handsome boyfriend," the Irishman grabbed John's hand, "and I like sitting in front of the fireplace and planning assassinations with my gorgeous boyfriend, and having dinner with my adorable boyfriend," said Mor-whatever.

John pasted his smile on his face, hoping that it didn't look as sickly as he felt. John had never hated his looks, but dammit he wasn't handsome and…and…Adorable? Really?

Mor-whatever had continued talking, "I really like you, Johnny. You're different," his voice dropped low again. That must be his default seduction voice. "Most of my boyfriends were shaking in their bespoke suits by the time we got to the romantic dinner. I had to kill them. I just had to. But not you. You soldiers are made of sterner stuff, Johnny. Well, good for you.…..Oh, oh! I know, it's TIME FOR DANCING! COME ON JOHNNY BOY!" yelled the psycho-vampire-crime lord, who still had blood on his lips.

Right, dancing. Should I tell him I don't know how to dance, at least not fancy, ballroom dancing? Oh well, thank God, the dinner from hell was over.

Music, strangely antique and tinny sounding, began to play. It sounded distant and scratchy, like maybe it was from an old-fashioned record player.

I've either lost my mind, or I've died and gone to hell, thought the doctor, as his deranged date, led him out onto the floor to dance Waiters ran into the room, like penguins form some kid's movie; they cleared the table and then moved it to the side, to make more room. Mor-whatever embraced John tightly and began moving them expertly in time to the gentle music. John felt stiff and awkward in comparison to the lunatic's lithe swaying.

It all felt like some weird dream sequence. Yeah, maybe it's all a dream or, more like, a nightmare.

"It's like a dream, isn't it Johnny," murmured the madman.

"Hmmm?" hummed John. It would probably be bad form to tell his seducer that it felt like a nightmare. Oh my God. The psychotic Irishman just read my mind; what if he already knew exactly what I was thinking. I am so fucked.

I could kill him. Kill him right now, before he tries to force me to have sex…except then Moran will kill me. And that's even fine, but he might hurt Harry. Not fine. Shite.

"What's my little Johnny-kins troubling his head about. My cute, little, adorable pet," his lips moved over John's ear like a caress. He began kissing John's ear and slowly moved down his jaw. It was sexy and horrible, and John pulled away.

"Don't," warned Mor-whatever coldly. "Not if you want to see little Harry ever again." Oh God, he does read minds.

The psycho-vampire savagely bit John's neck, just below the collar of his hand-tailored white shirt. John had frozen for a second, when the Irishman threatened Harry directly. He stood still, willing himself not to cry out in pain; his hands were tightly fisted. Surely that was blood oozing down his neck. He fully expected to see Mor-whatever turn into a vampire with fangs. He waited for the undead monster to feed off of him.

"Daddy's had enough now," the crazy man sang. The music changed, still scratchy sounding. Some man sang, "My heart is sad and lonely, For you I sigh, for you dear…"* John was pulled back into a swaying embrace. On his neck, the bite burned and bled onto his expensive new shirt.

Pressed close together, John felt their groins rubbing and was mortified to feel the madman's erection. And dear lord, he was getting hard too. SHITE. Think about Harry; think about something vile and disgusting. Wait this is vile and disgusting.

This is not what I want. This is not how I wanted to die. Why the hell couldn't I have died cleanly and honorably in Afghanistan. He glanced at the fresh blood -his blood- on Mor-whatever's lips. Was it turning him on or making him sick?

"Oh Johnny, Johnny. I'm so glad that you're having a good time tonight," said the Irishman looking lasciviously down at John's crotch. "But don't get your hopes up." The madman reached one hand up to pet John's face, and slid his hand down to caress the bite. His fingers came away smeared with blood.

"Now, Daddy's going to do this right. I'm going to court you, Johnny-boy. Tonight's our first date. First dates end with just kissing," the Irish wanna-be vampire said.

The recorded singer crooned, "I'd gladly surrender, myself to you, body and soul…" The madman licked his bloody fingers, slowly, one at a time. It was sexy and disgusting.

Fight or flight. John's heart raced, he needed to pound this madman into the expensive hardwood floor or run, run far away and never look back. Instead he danced, slowly, "My life s wreck you're making…" John suppressed a hysterical laugh. Doomed, I'm freakin' doomed, thought the ex-soldier.

"On our second date, we'll cuddle and touch. Will you be a naughty boy then, I wonder?" the madman simpered. John felt increasingly nauseous. Yep, this is making me sick, not turning me on, thought John. Good, I'm not as crazy as he is, yet.

Suddenly, the soft, yet surprisingly strong, hands pulled John in tighter.

"And then Johnny-boy, on our third date? The third date will be Nirvana, baby, 'cause Daddy's going to fuck your brains out. And I'm going to nail you to the floor," the crazy Irishman's voice chanted low.

"Just hypothetically speaking…Daddy," began John Watson. Stupid, this is stupid, John warned himself, don't' ask him…...John asked, "What if I wanted to go, um, even slower. Or what if I, umm, didn't want to date anyone, you know, um, right now, I'm sort of taking a break from... dating you see…"

"Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. Daddy wouldn't like that," back to the sing-song voice. NOT GOOD. "Johnny-boy won't do that because then Daddy would have to punish his little pet. Poor little pet," the Irishman expertly twirled his partner, ending with a dip and then returning to the swaying dance.

"Johnny, I promise I will fuck you on the third date. And if I'm happy, if I'm feeling the love, you might just enjoy it too. But if I feel just a tiny bit rejected….then I will make you burn; I will make you bleed," he ended with a low growl.

Mor-whatever crushed John's chin in a vice-like grip, pulling his face in close. He bruised John's lips in a semblance of a kiss. John's split lip burned, his blood betrayed him and it burned. John's heart began to break, he was so lost and alone. He was so fucked, bad choice of words.

And they were dancing again.

"You'll come back to me on your own, John Watson. You'll want me. D'you know why?" intoned the smiling psychopath. "You had fun today; didn't you Johnny? I know you did," his voice purred dangerously. "You liked having a real gun in your hands again. You liked having a target to shoot. You liked having the ultimate power over life and death. You're addicted to adrenaline, and you liked seeing that body exploding all because of you. Because you pulled the trigger and put the round in his fucking chest."

"I made you live again, Captain Johnny Watson. I gave you a purpose again. I made you use your miniscule little mind, for once. You'll keep coming back to me for your fixes, Johnny. You'll want to hold my gun in your hands, and you'll want to shoot my enemies for me."

"I'm the only one who's going to give you a reason to live, Johnny-boy," crooned Mor-whatever. "You are going to give yourself to me willingly, body and soul."

In spite of his tirade, Mor-whatever, elegantly twirled his captive boyfriend, ending with another dip and another hungry kiss.

After nine mental renditions of If My Mary Were Here, the cabbie told John that he could remove his blindfold.

Looking out of the cab's windows, John did not recognize the street nor could he make out the street signs. Even at night, his eyes were blurry after wearing the blindfold for more than twenty minutes. He noted a hipster coffee shop on the corner and, next to it, the women's boutique with Japanese paper umbrellas in the window.

"I, um, I don't suppose you'll tell me where we're going now, Mister Um… Hope?" John asked the cabbie, finally deciphering the writing on the license, which was posted in the front of the cab.

"Well now, that's where you're wrong. Why wouldn't I tell you? I'm taking you home, o'course, an' why would you bother to learn my name? No one else ever does. See, no one ever thinks about the cabbie. It's like you're invisible. Just the back of an 'ead," said the gray-haired taxi driver who wore a hound's-tooth cloth cap and dark rimmed glasses.

"Well, you're not invisible to me, Mr. Hope, are you?" said John. "Must get kind of dull, driving around all night, if everyone thinks you're invisible."

"Oh, I manage to distract myself. See, I can figure people out. I know how people think. I can see it all inside my head. An' then sometimes, I can play games with them," said the cabbie. "An', now I have a sponsor. An' it's even more in'erestin'. I make a lot more money, too."

"I see," said John.

No, I don't see at all, thought John. In the rearview mirror their eyes met. John's brows were drawn together as he considered the cabbie, whose own eyes were cold despite the innocent smile on his face.

Oh, Christ, he's like a zombie. Look at those dead eyes, thought John. He's as mad as Mor-whatever. No wonder he works for that crazy bastard. Change the subject.

"Handsome children, in your picture there. I always thought it'd be nice….to have a family… some kids," said John, fidgeting in his seat.

"They're my kids. They're good kids, proper geniuses both o' them. Been trying to get them in the best schools," said the driver, his face softening. "It's not easy, not much money in driving cabs."

"No, it's never easy Mr. Hope," agreed John.

"I have to moonlight now, to get them money, you see?" said the cabbie genially with his dead, zombie-like eyes.

"I see," agreed John. I see I have to stop watching horror movies. Change the subject.

They chatted about the weather, likely to rain all night with some clearing tomorrow, and the prospects for a upcoming labor strike, likely to be inconvenient for most people but profitable for London's cabbies. There's always a silver lining….

"And 'ere's your address, Dr. Watson," said the cabbie.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Hope," said John, courteous, even to psuedo-zombies. He withdrew some bills from his very thin wallet.

"Ohhh…" said Jefferson Hope in a rising and falling sing-song voice. John would hate sing-song voices forever. "Oh, no. Dr. Watson, your fare's been more than covered by our sponsor. 'sides, I wouldn't take any money from you; you're a proper gentleman. Don't get many of those these days. No, don't get many gentleman at all."

John bade Jefferson Hope goodnight. His relief was so intense, that his head was spinning. He practically ran up to his second floor bed sit, stumbling once on the stairs. He barely made it into his flat and then into the bathroom, before he threw up his romantic gourmet dinner and fine red wine.

Afterwards, he carefully removed the tailored suit, a Westwood, according to Mor-whatever. Clearly the suit was worth more than any of John's other possessions, except maybe his laptop. Then again, maybe not even the laptop was that valuable. He hung the suit up carefully. The shirt was a mess, with a large bloody stain. He'd have to find a good dry cleaners in the morning.

He slumped down onto the floor, holding his head in his hands. That devil Moriarty had touched and kissed him, and he couldn't do a damned thing about it, because he had to keep Harry safe.

He was alone. He had to figure this out on his own. He had to run away with Harry or hope that that Mycroft Holmes and the police found the deranged crime boss before the dreaded third date. God, what if I just killed myself, then there'd be no reason to kill Harry, would there?

John was so alone.

But that wasn't the worst part. The worst part was that Mor-whatever was right. Over night, John had fallen in love with the guns again. John had enjoyed his mission. And how twisted was that, that John felt alive again, after shooting someone?

But I don't like watching people die! I didn't like watching that politician bleed out and fall. God, I never want to enjoy watching that shite. Never.

John had never believed in the devil before, but now. Bloody hell, Mor-whatever isn't a vampire, he's the bloody, fucking devil incarnate. And the devil was offering John excitement and a reason to live. It was a shiny new lease on life. Here's your reason to live, Johnny-boy, just give me your body and soul. Oh, and let me have your heart so I can burn it in hell. That's what he's really saying, thought John.

No. Not going to happen. There was no way. "No way! I won't do it. I won't go back!" shouted John, his voice rising. He didn't care if he woke the whole bloody neighborhood. The bloody neighbors be damned. God help me.

John was tempted. He would have to freakin' kill himself, because John was tempted to sell himself, to sell his body and soul to the devil wearing Westwood.

At 6:45 am London was waking up. Sherlock Holmes and DI Lestrade stood together in an office in Mycroft's secret basement-complex. Lestrade held a styrofoam cup of something that resembled coffee. At least it was hot.

"Yeah, so Watson made it home around 3:35 am. He got out of that cab…" said the grey haired and grey-faced detective inspector.

"I can watch the videos for myself, inspector," snapped Sherlock. He had eschewed the coffee; he was above such things unless his transport was failing, "I assume the cab's plates are false?" asked Sherlock.

"Yeah. And the cab disappeared off the CCTV cameras after only ten minutes. Driver knows what he's doing. And the cab has no distinguishing characteristics . Myc wouldn't let us to pull in the cabbie anyway," said Lestrade, grimacing. "He thinks it's too soon."

"Drugs and cake have clouded his brain," dismissed the tall, younger man.

"Look, what Myc did was brave. And now he's in a lot of pain and…"

"He chose this. John Watson will have warned him that he would get hurt despite the armor. Mycroft chose to ignore the warning from an expert sniper and a doctor with extensive battlefield experience. Knowing the sniper, he advised my brother to wear additional armor. Knowing my vain brother, he refused to look bulky and so now suffers from the bruising and a broken rib," deduced the consulting detective.

Greg Lestrade pressed his lips together, confirming Sherlock's deductions and suppressing his anger and frustration at both of the Holmes brothers.

"I don't see you wasting any of your precious sentiment on the little sniper. The cameras in his flat clearly show that he's been beaten more, and he appears to have a neck wound, odd that." Sherlock stopped the playback to study the wound. Surely it wasn't some kind of bite. He continued the playback, but turned down the audio volume while the ex-army doctor was violently ill in the bathroom.

They watched in silence as the former soldier hung up his suit and slumped to the floor.

They both jumped as he suddenly yelled, "No way. I won't do. I wont go back."

"Nothing else happens, Sherlock. Watson just falls asleep, right there on the floor," said Lestrade, wearily running his hand through his hair. "He's probably drunk. I'm going to go see if Myc is resting. I'll check in with you, a little later."

"Sherlock watched as the blond rubbed his face, apparently fighting off tears. The former doctor did not treat his wound, which was careless of him. Soon, Sherlock realized that John was snoring. Eventually, the little soldier rolled all the way to the floor, curled into a tight ball.

The consulting detective fast-forwarded to 6:13 am when, according to the techs, Watson had a nightmare and woke. In the video, the former soldier was clenching his fists and trembling. He was silent other than for his ragged breathing. The former soldier suddenly sat up in the dimly lit room.

Watson was panting heavily;and briefly looked confused, as if he didn't know where he was. Then he slowly got up, clearly stiff and sore. His neck was bruised and covered with dried blood. His face was bruised and his lower lip swollen and split. His eyes looked around, searching for possible threats. Then he hobbled off to the bathroom, softly singing something, "and a prayer…I would not…alone, if my Mary were here,. …thinking if…"

The bathroom door shut.

The soldier was competent. He executed his 'assassination mission' flawlessly, and, despite the odds, he even managed to perform his double agent role so far. Impressive.

The surprising thing was that John Watson seemed to love and hate his mission with equal fervor. He was suffering from a moral crisis, which Sherlock normally disdained. However he was curious about the little blond.

The crime boss had obviously hurt and seduced John Watson, and Watson was tempted and repulsed.

Watson, the honorable soldier, would undoubtedly do something stupid. He might give in to the Irishman or he might try to run for it. Most likely he'd follow his self-destructive instincts and…

Sherlock didn't like that. He would have to give the little blond a better option then, and he would have to move fast.

A/N *If My Mary Were Here-by Harry Chapin

**Body and Soul (lyrics by Heyman, Sour, Eyton, music by Green)

Thank you to everyone who has been reading my fic.

I would especially like to thank everyone who has taken the time to comment and review. Nothing makes me happier than reading your reviews. Thank you to EJ 12212012, InuChimera7410, ruvy91, power0girl, SamuelE8688, Wicked Winter, Quiet Time, AiLoveS.

Disclaimer-I don't own the rights to SHERLOCK or any plots or characters from the BBC show. BTW why do we do these disclaimers anyway?