London, April 12, 2013.

1:25 PM.

Bank of Farlington.

The lines where long as ever, with that major sporting event playing today and up tomorrow, blokes from the whole blasted city so it seemed, all rushed to the bank to make their beer money withdraws.

"Such a waste of time and money, such a waste of my time." Sherlock thought to himself before calling out "Next!"

The work of a teller is not something he ever wanted to do with his life, he had always wanted something involving using more than the superficial aspects of the brain to operate. Something with a bit more adventure as well. But no this was the job Sherlock was landed with, after he graduated all the interesting positions deemed him over qualified. In reality though, it had been Sherlock's insufferable silver tongue which he was often unable to halt from spilling out the raw overly honest truth, generally coming off as insulting to his potential employers. Thus leaving few people to actually put up with his drawling, however incredibly insightful they might be.

"Only five more in front. Only five more." the grey haired man repeated in his mind, he checked his watch for the sixth time since he'd arrived.

The hustle and bustle of the bank afternoon was always at its highest, but this afternoon was exceptionally busy, stressing the man even more inwardly.

"Next!" he heard the call again, and only realized by the third call that it was his turn, he'd been so lost in thought.

The grey haired man approached the tall pale teller under window 3, window 3 why did he notice that? He shook off his nerves and stepped forward, hesitantly leaning towards the counter.

"My I help you?" Sherlock dryly recited, looking down at the slightly shorter man.

"Y- Yes. Y-Y Yes you can Mr. Sherlock" glancing at his name tag plastered in bold on the tellers shirt, earning him an eyebrow raise. "I'm here to make a withdrawal!" the shorter man pulled out a gun and shot at the ceiling twice.

Earning the crowd behind him to go insane, rushing for the exits with no dignity reserved, papers and items thrown the too air in every direction. The tellers having been trapped behind the high countertop casement, dropped to the floor in panic, everyone moved, everyone panicked, everyone but Sherlock. He just stood there with a small look of worry on his face.

"I said now!" The shorter man looked back to Sherlock and was taken off guard for the briefest of moments, because of his lack of panic.

"You're not going to hurt me. I can see it behind your eyes, your externally motivated, and not at all motivated to use any force causing premeditate damage. Your neatly ironed but old shirt indicates your working class, and care for outward appearance thus your image would be tainted having actually killed someone." ... "So you're not going to hurt me." Sherlock said without dropping a blink.

The shorter man was dizzied but recovered quickly, and responded with pointing his gun at Sherlock "I may not be here to kill anyone but that doesn't mean I can't shoot you where it matters." he said glancing lower, then meeting the taller mans eyes again.

"Jenna, I require your safe key."

Within the minute Sherlock was opening the vault with the shorter man directly behind, squirming at his slow pace.

"Hurry it up!"

The vault door opened with a loud cry, revealing all the glorious bits of paper.

"You're not going to make it you know, the authorities are already on their way, as they say in America... 'Your screwed.'" Sherlock had to smirk a little on that last note, while the grey haired man packed his suitcase to its fullest.

"That's why I've taken insurance." The man turned around.

"Insurance?"

"You." The shorter man grabbed the teller reverting his gun and led him back through the bank and out its front doors.

Everyone had already left at that point, the faint sound of sirens filled the air but still seemed a few blocks off.

Pressing his gun to Sherlock's back through his jacket pocket, they walked to the street corner. "Signal a cabbie. Do it."

Sherlock had little choice but to oblige. Naturally one stopped within moments of Sherlock's wave, being on the busy part of town it was.

"Bental Stadium! Hurry!"

"Ah mate, I think you've already missed the first half." the drive glanced at them from the rearview mirror.

"Just go!"

"Alright mate, keep your pants on."

They passed Bakers Street as the authorities passed in the other direction, Sherlock saw them but heard a low rumble in his right ear "Don't you dare.".

The next few hours were almost dreamlike, Sherlock was forcefully heard and seated inside an uncomfortable stadium chair to pretend to watch the game, as his insane gunman kept a keen eye for authorities.

"Clever."

"What is?"

"Your coming here. The crowds make it impossible to spot a lunatic, even in broad view."

"You'd best shut it, if you want to live to see tomorrow."

"I already told you, you won't kill me." agitation was starting to arise in the man, as focusing on the loose security was becoming impossible enough, without the added stress.

"You've ruined my day, kidnapped me and taken me hostage and I don't even know your name. That's hardly fair now is it?" Sherlock spoke but never reverted his gaze from the game.

"Be quiet, or so help me your own mum won't want you back when I get finished with you."

Sherlock's gaze fell somewhat, and his captor knew he'd perhaps gone too far (but then what didn't count as 'too far' already?).

"Sorry... My name is Watson... John Watson."

The final score rang in with a light rain beginning to fall in what was now a starry sky.

"Let's go. And for goodness sake, take off that nametag."

"You don't need me anymore, you've gotten away. Just leave me here."

"I can't."

"Why not?" Sherlock already knew the answer to this, but it was worth a try.

"Because I've told you my name."

Seeing a face was one thing, but having a name to a face makes it all too easy to catch someone of such a high profile. Though his reaction to the question answered what Sherlock was really asking, confirmed that John Watson, was indeed his captors real identity and not a fake name.

As the crowds began to dissipate, John led Sherlock to a small black car parked in the stadium lot, a truly brilliant get away plan, or a very stupid way to ensure beer money for the game which ever.

The sharp look he was earning made Sherlock wonder if now was the correct time to scream and make a run for it, but he decided against it, with the risk of being shot from behind in the leg or worst too great.

Instead Sherlock watched the city scenery on the drive to the unknown, as if to make perfect mental note of where exactly he was being taken, and which route would be best to escape later.

"Why so quiet all of a sudden?" Josh said feeling uncomfortable.

"Thought you wanted me to. Ah I'm confused." the amount of sarcasm was too strong to be considered a hint, but somehow John still missed it.

"Yes, but that doesn't mean... Just never mind."

221 B Bakers Street.

The lonely little street they had passed earlier, mental notes began forming once more for later.

"This way." Watson gestured with one hand still in his pocket.

It was a small building with only one or two flats inside, with Watson's obviously from his gesturing being up stairs. When they reached the top, Watson began fumbling in his other pocket with his gun-less hand. Having to bend down to put the suitcase on the ground, it was the perfect distraction and Sherlock took it, making a break for the short sprint to the downstairs he saw the door but THUD! Something happened and everything went black, and the vision of freedom, slowly faded into nothing.

Slap!

"HAVE I DIED?!" Sherlock tried to leap up, as if from a horrid nightmare, but he found he could not.

"No you're not dead, if you where you couldn't be asking now could you?" No his nightmare was carrying on, and had gotten worst.

Sherlock's vision slowly returned, revealing the chair and ropes which he was now aware of being tied to.

"Let me go!"

"Save it. You should be thankful I didn't shoot you in the arse." Watson said with a roll of the eyes.

"I knew you wouldn't kill me."

"Well you know more than me, your just lucky I couldn't get my gun up fast enough. I just threw the money at your block of a head." Suddenly a pounding all too real started adding weight to Watson's words.

"Oah, my head."

"Just be quiet, until I figure out what to do with you." the grey haired man put his suitcase down on the messy table toppling over several lude magazines to Sherlock's view.

Watson didn't seem to notice, too preoccupied with finding tape, two secure Sherlock's mouth with. The blood seemed to be rushing out of his head, and he blacked out again shortly after the silver color tape was applied.

In and out of consciousness, in and out for days. Three days.

Watson paced the kitchen floor a lot during this time, until he decided Sherlock would die unless he allowed him to eat and drink something. After pouring a cup of water he peeled the tape away offering the glass.

"Please... Just let me go... I'll do anything."

Looking back to the unmoved magazines a few feet away Sherlock hazily sparked an idea, judging by the man's lonely living condition state.

"I mean" making a point to look in that direction then back to Watson's face "anything. If... You'll let me go."

Watson, was appalled by the sudden realization of what his hostage meant, he shuffled back and tripped on a pile of books behind him.

After attempting to feed Sherlock again, he hurried away to his room the mental image still haunting the back of his mind.

Sherlock saw in the small moment of throwing Watson off, the small window for gaining the upper hand in this situation, especially after he'd begun hearing what sounded like Watson silently wanking off in the other room a few short hours later.

The following days with every such feeding where filled with sexual offers which never seemed to fail making Watson go fleshed, eventually something would break.

April 17th Newspaper header: The Grey Bank Robber Still not Found! Missing Teller Suspected as Accomplice.

Watson read his description and other details from that day, reminding him all the more how real this situation was. Looking up from his comfortable chair in the living room he looked at Sherlock who seemed like a caged devil of some sort, waiting to attack him. Another lude flash filled his mind, and he put the paper down.

"If I untie you for a few minutes, will you promise to be good. I'd rather not kill my... Flat mate." He said picking up the gun from the side table which had been there since they got here.

Sherlock just nodded twice in agreement.

The moment his mouth was free of the tape he licked his lips in a way that somehow made Watson go red in the face. His foot and hand binding followed shortly after, and the pale man rubbed his sore wrist wordlessly.

"There just for a bit, so you don't get stiff." Watson was immediately discussed with his own word choice.

Sherlock tried to stand but fell to the ground, weak from lack of exercise, he rose to his knees, and idea formed and he took hold of Watsons trousers. Starting to undo them, he looked up before licking the bulge through the jeans.

"W-WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"

"Thanking you."

"Stop!"

"As you wish." Sherlock released his pants though did not move from his position on the floor, Watson stumbled back wide eyed.

He went in a circle, and was surprised to find himself aroused at this... Whatever this was, with another man. Then again, when would he have such an opportunity again? Never, that's when, and he was already in for with the authorities, so what difference did anything make anymore?

Watson turned to look at Sherlock again dizzied from the amount of thoughts passing through his head, and the throbbing arising from his other. He hesitantly approached Sherlock again.

"...Ok... Then, thank me." Before he could come to his good senses and turn around Sherlock was working away at his pants, until Watson was freed.

Revealing his cock in full length Sherlock paused only briefly to look upon it, before taking it fully into his mouth, earning a highly pleased moan from Watson.

His pace started almost painfully slow, began to quicken, making Watson begin to feel weak in his knees the small popping noises collided with the warm feeling of Sherlock's mouth, and was too much.

"Ah, oh yes. AH!"

With those barely uttered words, Sherlock picked up the pace bobbing faster and faster, Watson took hold his dark curls as the room began to spin. He was just trying not to collapse under his heat now, protesting had been out the window when he lost the ability to form words. White light blinded Watson and he came inside Sherlock's warmth, he selfishly did not let the barely coherent Watson go, until every drop was swallowed down.

"Thank you..."

Watson didn't know what else to do he hesitated (that being the most common constant in his actions lately), before straightening up to tie Sherlock back down again.

"Is that, really necessary?"

"Of course, I can't just have you leave..."

"You don't need to tie me, I won't leave." Sherlock looked him in the eyes "I promise."

Foolishly, Watson felt strange about tying someone down who had just made him feel so wonderful, so he allowed him up.

Sherlock walked towards the coutch and seat down, this day was becoming stranger by the second.

"Incidentally, how did you know I wouldn't kill you?"

"The amount of hesitation and reserved restraint shown in your body language told me you weren't a seasoned criminal. Further more you didn't enjoy seeing the crowds terror, which told me this wasn't a power play as many such crimes are. Men trying to prove their 'man-hood' by showing off in stupid child's play idiocy. No you have exterior reasons, behind your actions, you really needed the money. For something... Or someone."

"Your right, on all accounts." Watson set down in the chair situated a few feet away from Sherlock's couch.

"So why did you need it? -The money?"

"Enough with the questions. You already seem to have an outline of my life story marked up, no I want to ask something now." Watson watched Sherlock shift at the idea ever so slightly.

"Why haven't you run yet?"

"I did."

"Once yes, but why aren't you making a break for it right now?"

"I told you I wouldn't?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Ah yes, so your now on good terms with your kidnapper, that it? Bugger off! What's the real reason?" Sherlock arched his lips upward ever so slightly.

"Because..."

"I'm all ears."

"Because this life, is exciting."

"...Exciting?"

"That's right. In the past few days I've felt more fear, adrenaline and excitement that I have in the last eight years of my life."

"And you like that?"

"Oh god, yes."

"How can I be sure I can trust you?"

"I could have escaped at any given moment during the game, the large crowd would have given me a perfect escape. Knowing you aren't a murdering loon, I would have had an excellent chance in disappearing into a panicking crowd had I yelled 'He's got a gun.' Or I could have simply waved at the passing authority cars on the way... Or frankly I could have just bitten off your-"

"OK." Watson cut in, eyes large at that last one. Thanks you can be quiet now."


I know the characters seem a bit OOC but giving their circumstances it will all make sense later hopefully... I actually have the whole storyline finished in my head, though I don't know if I will write it or not, yet. I need a little encouragement, or incentive to quiet while I'm ahead haha. -Any theories on Watson's motives?