Disclaimer: Characters are not my own.

Warnings: Lots of violence, Slash, Suicidal actions, Angst in unhealthy amounts, and more slash.

The first time John saw him, he was walking calmly through the weapon room. His slim frame was wrapped up in a long coat, and his cold grey eyes pierced everybody and everything. John was sure he'd never seen him before. Nobody would forget those cheekbones in a while.

The man swept past him, bringing the looks of everybody working. Some saluted him, and some bowed. John just watched. And he was sure those cold grey eyes fixed on him for a second, before flitting away.

The look could have turned anybody to stone. John found it hard to believe somebody could have so little emotion in a look.

But there was something else hidden in those eyes. Sadness. Overwhelming, biting sadness. This man was not happy.

But then, not many people who worked for Moriarty were.

The second time he saw him, was around a week later. Again, it was just a brief moment. The slender beauty strode past him, eyes staying fixed straight ahead. His mouth was clenched, and his fists balled. He didn't speak, but he didn't need to. People parted before him, scurrying away as if fearful he would strike them. Or somebody else would.

By the door (if the huge metal slab, built to stop people getting in, and out could be called a door) the man turned, and gazed coolly across the room. Again John was struck by the hate in that gaze. Hate that was cold and dead, burnt down to something bitter and emotionless.

Then he typed in a code, and stepped out of the door.

John cautiously turned to a hit man named Jones. They were on amiable terms. Mainly because he had patched the man up more than once.

"Who was that?" he asked in a whisper.

Jones frowned.

"You don't know?"

John shook his head, glancing to the door where the man had disappeared.

"That is Mr. Holmes." he said, as if that was all he needed say.

"Who?"

Jones gave him an incredulous look, then leaned in and whispered into his ear.

"Moriarty's fiancé."

John's mouth almost dropped open, but he stopped it and risked another glance at the door Mr. Holmes had disappeared through. By the time he turned back to Jones, the assassin was half way across the room.

John had been with Moriarty for three months, which was in itself something of an achievement. He had just gotten back from the war, and he had been desperate. So when he was approached by a shady looking man, who offered him a good paying job, he accepted.

The conditions were simple. Keep your nose out of everything.

So he stuck to them. He knew he was working for a criminal. A madman if you wanted to put it that far. He knew the men he was sewing and bandaging up were assassins. Murderers. But he found himself unable to care.

It wasn't like he could do anything anyway. If he went to the police, an unfortunate accident would occur. John wasn't stupid.

So he continued to get paid huge amounts of money to keep his mouth shut.

The 'den' they all worked, and lived in, was a large warehouse. According to the sign outside, it was a paper factory. But inside there were dark and dangerous secrets hidden. Moriarty and any prisoners he had were situated on the second floor. His employees on the first, and the armoury, food hall and surgery on the ground. It worked out well, though only the few men who the criminal trusted slightly more than anybody else got to see him. The rest were captives, who almost definitely didn't want to see him.

And John found himself reasonably neutral. He had been unhappy before, now he was neither happy, or sad. Most of the assassins and other assorted outlaws were okay company. A few didn't want messing with. But John was one of the few who didn't kill for a living.

He had never seen Moriarty, but his reputation was naturally huge. Huge, and evil. So the fact that he had a lover made John really wonder.

The man with the sad eyes. Mr. Holmes.

He wasn't happy. So what was he doing?

And what sort of a man was he to agree to being Moriarty's fiancé?

That very evening, when most people had finished dinner and gone to bed, he headed up. John had been in the armoury cleaning his army pistol. A habit, which allowed him to think. He was walking along the sterile white corridor toward his room, when he heard steps behind him.

He spun round, wondering if it was intruders. It wasn't. It was two men holding another one. He recognised Moran on one arm, trying hold the victim down. The other looked vaguely familiar.

But the man that was thrashing in their arms was the one his eyes stayed on. It was Holmes.

What the hell?

From what he knew, Moriarty wouldn't take kindly to his fiancé being manhandled. Mr. Holmes spotted him before the other two did, and his eyes met John's calmly, a kind of panic in their depths. But his mouth stayed set and hard. It was obvious he had pride, and he wasn't going to stoop to talking to mere mortals.

John struggled with himself for a moment, then hurried toward them. A small smile twitched Holmes' face, but it froze on his face when Moran slipped a needle into his arm in the moment he was still.

"Mr. Moriarty is very disappointed." Moran said harshly.

Holmes slumped, his eyes closing. John couldn't get those grey eyes out of his head. They made him wonder, made him sympathise.

"What's going on?" he asked.

Moran's head shot up, and Holmes slipped down until he was almost lying on the floor, limp and unmoving.

"Keep out of it Watson, Moriarty's orders." he said, frowning.

John hesitated a second longer than he should have, looking at the man, before turning and leaving. Guilt washed over him as he closed and locked his door. But there was nothing he could do. If he had put up any objection to Moriarty's orders, he would have been shot on the spot.

He stripped down to his boxers, and crawled into bed, Holmes haunting his mind.

John knew that prolonged thought on the grey eyed mystery would ultimately lead to death, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

It seemed obvious that the young man had gone away without permission, and wasn't that keen on returning. But if he were Moriarty's fiancé, why try and leave?

A quarrel, or something bigger?

John tried to push cold, grey eyes from his mind. The eyes told him more about Mr. Holmes than anything else.

So... Chapter one. That was more of an introduction to give you an idea of what's happening. Next chapter will be Sherlock's view on things, though I doubt it will be any clearer :p Some reviews (critical or encouraging) would be lovely! I'm hoping to have the next chapter up over the weekend