Three times, he saw Sherlock Holmes that week. His body was a passing wind, his eyes flickering like flames. John's eyes met the back of his head the first time - and Sherlock stopped, like he could feel him. The redheaded girl that was holding his hand looked behind her and saw John.

She saw him fixated at the back of her tutor's head, running his tongue over his lower lip. She yanked on Sherlock's arm, still staring, and Sherlock did not move.

John was then gone behind a wall, memories and concrete pressing against his forehead. Stupid, stupid. John clenched his fists and stood up straight, his body tight and unrelaxed. There were things that couldn't be spoken of, and words that weren't supposed to be expressed aloud.

But then Sherlock just kept on coming. Drifting through, of course, pulling by John's room and wading across the hallways as if they were sinkholes and he was trying to find a pearl in the depths. Sherlock picked his way through corridors with his body moving along the currents, and ever so often he would catch sight of John and John would catch chills. Goosebumps rose on his skin, mounds of dirt, freshly dug graves.

When Mark told him about the poker tournament, he didn't know what to think. Cheating and poker games were for liars. Maybe that was why John was so good at both.

"Are you going?"

"Isn't my thing," Mark told him.

"Who is?"

"A more appropriate question is who isn't," Mark scoffed. "Everyone who's anything is going to that."

"Who's hosting?"

Mark bit his lip, too slowly for it to have been anything but nervousness. "Someone named 'Mr. M.'"

"Who's that?"

"Dunno, do you know him?"

"No clue," John said. "Is James going?"

"Worst poker player I've ever witnessed. But yeah."

"The Holmes family?"

Mark peered at him peculiarly. "You've been rather preoccupied with them, lately."

John shrugged, faking nonchalance. "Haven't noticed."

"I dunno if they'll show up," Mark said. "But they're supposed to be there, yeah."

"You sure?"

Mark smiled, but not with his eyes. "...Yeah."

When the sun set, he smelled smoke and broiled meat in his bedroom. Sounds of impatience and frustration floated up through the vents, buzzing in the air. John rolled his ring in his fingers, thinking of shuffling the cards and staying cold, inhabiting a body that held no scruples. He would lie, and he would win money because of it. Were there any other places like that?

Maybe crime syndicates. Maybe bars, or slums, or smoky hole-in-the-wall caverns where boys wore nothing and girls served cocktails that burned as they went down throats. There, he could lie. He'd end up with his dick in someone's hands; he'd end up choking down the sounds of his orgasm, biting it into someone's shoulder. He didn't care who. It wasn't about human interaction, skin.

It was about the thrill, the lie. The pseudonym you gave them and the lie they told you back; the mutually assured destruction.

How did it smell there? Did it smell like Claire? Uncooked meat? Stale relationships? Unrefined petrol and shell casings?

Every time John looked at her, all he could see were mistakes, layered one after the other and then wrapped up in a box once the pressure flattened them into a jaggedly edged cube. Gift wrapped accidents, ready to be sent out.

Wasn't really an accident, was it, though?

***

He told Claire about the game when he got home.

"When is it?" Claire replied. She looked away from the radio for less than a second to acknowledge that John was talking.

"Tomorrow, around four."

"Who's going to be there?"

"Everyone that matters."

She shrugged uncaringly, her eyes still glued to the radio. "Go ahead."

The next morning, John rode the bus to work. He was thinking about the poker game, and then he started to think about who might be there, and then he thought about Sherlock, having sex with Sherlock.

Which lead to him absently pondering about the first time that Claire and he had sex, and how it great it was, and how much he'd loved her, afterwards. It'd been unplanned, spontaneous. It was a warm summer, and they'd just watched a movie with Cary Grant in it. John just loved Cary Grant, even though he'd never tell anyone that.

She'd taken his hand and placed it on her chest, and he'd kissed her until the car had fogged up and she was elated, unable to see straight. "We have to go home, Claire," he'd said, while kissing her. She'd said: "We don't, we don't."

They didn't go home. They drove out to the country, where the air was cool, and the moon seemed brighter. John, looking back on it now, knew it was.

And that was how it went. Sex with her used to be slow and intimate. And how could they replicate something so pure if they couldn't even be happy around one another? The only reason that Claire still loved him was because she was mandated to do so. John, on the other hand, felt no such need. Did that make him a bad person? Hypothetically, if he met someone who he could love more, better - would he be deserving of their love back? Or would it be a waste?

John knew that someday this would all come around to bite him. The issue was that he didn't care. He always had a predisposition for the dangerous, the stupid. His sister told him that that was who their family was.

When his father used to have a bit too much to drink, he'd come up with ideas like this. ("Let's go to America, John." "Let's sell our place." "I'm going to run for Parliament.") His mother was always there to press his back into the chair, and gently explain to him how and why these were horrible ideas. John and his sister never got such treatment.

When Harry was nineteen, she performed an illegal abortion on herself in the bathroom when their parents were out of house, touring on a political campaign.

John was the only one she told when she found she was pregnant. When she started hemorrhaging in her bed sheets a night later, John was the one who Harry told to fix it. "You're gonna be a doctor," she'd hissed out through her teeth, her eyes sharpened by agony. "You're my brother, and you're gonna be a doctor. You can do it." He wanted to call the ambulance, but he didn't, because Harry didn't want their parents to ever find out.

There was blood everywhere. John's hands were shaking; he was barely into medical school. Harry was wrong. He couldn't do it. She was screaming. Everything was screaming.

A long while afterwards, maybe days, maybe weeks, John asked her how she'd gotten pregnant in the first place. Who had. She said nothing, and her lip trembled, and John'd known. John always knew.

He beat up the guy who raped her with a baseball bat, and then enthused - violently - that if he ever went near her again, he'd wish he were dead.

John was bluffing, but he always was great at poker.

The Watsons were a respectable group, yet they drank, they did drugs, they had sex. They killed unborn children in their bathrooms late at night, because the boy next door couldn't keep his dick where it belonged.

They lied.

Sex had done nothing but get the Watsons into trouble. And here John was, perpetuating the cycle. Good things used to happen with Claire. She kept him good. She kept him down in his seat when he was drunk off his arse and this close to doing something stupid.

Now it was too late for that.

Work felt slow. There were no interesting cases, just a mass people filtering in and out. As soon as his shift was done, he practically sprinted out of the clinic. There were always one or two more patients, and chances were his boss would drag him away from the door last minute and assign him overtime. Which he didn't want. He knew it was rather selfish, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

When he got on the bus that was directed toward the city, where the gambling house was, John pressed his nose to the glass and looked outside.

It looked rather dank. The clouds obscured the sun, today, and the entire road was showered in gray light, pale and sheer. Leaves were beginning to fall, and they lightly sprinkled the ground in chrome yellows. It was cold. John huddled his coat close to him, fitting his hat more snugly onto his head. Soon, gloves like the ones he was wearing wouldn't be enough to keep him warm.

The suburbs slowly gradated into the city, signs hung on every slab of sidewalk, every corner. The bus dropped John off at the supermarket, to where he walked down a few city blocks, passing beggars and the rich alike.

A few minutes later, he came upon the gambling house. It was one of those high-end ones, with chandeliers and tall ceilings and the like. He saw a few men wearing suits walk in, accompanied by what must have been prostitutes. The taller one was smoking a cigar and laughing, his graying hair being carded through by a skinny, tightly-dressed girl's hand. She was speaking some language that John couldn't comprehend.

After a moment's pause, he followed them in, wary of the suited man who stood up front. He barely gave John a passing glance, unhooking a velvet red rope from a stanchion post. Apparently he fit under the body type of "unassuming."

Once he was inside, everything was quieter. The walls seemed to be sound proof. All John could truly hear was the sound of a gramophone, with a woman trilling out a sensual, lazy song. It was viscous, muffled, flowing throughout the building.

Everything was extravagant. The floors were carpeted in scarlet, and there were winding marble staircases on either side of the receptionist's desk. He went up to it, where a man was preoccupied with... a sudoku puzzle. He looked up. His eyes were like a fish's. "Hello, sir," he said in a strange accent. Danish, maybe.

The man smiled at him - a warm smile, but stretched thin. The receptionist looked like exactly the type of person who would host at a rich gambling house. Thin, with oily hair, and a dead-eyed stare. His name tag read: Charles.

"What can I do for you today, sir?" the receptionist asked, facing John.

John's eyes darted around the extravagant space before finally settling on his face. "I'm here for a poker game. It's at four."

The man nodded, presenting a login sheet. "Sign your name," he told John, his syllables garbled.

He took the pen and signed an alias, smiling at the receptionist as he retreated into the room where the noise was coming from. It was a low hum, hardly noticeable. John traced the steps of the man that came in before, looking for the entrance to the poker games that were being held across from the casino.

An opening came up, foggy with smoke. It reminded John of the kitchen after Claire was done cooking. John peered inside.

It was red and gold in there, as most exquisite venues were. Five tables were laid out, each accompanied by a group of men, quietly whispering to each other in low voices. Their suits were all tailored, sharp. John could see quite a few attractive men lazing together in the corner, sharing cigarettes and drinking something hard.

John finally stepped in, the stench of expensive liquor and cigars soaking the couches, the splendorous wallpaper. John's dress shoes clicked on the marble tiles as he removed his coat and hat, handing it off to a waiter, who scurried away. Men dressed in uniforms danced around the rooms, picking up glasses and exchanging then with martinis, wines.

He headed towards the bar to wait out the remaining five minutes, sliding in next to a middle aged man with a balding issue. He glanced over at John before taking a shot, his eyes dulled.

John looked for the bartender, clicking his nails on the varnished bar table before catching sight of him. He raised a hand, snapping once, and the man approached holding a mixer and a towel. "What would you like, sir?"

John's eyes surveyed the back of the bar, where the liquor was kept. Everything was colored chestnut brown. He hummed once before saying, "Wet gin martini. Two slivers of lime, well shaken, not stirred." The man was about to move away when John heard a familiar voice behind him.

"Hey, can I have one of those, too?" the person said, coming up to the bar. A hand clasped John's shoulder and he turned to see James, surprisingly clean-shaven... and wearing a suit. James smiled, his thick, dark eyebrows shooting up in mock surprise. "You waited for me," he said, sitting down, adjusting the collar of his shirt and making a face. "Flattered."

"Where's your jacket?" John said, incredulously, half smiling. He was wearing a fitted, black tuxedo in the stead of his denim jacket and t-shirt, with cuff links to match. James frowned sourly at him, shifting inside his clothes.

"Frannie insisted I wear a suit to a red carpet venue." He adjusted his bow tie. "It's tailored. I don't ever remember being fitted for it," James added, almost scoffing from the ridiculousness of him, wearing a suit.

He didn't look ridiculous. "You look..." John trailed, his words falling short as he ran his eyes over James's outfit. James gave him a look, his sharp blue eyes cutting through John's demeanor. "I look bad, I know."

John looked up from James's cuff links to his face, his mouth agape, bewildered. "You're a bloody prima donna, James," John chuckled disbelievingly. "How long did it take for Francis to get you to put that on? Christ."

James smirked, receiving his drink and nodding politely at the bartender. He put the drink to his lips, saying, "Let's just say that she's going to be making a lot of lasagna this month," before chugging it down.

A bell rang out, accompanied with a low voice. "If you all would take your places at the betting tables, please."

James shared a look with John, blowing him a kiss and mockingly waving goodbye. John shook his head. "You're not coming?"

James scoffed as if that was the stupidest thing he'd ever heard. "Not with you. Last time we played, you depleted half my fortune."

John chuckled, touching James's arm before getting his drink off the counter and walking away. "Give 'em hell!" he heard James shout at him.

A few other men slowly trickled in. One looked reprehensibly terrifying, tall and bald, one looked a bit too poor to be at this venue, and yet another was handsome and slim, coolly stirring his drink. A cigarette was in between his lips, and his eyes peeked underneath dark dark lashes to look his opponents over. His gaze finally settled on John, scrutinizing. Lastly was the woman with the thin lips and dyed, brittle hair.

Off from the side, the dealer popped into view with a deck of cards as someone loudly announced that the poker could begin. He sat down at the table, smoothing down his pinstripe suit with one hand and passing out two cards to each player with the other.

John's body went cold as the flop was produced - a seven of spades, a queen of hearts, and a jack of clubs. He stared at the green of the poker table as a woman deposited a sum of twenty pounds in the pot. The next man deposited forty.

It was his turn, when the actual betting began. John looked at his cards, peeling them from the table. He simmered a moment, thinking.

Then: "Raise. Three hundred fifty." John pushed in three hundred pounds' worth of chips into the center of the table, and watched all the players' faces twist, bewildered. The tall, frightening man glared at John, and John just smirked.

This was going to be a great night. He could feel it in the air.

***

At the surrounding tables, people were picked off, one by one, like flies. John was persistent. Never spoke, never kneaded his eyebrows, even though the sharp eyed man across the table kept on staring him down, evaluating.

The short, stubby man to his right kept on chewing his bottom lip. The one that looked too poor to be here blinked twice when he was bluffing. And James - he could see him at one of the other tables with a dwindling bank of chips - John had realized his bluff the very first time they played. His fingers would drum quickly on his leg, in a swift roll. John was good at poker.

He threw the group off. Everyone was calling, unsure if they should bet their money on something so newly established. John raised the bet every time. It unnerved them, he could tell.

John was good at poker because he was a good liar, and he could read people. It came naturally. Nuances in body language, a change in the air. A feeling.

If someone finished their cigarette in under five minutes, something was wrong.

If they crossed their arms away from the other players, something was wrong.

If they smiled... something was wrong.

When John won (and he irrefutably won, as he knew he was going to) his opponent shook his head, mashed his cigarette into an ashtray, and folded right there with one thousand pounds in the pot. He adjusted himself, giving John a prissy look before snapping over a barman. "Martini," he demanded shortly.

"Dry or sweet?"

"Does it look like I give a damn?"

The barman scurried away, looking impassive. He must have gotten that all the time: annoyed rich kids that just lost half their father's paycheck.

He left a while later in terribly bad spirits, a cigarette in between his fingers glowing red hot. He didn't bother to tap the ashes into a tray, instead deliberately letting the particles float onto the marble floor, like dust in sunlight, hovering. His mates seemed to fly in from the sides, holding him upright. He pushed them away, his eyes fierce and glowering, like the butt of the cigarette.

John watched the boys from his seat as they turned to look at him, their expressions almost bewildered. One looked frightened, and soon they were hurrying out the door, yelling at each other. John only saw their lips move.

He wondered what was going on there.

It had somehow gotten hazier - light from the entrance that John had stumbled in was turning taupe. The gramophone seemed louder. People's voices were rising, rising - like tides, affected by alcohol and cigarettes. No one knew how much money they were betting anymore, just that their bodies were becoming tenser and sweatier and their hearts were cooling down. James was nowhere to be seen.

The boisterous laughing of a tall man holding a glass of whiskey brought John out of it, back to the present. He stood up and started walking around, looking for his undoubtedly hammered friend. James always made a fool out of himself with the lightest amount of alcohol possible.

The party goers were laughing and twisting and turning around him, their bodies purposeless. John tried not to make eye contact with any of them, lest any of the escorts try and tag him down.

And then he saw it: a flash of brown curly hair and pale skin. John's heart nearly stopped in his chest.

Why the fuck is he here?

And what the fuck could John say to him if they caught one another's eye?

"Thanks for the handjob. How're you faring?"

John thought back to their agreement: strictly business, strictly cause and effect, strictly action and reaction. There would be no changed variables, no sudden surprises. John would not talk to him.

John would not talk to him.

John would not talk to-

Suddenly, he felt a clammy hand
pulling him nearly halfway across the room, away from Sherlock's line of sight. He looked away to try to get a view of his captor, but the person was moving too quickly, practically stumbling into the bar stools.

John's eyes darted back to where Sherlock was, but his body was a cold figment. He nearly yanked his gelled up hair out with the one hand that wasn't being pulled in the opposite direction, swearing silently to himself. He finally settled to a halt, surrounded by a group of men - and James. Was that cash in his hand? And why was he just - waving it around?

"Hey, John."

Oh. He was buzzed.

"James, Jesus Christ. Tell me you didn't."

"John." James pulled John super close, whispering, and John's heartbeat immediately picked up. "There is some stuff, in the back, that some guy named Thornton gave me to drink - and sweet Jesus. It was" - James hiccuped into the shell of John's ear - "strong."

"Don't offer me any," John said absently, trying to get away. James grabbed on his wrist and pulled him back, significantly stronger. "John," he said. "You have to be here to make sure that I don't do anything stupid."

John turned to look at him, his face unamused. "What," he drawled, "like make sure you don't commit arson? Come on." John patted his back once before ripping from his grasp. "You'll be fine."

James didn't look so sure, the hand that was holding his wads of cash scratching the back of his head. John stopped walking when he was close to freedom, slowly turning back to James and frowning. "To start with, put the notes in your pocket."

"What notes?" James said, looking confused.

"The ones in your fucking hand, James." John shot a quick look back. His view of Sherlock was obscured by a large man, adorned in a pinstripe suit. John's fists clenched. This was better. No talking to Sherlock, no looking at Sherlock. No wanting Sherlock to drag him into a bathroom stall and force him to his knees. No needing Sherlock to whisper dirty things into his ear while he fucked him open with his fingers.

John nearly jumped out of his skin when he suddenly felt the warmth of James's hand on his thigh. "Hey," he said. "John. Two o'clock. I mean - shit. Eight. Not the time, the position. You know. Turn. Wait! Not now! He's looking at us."

John kept his eyes forward, and then looked at James, whose eyes were transfixed upon a body. John was starting to look at what James was when he hissed. "I said not to look, John."

"You were looking."

"Yeah. We can't both look, now, can we?"

"Just" - John swiveled in his seat to look at whoever James was talking about - "who is i..."

A man with pitch black eyes was walking towards them. Not specifically focused, of course. He called for a drink, talked to a man that was holding a suitcase. His footsteps were strangely slow, syrupy. The man almost danced, with the way he walked, like he was foxtrotting towards them, swing jazz in his step. There was a tiger stalking prey in his eyes.

"Gee," James whispered to John. "He looks ready to kill somebody."

"There's a gun in his belt, James," John eased out, slow. "Do you know what make it is?"

"I'm too drunk for this crap, John."

"Just look."

James squinted eyes, trying to catch sight of it. "Semi," he commented. "Gotta be Italian. Or German. We don't... America doesn't make guns that look like that."

John turned to look at James, cynical. "You don't make black guns?"

James snorted. "I mean - I mean, we do. But the pistol is too compact."

"Must be extremely light."

"No way." James shook his head. "That must be pure steel. It's gotta be more than a pound. Maybe a little more than half a kilogram."

"Well, you're the gun expert, I suppose," John said, fixating on the man's face. Lights were bearing upon his brow. His face was oily, a stripe of white sheen painted on his forehead from a mixture of sweat and incandescent light.

"I was a gunman," James reminded him lowly, still tracing the man across the room with his eyes.

John chuckled. "You were a fighter pilot."

James shrugged, ruffling John's hair and laughing. "I got bored, occasionally." He then paused, thinking, and John's body tensed. When James thought, very bad things happened.

"We could just ask him," James blurted.

"Ah, no."

"Why not?"

"Because that is a German gun and your girlfriend is a black Jew...?" John breathed. "And I know you don't like getting shot at if you're not the only one getting shot at."

"He's not gonna fucking know unless someone tells him."

"That doesn't mean he's not going to..." John trailed as the man turned to look at them, his lips quirking up into a filthy smirk. "He's gonna walk over here. Why is he smiling, James?"

"I don't know why he's smiling, I thought you knew - why is he smiling?" James hissed, his voice blending into John's.

"I don't know why he's-"

"Why the shit-"

"I don't know, you utter...!"

"He's coming close, what should we do-"

"Yeah, shutting up would be a good start-"

"Shut the fuck up!" James whisper-shouted, "Look cool, act cool, be cool. I'll distract him."

"Shut up a second, James. For fuck's sake," John said, his gaze flickering to meet the strange man's eyes. Chills erupted on John's neck as the man stalked closer, keeping cold eye contact with them both, his suit black as death. His mouth was somehow chewing on something, even though there was nothing in it. He sidled up next to John, leaning on the poker table.

The man looked between them both, silent and grinning, daring them to speak. John was fixated on his jaw.

Chewing.

Chewing.

"Hi, boys."

His voice was a lot higher than what John had imagined. Strangely, John couldn't speak. His throat had closed in this man's presence. James looked the same: dumbfounded.

"What?" the man continued, leaning languidly onto the poker table. "Cat got your tongue?"

John sat up a bit straighter, to gather confidence. "Are you here to play, Mr...?"

"Oh," the man giggled, his eyes somehow becoming darker, more depraved. "I'm Jim Moriarty. Sorry." He grinned. Like the Cheshire Cat. "Sometimes I forget to introduce myself."