Hi everyone. So I actually managed a short chapter. I hope to write more for my other stories soon...but this was a big step for me. I haven't typed anything in so long :) Well I hope you enjoy it. Comments are enlivening! Yah! Cheers -


It was a defining roar; a sound so great that it shook the very foundation on the Arena. Men glanced through the cracked boards and iron bars to catch a glimpse of the Sands, their bodies taut with anticipation. Others, the younger brethren, whispered prayers to the Gods, their fear of survival written across their guises. The smell was of dirt, sweat and stench. Rays of sunshine broke through the roofs that were lined with red cloth, the wind offering a welcome hand. Horses neighed their retorts while hooves dug into the hot sand now tainted with blood. Shouts of triumph followed by the bellow of anger filled the Arena as the Romans dragged the body towards the lions below.

John could feel his heart hammering in his chest. He sat apart from the others, eyes closed and breath steady. The day had finally arrived. The past few months had flown by in preparation for the Games, leaving John nothing but training. Forever, it had seemed, since John had last laid eyes upon Sherlock. The warrior knew that his Dominus would be present; watching the carnage below with eyes that shone with mysterious brilliance, the familiar quirk of lips. He had sensed those greyish eyes upon him during training, but John did not have the leisure of responding to those glances, no matter how much he desired it. There had been many lonely nights spent wondering, wishing for a dream that would never be. To feel those strong delicate hands caress his flesh, those lips to forcibly steal kisses.

Horns sounded, breaking John out of his thoughts. The crowd shrieked with glee as the latest opponent lay waste to the Sands, the victor allowed a standing applause. The gates groaned as the soldiers re-opened the locks; a blood soaked Sulvius striving forth. The man wore a manic expression; lips pulled back in a feral smile that showed teeth stained with his own blood. John tensed, golden eyes clouded with rising memories, but the Champion was too engrossed with his victory.

The last months had been hard on John. He had evaded Sulvius' attempts of rape much to the mans rage. It had stopped, allowing John time to recover sleep but after, he had noticed that the young boy Amicus had bruises adorning his body. The boy seemed to ghost through the men, eyes downcast, refusing contact from anyone, including John himself. Gallus then confirmed John's fear that the boy had been taken in by Sulvius. John had pushed his way to the offending man and struck Sulvius with all the hatred he could muster. After the uproar, John was punished to a cell without food or water. He was allotted ten lashes but the pain seemed a small price to pay for the grief the boy had had to endure. The next morning, news of Amicus' death spread throughout the gladiators. He had hung himself, Gallus had said, for he no longer had the strength to fight. It was then that the golden eyed warrior swore the oath that on the Sands he would strike Sulvius down, leaving his soul for the Undertaker.

Watching the man covered with his brethren's blood, John felt the bull of rage stampede throughout his being. He had this battle to fight and then he would face Sulvius. This was the day he would bring the boys soul to peace. This was the day to which all of Rome would know his name.


"By all the Gods, don't be so boring; smile for the crowd." Moriarty grinned, intoxicated by the peoples need for violence. The air was thick with the aroma of women, wine and human odor. Two new gladiators had entered the ring, the horn sounding for their battle to begin.

Sherlock snorted, brows furrowed in distaste. He had been studying Moriarty these past months, trying to deduct what plans the man had for Rome, yet nothing drew attention to any sort of scandal. It had been time away from John, much to the youths displeasure. But Moriarty seemed to have lost interest of John, which did little to ease Sherlocks suspicions. Once Moriarty had found something to interest his fantasies, he was never one to let go.

"I do not care for such disgusting company who care only for themselves and for the blood spilled on the Sands." Sherlock hissed quietly.

"Yet here you are, waiting for your man to fight in the Arena for all those disgusting creatures."

"Only to fight for honour and to have you grovelling at my feet."

"Without me, Sherlock, you are nothing."


"We are alike, you and I," the dark haired man sighed as a slave massaged his shoulders. "But you are the boring one. Such a shame really."

"It seems you've wormed your way into Rome." Sherlock noted calmly. He did not want to have that conversation. Again.

"Ah, magnificent isn't it, Rome; such a wondrous city filled with sin."

"Managed to bribe every elite member-"

"A city with so much potential-"

"- to work your schemes." Sherlock waved away the slave offering him fruit. He could feel anger welling inside of him.

"Well every person has their pressure points. But schemes? I am highly offended!" Moriarty clutched his chest mockingly, eyes wide in spurious horror.

"So how are you going to do it?"

"Does this have something to do with you following me throughout the city?"

Sherlock turned to look at the man sitting beside his person. Those dark eyes were unreadable, lips holding a small grin.

"You are adorable; following me around Rome. Reminds me of the good old days; you chasing after me, oh and the sex-"

"You fucking bastard. What do you plan to do? Burn me?" Sherlock calmly asked, eyes as cold as the sea.

"Heaven's no."

"You have wealth, power. Why come to the city?"

"Let's just say I got bored of common society. Ah, now the fun is about to begin. My Gladiator against-"

The blare of horns cut through Moriarty's words, drowning out his voice. The people roared out a name that caused Sherlock to cease breath. John. Gray eyes turned to the Sands to see his Gladiator stride to the centre, face grim with determination.


John strode towards the centre of the Arena, feet hot upon the golden sand. He could feel the sweat bead on his his neck, the breeze raising goosebumps. His heart hammering in his chest, the golden eyed man surveyed the masses. The stone Colosseum was filled with bodies; some fully clothes, some topless with wine spilling from open mouths as they shouted out into the sky. Never had John Watson been in the presents of such numbers. He took a deep breath, willing his mind to focus in on the task at hand. Survive.

He felt a shiver run down his spine. Turning he looked up towards one of the balconies. His breath caught in his throat. Sherlock. The youth sat up high, wearing a dark sapphire robe decorated with white. A gold crown weaved itself artfully throughout the mass of ebony curls, kissing the locks. His eyes bore down at John; a thundercloud of emotion, but then settled down, unreadable as always. John exhaled. He must survive. No matter what.

He tore his gaze away as the gate opposite opened. John felt blood run cold. A man, no less then six feet, crossed the sands with arms like the trunks of trees. He bellowed and the crowd screeched their approvals. Horns blasted, drums sounded from the tops of the Colosseum. John gripped the two swords in his fists, nostrils flaring. The arena announcer shouted the second name. Golem.

John bit his lip, praying to the Gods above as the giant charged, spear and sword in hand. With a twist John plunged to the right, spinning to avoid the sword aimed for his side. He felt the air touch his hip; blade narrowly missing flesh. The Golem was built like a demon; muscle scarred with old battle wounds, veins bulging from the neck and hands the size of boulders.

With a grunt, John pivoted. The cold metal danced with him, biting into the Golem's leg. The giant reacted by striking his leg back, catching John in the thigh. Suppressing a groan John rolled, missing the jab of the spear aimed for his throat. The weapon felt heavy as John stood, blood dripping from the tip. With a cry, the taller man surged, madly cutting his blade across. They fought, each cutting into flesh as blood began to stain the earth. John swore as the spear grazed his cheek. Too close. A deep rumble exploded from John as he ducked, bringing his two sword in close. The metal tore through the sartorius muscle; the giant landing on one knee, his muscle now severed completely. John drove the blade deeper, blood spattering his chest. He managed to retract one blade before the other man threw him back.

The golden eyed warrior coughed on impact, the earth hot and relentless. He struggled to his feet, eyes never leaving the furious visage of the giant. With a cry so loud it shook the very Colosseum, the Golem struggled upright ignoring the red pooling beneath his feet. John flexed his arms, sword ready. A soft breath of silence, the faint cry of birds from above and the sudden explosion of sound was all John needed. He rushed, dropped and slid on his legs down under the larger Gladiator, severing the ligaments in the leg. With a motion so fast, the warrior spun and drove his steel into the back of the Golem. What John didn't anticipate was the spear that drove deep into his shoulder.

A cry ripped past the blond's lips, as the Golem gurgled a blood filled laugh. John felt the tears form. He gripped the spear, attempting to free himself. The giant, managed a grin before falling unto the sands his eyes unseeing into the sun.