It was 3:30 in the fucking morning.

Perhaps I should be accustomed to his strange behaviors, his random displays of psychosis, but there is no pattern to his disorder. Sometimes he'd talk endlessly about very small details in his plans that the police have missed, the smallest loopholes he creates at times, 'unforgivable mistakes', as he'd call them. Sometimes he'd only talk about fairy tales as if they were the most important thing in his life. He'd gather different versions of the same tale, scrutinize each of them, come up with the most unimaginable double meanings behind them, and I am usually the person who sits through his speeches.

Throughout my career, I have been nearly shot, stitched, throttled, threatened, kissed, fucked, adored, and strangely, even a combination of the above at the same time. Yet I am still as clueless about his next moves as I was six years ago. There is a certain freshness about him, about his twisted state of mind. I constantly felt like burning coal was placed on my open wounds, and then poured over with freezing ice when I was around him. So I stayed around, as his most trusted sniper.

So it shouldn't have seemed unusual to me when I got woken up at 3:30 am, hours prior to my reporting time, by a phone call that demanded my immediate assistance.

When I woke up at the ungodly hour and arrived at his room, I saw him just in his brown boss coat, and black pants, reading the newspaper. He seemed to have been sitting there for a very long time, with his eyes were trained on just one article.

"Good morning, boss," I said.

He acknowledged me.

"Sherlock Holmes," he announced, looking up from the article. He closed the newspaper, tightly folding it along the crease with his fingers, and set it on the glass table in front of him. He looked at the crease adoringly, and I watched his fingers press the fold neatly to make it tight. It was so enchanting, but so threatening, even if it was just a piece of paper. He abandoned it, and rose from the chair, "you've heard of him."

"Read about him," I glanced away from his figure.

He approached me, smiling slightly. "I've found him, Sebastian," he said, nodding at perhaps his own voices in his head. The smile was so unsettling, that I had to resist myself from moving back an inch. "Oh, I've found him."

"Sherlock Holmes?"

"The man I've been searching for for a very long time. You think he'd actually come close to stopping me?" He asked excitedly, facing his back to me to go over to the window. People passing by, luxury cars driving in and out by valets, this was a scene we'd usually see from our hotel rooms.

"I don't know, sir," I said. If I said yes, he might suddenly turn angry at the thought of anybody being so capable, and if I said no, he'd get angry at me not agreeing with him. 4 am wasn't the best time to die, in my opinion.

"Come on, be honest," he drawled, lilting his tone in a playful manner. Still, every moment around him, regardless of his mood, felt as if the floor beneath me could vanish any time without warning, and drop me into a fire pit.

"Perhaps he might," I said.

A small smile. It grew larger on his face, and I could see it perfectly well from my angle. "That's good, it's wonderful."

He threw his coat off his bare shoulders, and flexed his arms up, grasping them behind his head.

"Get your things," he said, referring to guns and blades. "Meet me in the cab downstairs," he said, rushing to his wardrobe.

"Cab?"

"Yes, is there a problem?" He asked, snapping his head to meet my eyes directly. Angrily at first, and then they slowly softened, to give me a very innocent, almost adorable look.

It took me a few seconds, and then I caught on. "Oh," I said, nodding my head. "Should I wear anything specific, then?"

The look vanished again, and his usual cold expression came back, tinted with a bit of humor. "No, you're fine like this," he waved dismissively.

Jim pulled a simple t-shirt over his head and proceeded to take off his belt, stripping his pants off entirely. I turned away automatically, when he touched the band of his underwear, and started to make my arrangements for my work.

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The cab ride was filled with the feeble music I heard from his earphones. A Beetles song, and then a Rolling Stones song. And then they played again on repeat, so much that the tune was stuck in my head too. I didn't say anything throughout, because it wasn't my job to do so.

The moment we arrived, in the heart of London, my boss went out, paying the driver and tipping him generously, but more out of laziness than out of kindness, from what I could read. He didn't say a word to me as he walked out, around in the streets of London.

My job, currently, was only to protect him, make sure that in the unlikely event that he does get recognized, I shoot down any threats. I might've spent about sixteen hours on foot, following him around nearly every street around here. Strangely, he didn't do anything but walk. He'd stop occasionally to ask for directions - to who knows where - and then continue walking, looking down the entire time.

There were times I wanted to be in his head, to know exactly what was going on. To be able to read every inch of it. But at times when he'd talk to me, I wish the complete opposite. From what I gathered, he was a very unstable man, with chaotic thoughts so neatly organized.

The most shocking part of the entire day, however, was when he walked into a pub when the sun started setting down. Hesitantly, I followed, more out of curiosity than the need to do my job.

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I have seen stranger things in my life.

From my spot in the pub, far away from my boss, but close enough so I can defend him, I saw him in the most unimaginable position. He was talking animatedly to a few people around him, making friends very easily, playing his charms. To any observer, he seemed to be childhood friends, perhaps even family, to men next to him. That wasn't the only thing different. Boss was acting drunk, and I only knew he was acting because I know he doesn't ever lay a finger on alcohol.

Nor does he flirt with just any woman.

I stared at him intensely, hoping my gaze would burn him enough to make him notice. He winked at me discreetly, and I grinned back, having got the signal. Jim got up from his place, still saying something. He saluted the man to his right, kissed the woman in front of him on her cheek and kept bidding goodbye as he left his seat and walked out of the bar. I was holding my itch to blow her up and waited for him to get out of my way.

Taking my aim steadily, I shot the stupid wine glass in her hands, before hurrying out of the pub.

Boss never told me much about his work, but I presumed he had got what he wanted. I was only allowed to wait and watch his next moves. So I did, until midnight, in his room, practicing my aim, although it was unnecessary. I didn't even realize that he was standing outside his room until he spoke.

"That wasn't necessary."

"I'm sorry?"

"Didn't have to shoot her glass. She was rather helpful," he said, but his accent was more British than it was his regular Irish. He noticed my slight confusion, and said, "Act. Sticks with me sometimes, if I do it for a long time," he waved his hand about.

"Would you tell me then? What the hell were you up to the entire day?"

He raised his brows at me, questioningly.

"Sir," I added.

"Research. I'd know more about Holmes if I talked to ordinary people than just reading some silly journalist's views in the paper," he explained. "Nobody would gossip with a criminal businessman, so a common Londoner was the best option I had. Bring up a strange mystery, get their attention, wait for them to suggest I go to Sherlock Holmes, and steer the conversation in that direction."

"And the walking?"

"Building."

"Building?"

"My own palace, Moran," he grinned, suddenly seeming to in a good mood. "Right in the heart of London. This is where my throne stands."

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(The picture in the media is the brown boss coat I was talking about. To aid your imagination, that's all)