#ff writing

I don't know if the link is legit for a simple reason: it asks you about an ID, the ID then appear related to a FF (of course) but it doesn't say if it was used or not as food for AI

Does anyone have more info?

Draco Malfoy kept counting the reps, ignoring the footsteps coming from the other end of the long, silent hallway. He knew it was Officer Goyle from the sound alone—a hard-wired skill he'd perfected in what felt like another lifetime. That it was this particular guard was the sole reason he didn't stop his second set of push-ups. Any other person heading toward his temporary cell in segregation would have him on high alert.

Eighty-seven. Eighty-eight. Eighty-nine.

Draco carried on with his morning routine. It was a practice he'd instilled within himself five years into his sentence—a year after a jury of twelve had decided he was too dangerous to be let out into civilised society ever again. The rigorous habit kept him sane.

One hundred and two. One hundred and three. One hundred and four.

He had been far from sane that first year. He'd descended into madness made of white-hot fury, blinding pain and debilitating helplessness. He'd spent the better part of that year in the segregation unit as punishment for fighting—some he'd instigated, others he'd been forced into but relished all the same. The scars on his body were a braille account of those fights. An ode to his self-destruction and proof that his sense of self-preservation had prevailed. Because at the end of every one of those violent encounters, he'd emerged victorious and breathing—alive.

Tired of not dying and too much of a coward to end it all, Draco had turned to a strict regimen of physical exercises to keep his mind—what was left of it—intact.

The footsteps stopped in front of his cell, and the narrow window slid open.

"Your 72 hours are up, Malfoy. Get up and face the wall."

Draco stopped, arms taut and muscles burning. He jumped to his feet and grabbed his prison-issued shirt from the cot. He wiped his forehead before throwing it on, then faced the wall as instructed, with his hands behind his back because he knew the drill all too well.

The steel door opened and Officer Goyle stepped inside the 5m² shoebox. Cold metal clicked around his wrists.

"Bloody hell, you need a shower," the guard said, pushing him to walk ahead.

Draco didn't comment. He used to. That first year, most of his fights had been with prison officers. The result of a twisted game he'd found a sick joy in—pushing their buttons, cataloguing which ones reacted to which type of taunts. Some required little incentive to smash his face into a wall or use their batons to bring him to his knees.

But they would often stop at that, to his immense displeasure. He'd then open his mouth and egg them on with crazed laughter and cutting remarks about their low intellect, their poor performance in bed, the small size of their dick, and if all failed—the dubious nature of their mothers' nighttime activities. It was a wonder all his perfect, straight teeth remained in his mouth.

"Too bad you won't get to shower until you're done with your solicitor. "

Draco's steps halted.

"Oi, keep going."

He barely registered the baton nudging his back.

"My solicitor?" he asked, feet moving again.

His voice was low and gravely from disuse. Not that he spoke all that often outside of his time 3-days in confinement.

"Yeah, pretty little thing, too. Hope she's got a strong stomach."

Draco didn't have a solicitor. He had no use for one. His sentence of mandatory life was set in stone. Barring some miracle, he was never getting out.

So what the fuck was going?

As Officer Goyle marched him out of the segregation unit, Draco's mind tried and failed to make sense of this sudden development.

"What's her name?"

"What?"

"The solicitor."

"Susan Bones."

The flicker of something like hope sparked in his chest, but he promptly snuffed it out. Hope had no place in his life. Hope had died a miserable and final death six years ago—the day the Crown Court had delivered a verdict of "Guilty" with a dispassionate, almost bored tone.

He'd absorbed the word without flinching. The only outward sign of his burning, boiling, all-consuming rage had been his clenched fists at his sides. But inside—inside Draco had been screaming.

The rage was still there, though it was silent now. It had burrowed into his soul, in the marrow of his bones. It was a part of him, like a second shadow, born out of unbearable scalding injustice, scorching betrayal and blistering duplicity. There was no exorcising it.

Seven years trapped in a never-ending nightmare.

Seven years since his life had suddenly, inexplicably, morphed into something unrecognisable—a terrible and terrifying sort of alternate reality.

Seven years since he'd woken up one ordinary morning to find his fiancée dead on the other side of the bed—her body painted crimson, and the smell of death and iron permeating the air.

Before he could process what he was seeing, the door to his flat had burst open and a veritable armada of law enforcement had barged in, guns drawn and barking orders at him. He hadn't even registered the knife in his hand until they had shouted for him to drop his weapon and get on the floor. They hadn't given him time to follow their orders before dragging him out of bed and onto his stomach, a knee digging in his back, pressing his lungs into his ribcage as handcuffs closed around his wrists.

The rest was a blur of being asked to strip off of his bloody t-shirt and boxers, then sitting in borrowed and scratchy clothes in a windowless interrogation room while the authorities-that-be took turns asking him questions he had no answer to, accusing him of things he had no memory of, and blaming him for things he could never have done. Then he'd come.

His childhood friend.

His best friend.

Theodore Nott, Crown Prosecutor.

Just waltzed through the door like some proverbial knight in shining armour. Cleared the room, halted the recording, got him coffee, and, eyes full of compassion, asked him if he was okay.

Voice full of outrage. Telling him it was ridiculous. It was absurd. A hand pressing onto his shoulder, assuring him he was going to clear everything up.

You will be home before you know it, Draco.

What a load of shit.

He'd believed it all like a fucking imbecile. Swallowed the lies the man he trusted with his life shoved down his throat with a reassuring smile and let himself be led to the slaughter like a naïve little lamb.

The next time he saw Theodore Nott was ten months later when Draco had entered the courtroom for his trial and his steps faltered at the sight of the piece of shit in his robes, waiting to annihilate him.

Throughout the entire proceedings, Draco, jaw clenched and eyes burning with loathing and suppressed furor, had watched as Theodore Nott orchestrated his demise with Machiavellian ruthlessness—spinning an intricate web of falsehoods and forged truths about how Draco Malfoy was an unstable and disturbed man who deserved nothing less than the maximum sentence available under the law. Feeding the jury tales about how he'd abused his victim long before he'd finally snapped and stabbed sweet, innocent Astoria Greengrass seven times, extinguishing her young life for no reason.

Even back then, he'd known it was futile to hope. The case against him was damning. A foolproof collection of evidence that the small inconsistencies his barrister had pointed out couldn't put a dent in, let alone sway anyone in his favour.

The knife was his, yes. It had come from his own kitchen, true. But the medical examiner's report stated that the killer had been right-handed.

Draco was left-handed. Had been since the day he was born.

And although his heavily redacted personal file at the SIS marked him as ambidextrous, there was no one to point that out in court. His former bosses had made sure his identity as an agent was nowhere near the clusterfuck his life had become. Because of his position within the organisation, the sensitive nature of his work and in keeping with the rules and regulations, Draco had been tried under his other identity—as a successful yet mundane financial advisor and business consultant.

Media coverage had been kept to a minimum, and with no picture of him anywhere to be found. That had been the extent of what his former employers had done for him. And while Draco understood why—the SIS came first, always, and with no exception—some days, their swift and complete desertion was difficult to swallow.

So what was Susan Bones doing here, masquerading as a solicitor?

They stopped in front of a glass window and Officer Goyle greeted the guard inside.

"Prisoner A1909HG for a visit from his legals."

The other officer nodded and wrote something on a clipboard before pressing a button to let them through the metal gate. They walked past two doors before stopping again next to the officer standing guard beside a third one.

"Right, don't try anything stupid when I take these off."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Goyle chortled as he refastened the cuffs to his belt before opening the door.

Draco stepped into the room. However, when it shut behind him, he didn't move any further.

Alarm bells blared through his mind and his body tensed. He never questioned his instincts—despite what happened with Nott. They had saved his life more than once, and if his immediate reaction was to proceed carefully, Draco was bloody well going to listen.

One thing was clear right away—the woman sitting at the table in the center of the small room was not Susan Bones.

The silence stretched as he stood motionless behind her. He couldn't help but find her choice of sitting with her back to the door, to him, unnerving. It was either a ploy designed to make him drop his guard or a play intended to show she didn't consider him as a threat. Either way, Draco knew it was a calculated move.

"Take a seat, Mr Malfoy. We have quite a bit to discuss."

There was an edge to her voice. She sounded like someone who commanded people for a living, rather than a solicitor. It made him want to see her face.

With measured steps, Draco walked around the table to face her. She didn't lift her head from the documents on the table until he sat down. He took in her short blond hair, her fair complexion enhanced by the dark suit she wore, but, more than anything else, her eyes were what he focused on.

The old saying wasn't wrong: the eyes were truly the windows to the soul. At least for the trained eye. And Draco had received the best training in the world.

Blue irises behind black-rimmed glasses.

Cold, hard, assessing eyes.

Deadly eyes.

An unwelcome shiver slithered down Draco's back.

He'd seen eyes like those before. He'd dealt with people with eyes like those before—hell, he'd killed people with eyes like those before.

Whoever this woman was, she was dangerous.

"Who are you?"

Her eyes gleamed with amusement, and her lips stretched in a predatory smile.

"Why, your new solicitor, of course."

"We both know you're not, so you either tell me who you are or I call that guard outside and we can all go have a chat with the Deputy Governor. I'm sure he'd love to know you've infiltrated his prison under false pretences."

She leaned back and crossed her arms against her chest. That cruel smile only deepened.

"We could do that," she nodded. "But then I'd walk out of here a free woman and you'd still be stuck in a two by three cell for the rest of your life for a crime you didn't commit."

That treacherous spark of hope came alive again. He'd waited seven years for someone to say those words to him, to believe his innocence. However, he didn't know this mystery woman for Adam, and everything about her made him weary. He kept his expression neutral and replied to her comment with a disinterested shrug.

"They found me guilty."

She chuckled, plucking an invisible lint off of her black suit with a sort of practised nonchalance that reminded him of himself before his life went down the drain. The thought was disturbing.

"Yes. That prosecutor did a marvellous job to ensure they would."

He sat straighter, rigid. His jaw clenched and the hands on his thighs tightened into fists. She didn't miss any of it, and he glared at her.

"Did he send you here?"

She just stared at him with a bored expression that did nothing to assuage his mounting irritation. When she remained silent, he pushed to his feet, ready to walk through the door and leave her to her aggravating game.

"Sit down. I have nothing to do with Nott."

He kept standing, and she rolled her eyes and sighed. Her demeanour changed and all sense of ennui vanished in favour of a serious, nonsense tone.

"Fine, let's get this over with," she gestured to the chair, and he complied.

"I can get you out of here."

He scoffed and leaned back against the chair, arms crossed.

"I mean it, Malfoy," he enjoyed the irritation that tightened her features far too much. "If you listen to me, you'll be a free man by tomorrow night."

Draco's smirk froze on his lips. The self-assured manner she said those words, the absolute confidence in her eyes as she pinned him with her penetrating gaze—his pulse quickened and the hope that stirred in his chest was much bigger than a spark, and he hated her for it.

"Unless you have a magic wand in that briefcase, I don't see how you can make that happen."

An unreadable expression flashed on her face before she schooled her features once more.

"I am not in the habit of saying things I don't mean or making promises I can't keep." he heard the truth in her voice and hope spread through his veins, unbridled. "You do as I say and you're out tomorrow."

He had nothing to lose. Nothing to look forward to. There was no real downside to putting his faith in this stranger. If he said yes and she was lying, the worst that could happen to him would be his death. And if she was as genuine as she wanted him to believe, he'd be free.

However, there was a question he needed an answer to before taking the leap.

"How do you know I'm not guilty?"

Half a smile lifted the corner of her lips. "We both know you've got the skills to get rid of people without leaving a whisper of a trace. You also seem to have an aversion to using said skills on women, a policy which, by the way, I'm amazed hasn't gotten you killed."

Taken aback, Draco just blinked at her. Since she had used Bones' name to get his attention and lure him into meeting with her, he knew she was aware of his former status as an SIS agent. Still, his categorical refusal to dispatch women was not information she could have found at random. And that meant whoever she was or whoever she was working for had connections in high places. It made the hope burn brighter in his mind.

She snickered and shook her head, "killed by warped sexism, truly a stupid way to go."

She sounded bemused rather than malicious, but it did nothing to soothe Draco's indignation. He opened his mouth to argue, but she cut him off.

"So, what will it be? You can refuse and walk out that door, but once you do, know that you'll never see me again."

He might not know who she was or where she came from but, somehow, he could sense that she was lying about that last part. Draco found it intriguing enough to let her earlier jab go.

"Why are you doing this?"

Her eyes darted somewhere over his shoulder and she pulled on her sleeve in what looked to him like a nervous gesture. The question made her uncomfortable, and the unexpected reaction piqued his interest.

"Does it matter?"

Did it? He took a moment to consider the question.

"It doesn't."

Her shoulders relaxed, but he wasn't done.

"At least, not right now." He fully intended to get an answer after it was all said and done.

He took her curt nod as tacit agreement and reclined in his seat once more.

"What do I need to do?"

That predatory smile graced her lips again, sending another shiver down his spine. Whatever she was about to say, Draco had the sinking feeling he was not going to like it.

"First, you need to die."

Turning Page - Chapter 1 finally on AO3! 

Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Gregory Lestrade, John Watson/Sherlock Holmes

Tags: Strangers to Lovers, Falling In Love, Love Confessions, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Loss, Greg is Sweet, Protective Greg, Greg Lestrade Flirts, Mycroft is bad at feelings, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock is a Brat, John is a Good Friend, Everyone Is Gay