Response to the following anonymous prompt on sherlockbbc-fic . livejournal .com:
Sherlock is kidnapped by Moran/an associate of Moriarty's/Jim himself. Under threat that John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and Molly will all meet a very specific awful end if he doesn't comply, Sherlock does not attempt to escape. His captors try and force him to by treating him cruelly - trying to provoke him, sleep deprivation, humiliation, abuse whatever. Sherlock may go a bit mad. Bonus if he shows up on one of his friend's doorsteps three years later, completely mute and catatonic. Bonus if someone (Mycroft, etc) pushes to have him sectioned.
Note: Title is from a poem by Robert Frost.
Story contains a lot of hurt!Sherlock in the very beginning but most of it is comfort. Rated M just to be safe. Sherlock's headspace proved to be quite the challenge. I enjoyed writing this, and I hoped it turned out semi-believable
The door is open. He could – he should (no, no. he shouldn't shouldn't, couldn't, won't) walk through it. It would defeat the purpose. The moment he steps beyond that door…others take his place.
Names. He needs names. The names are vital. Once he loses the names, he loses everything.
There's John. Always John. Everlasting John.
He smiles at the name. How he imagines it sounds. Nothing else comes forth.
He knows there's more. Others he's forgetting. The strange inkling behind his brow tells him this should bother him. Shapes and letters swirl in his mind, but there's nothing he can latch unto beyond the inexplicable, curved, rounded feeling of John.
For now, it's enough.
Hallow sounds of footsteps echo off the walls. Each one leaves an imprint of his brain, springing up words with little meaning.
Leather.
John Lobb.
Size nine.
He feels a firm pressure on his side long before he registers that the footsteps have stopped.
The pressure slowly increases, shifting the sixth rib (the one that's fractured, not broken) inward.
"My, my, haven't you become ever so dull."
The voice is familiar, lilting, and makes him cringe like nails on a chalkboard. There's a sharp tug to his hair and suddenly he's looking out at the wide open space beyond.
"Your freedom's right there, dearie. All you have to do crawl through it."
He can see what's beyond. It doesn't look too inviting. All stone and stairs. But he imagines (knows)…he knows how it must feel. This was never his whole existence. He knows what it's like to be beyond the oppressing chill and stench of his own waste. He can imagine abandoning the pain and humiliation of lying stripped bare in a cell.
He closes his eyes and for a brief moment recalls it. A life beyond. He opens his mouth to taste it and the smell of tea fills his senses.
When he opens his eyes, size nine is gone and all that's left is a few more broken bones.
The light will be his undoing.
Sometimes he thinks it will be the sirens, or the beatings…or the touches. Luckily, those haven't happened in a while.
He barely even notices the starvation. He takes comfort that it doesn't affect him in the way that the others clearly think it should. Eons ago they tried to wait him out. Withhold everything. It ended with him waking up to a feeding tube attached to his stomach.
This displeased them, but he relished in the control.
The light, however…the blaring light, that's impossible to avoid, burns his retinas and his thoughts into oblivion. He squints through the doorway to the darkness beyond. The light has never lasted this long. Or maybe it has. Time has little meaning anymore.
He blinks. Suddenly, he is kneeling at the open doorway, mere millimeters away from freedom.
Within seconds he is huddled against the furthest corner, sobs wracking his body.
There is a sharp repetitive thwack. He feels his body twitch as each one hits but nothing else follows.
This should concern him. He knows it should. He's losing it. He's not even sure what "it" is, which means it's probably already gone.
He grasps on to an image. A shape. Tall and slightly rounded (but it should be shorter… definitely shorter than his mind is picturing it).
J… J …
He repeats it over and over in his head.
Soon it becomes enough to drown out the screams.
He was wrong. It wasn't the light, or the beatings, or anything else he was prepared to fend off.
It's the doorway. Standing there, yawning, mocking him with every passing second. He wants nothing more than to punch it. But even that is futile. He isn't so far gone to forget that it's impossible to punch empty space, so he doesn't bother trying.
Instead he closes his eyes and closes his own door. Smiling, he locks it, barricades it, and seals it. The darkness is comforting. It wraps its way around him, seeping into his pores.
Finally, there is nothing left but whispers from beyond.
"Sir, he hasn't responded in days. We've tried everything."
"Then get more creative!"
"We're open to suggestions."
"It's simple. Remind him what he could have then take it away."
"Hey! Who the hell- Sherlock?!"
…
"Sherlock, look at me. Dear God, what happened to you?"
…
"Yes, I need an ambulance to 221B Baker Street right away."
…
"Mycroft, when the government is not in dire need to your assistance, give me a call. It's urg- It's Sherlock."
"Sherlock, the doctors are concerned. Hell, even Mycroft wants you sectioned. You have to give me something. Please."
"John, take a break. I'll sit with him for a while."
A word drifts through, louder than the others. It sounds just like how he imagined it. Eons ago. Before the darkness and the relief.
He can feel a slight rustle by his arm. There's slight weight on top of his hand. His neurons are screaming at him to move away, but he doesn't.
"Sherlock! Sherlock, it's me, John. I know you can hear me."
The words are now rushed. It frustrates him. He wants only the rounded name. He wants to savor the smooth fullness of it.
He moves his hand to place it on top of the weight. Warm skin meets his.
"Sherlock. Sherlock, look at me. Please, Sherlock."
He frowns. The voice keeps repeating the wrong word. He doesn't like this new one. It's sharp and crisp and nothing like what he wants to hear.
"It's okay, Sherlock, take your time. I'll wait."
He furrows his brow. Fuck that, he doesn't want to wait. He's waited years, an eternity, and he finally has something that's his.
He turns his head towards the voice and blinks against the darkness. He's met with a face that is so strange and so familiar he almost wants to touch it.
There's light brown hair and hazel blue eyes. A large watery smile that makes him feel uneasy and comforted all at once.
There's also some type of atrocity on the man's lip. That doesn't fit.
He stares directly at it and wrinkles his nose.
The man places his hand on his lip, "Don't like the mustache, eh?" The man chuckles but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.
He frowns and shakes his head. No, that thing definitely needs to go.
"Fair enough." The man coughs awkwardly and stands up. "Aren't you going to say hi to Greg?"
His eyes never leave the man. Now at full height (the right height, the perfect height), he can see the beige jumper and casual jeans. He can see the nervous twitch of the man's hand and how he leans to one side ever so slightly.
Then it hits him. Hits him so hard he can barely breathe.
This is John.
John always comes in the room with new bits of information ("The doctor said he's going to try to wean you off the sedatives."). It's always good information. He saves the depressing bits for later in the visit ("Your brother said he'll by stopping by later today.").
He's aware that this is a new personality trait. Whether it is brought on by his extended absence (How long was it? …three years. Yes, he knew that) or by his compromising position, there's no way to tell. He needs more data.
"Okay. We are finally getting the hell out of here."
That's the best news he's received in a while. Forever (no, no three years. He knows it's been three years) actually.
He looks up to see John holding a set of his clothes and his Belstaff coat. Clothes that must have been saved. Clothes that John couldn't bear to discard in his absence. He looks at John's cleanly shaven face and he feels a slight smile tug at his lips. How could he have ever forgotten this?
John sets the clothes down and helps him to his feet.
He immediately foregoes the clothes for the jacket. He slowly slides himself into it, leaning away from John when he tries to help. The warm weight on his shoulders feels (almost) like home.
He sees John starting to roll a wheelchair toward him. Immediately, he balks, refusing to look at it as he walks (shuffles) past.
John sighs, "You know, Sherlock, not everything needs to be a challenge."
Eyes rooted to the floor several meters ahead, he continues his shuffle towards the door. He soon feels John's presence beside him, a warm arm wrapping around his back for support. Besides the initial flinch, he welcomes it. Anything to help him get out of this hellhole faster.
Within seconds they're at the doorframe. John continues his step through, never even falters.
His eyes widen at the space beyond. The openness of the ward. The people milling around. A sinking feeling of dread sits heavily in his stomach. This is wrong. He can't (shouldn't, couldn't, won't) do this.
Immediately he places his hand on the doorframe and pushes himself backward.
The force rips himself from John's arm and he's falling backwards. Backwards, where he belongs.
He's waiting for the sudden force of the floor against his back when strong hands pull him up.
Immediately, he's fighting, punching and kicking without any aim. They aren't following the rules. This wasn't part of the deal. He won't be forced beyond the door. That was made clear from the beginning.
The pressure on his arms disappears, and he finds himself sitting on the floor, staring at the washed-out, grey tiles.
"I'm sorry. So sorry, Sherlock. Just look at me. It's John. You're safe. Breathe, just breathe"
The words filter through, but there's still an ache in his chest. Did he mess up? He was never supposed to (always supposed to but never should) leave his cell. He can't believe it took him so long to realize that he failed. He failed miserably and others will pay. John will pay.
"Sherlock, you have to relax. Focus on my voice. Just breathe."
John will pay. G and M and H will pay. The shapes are slowly coming back, soon they will expand beyond the letter. G is being particularly tricky. Now, it's all useless. He's lost them again. And it's his fault.
"Nurse! I need a nurse in here! …Sherlock, please. Don't you want to go home?"
He frantically nods. But it will all be for naught. He will be home, but John will be gone. And that thought leaves an empty ache he can't begin to describe.
"Then you have to calm down. Breathe with me."
He tries, he really does. But the pressure on his chest refuses to release. Soon the voice drifts away. He can feel tears prickling in his eyes. He didn't expect to lose John so soon.
There's a slight pinch in his arm. Then there's nothing.
He opens his eyes to his bedroom. His bedroom. Complete with periodic table and overly supple mattress. His eyes drift over to see John staring back at him with a sad smile on his face.
"How are you feeling?"
The question is obvious and ridiculous.
He hears John chuckle and realizes he must have made his thoughts clear. Probably rolled his eyes, that sounds like something he would do.
The last thing he remembers is panicking in the hospital. His brow furrows. He's fairly (98.6%) positive patients in need of sedation don't get to leave. The whole thing reeks of M. And not the kind M with the bright eyes and thin lips. The tedious M with the stupid smirk and presumptuous umbrella.
He rolls away from John with an annoyed sigh.
"Yes, we can thank Mycroft for your homecoming."
He can almost hear the bemused smile in John's voice. It does nothing to sway his mood.
He keeps firmly still. He doesn't want to betray the fact he's rolling the name around in his head. He's heard it before. Recently. Tried planting it in his brain a week ago. Clearly he was unsuccessful. The variations make it difficult to stick. The high vowel with a rounded middle and hissing end. It can morph. Change shape to slip through a sieve. Mycroft. How detestable.
It's nothing like John. Firm and consistent. Genuine.
He's been standing at the doorway for just under twelve minutes when John approaches with a tray full of food.
"Sherlock! You shouldn't be out of bed."
John's right. The thought tastes bitter in his mouth, but he's right. His legs are straining with effort, and he only has the doorframe to lean onto.
"What do you need?" John asks as he places the tray on the floor.
He glances directly at the door to the loo on his right and looks back at John, hoping the message is clear.
A slight blush rises to John's cheeks. It's enough to make him roll his eyes. "Oh, right. Okay, let's go."
He shakes his head, shifting away from the wool-clad arm moving towards him. The hand immediately disappears.
"Okay. Okay. We can take it slow."
He shakes his head again. Slow is agony and typically a lesson in futility. Slow is for the dismal masses. Unacceptable.
"Okay…"
He watches as John sighs and runs his hand through his hair.
"What do you suppose we do?"
His gaze hardens. If he knew that, then he wouldn't be standing in the bloody doorway. Jesus Christ, John, think for a moment. Frowning he goes through the possibilities.
Knocked unconscious…unlikely. And it would probably end with him wetting himself.
Drugged…just as unlikely.
Carried…never. Would rather wet himself.
Bed pan…no. Just no.
Catheter…see bed pan.
He takes a deep breath before slowly lifting his arm. He pauses a moment (1.2 seconds) before reaching past the doorway. Locking eyes with John, he waits. One…two… It will happen. They always kept their promises. No, no that's not true. He's out now. He's out.
A persistent thought invades his mind in the same lilting voice that makes him cringe (and scream and beg). Maybe it needs to be more than an arm.
It was never clarified what constituted as leaving. It seems like an erroneous error on their (his) part.
His thoughts are interrupted with the sudden feeling of a hand in around his. The warmth is unwelcome and its intention is terrifying. He quickly snatches his hand back into the safety of his room.
"Sherlock. If I knew what the problem was, I might be able to help."
He nods, even though he has no idea how to provide that.
It's simple. He must decide. Who does he trust more? John or size nine. A familiar (annoying) M invades his mind, but this one is twisted an ugly. Unhinged. He pushes it aside. There are too many M's when all he wants is John.
Once again, he raises his arm. Closing his eyes, he nods for John to take it. He ignores the slight pressure on his wrist and begins to recite the periodic table in his head. By the time he reaches argon, he has the softness of wool beneath his fingertips and the warmth of tea infiltrating his thoughts.
He opens his eyes to see John's face close to his. He doesn't need to look to know the doorway is more than a meter behind him. He clenches the wool of John's sweater and smiles.
"That's it?"
All he can do is nod.
John's smile in return is brilliant.
"The laminae are two broad plates of bone which complete the neural arch…"
He hears his name being called from the kitchen. He looks at the closed door, annoyed at whatever has interrupted his reading.
Well, reading isn't really quite the right term. The words are popping into his head before he has a chance to see them on the page. Recalling. Recalling would be the best way to describe it in English. He knows there's a better term for it in German. But it doesn't come to him immediately, and he's too tired to bother searching for it.
The voice drifts through the door again.
"Mrs. Hudson brought some meatloaf if you want to come down and join us."
No. He doesn't want to join them, and he doesn't want the meatloaf. But he can hear the hope in John's voice. More importantly, he knows that if he doesn't come down, John will come up with his sympathetic eyes and soft voice, and he especially doesn't want that.
Sighing, he puts away his forty year old copy of Gray's Anatomy and makes the slow trek towards the kitchen.
In the hallway, he hears the loud and seemingly aimless bustle of John moving around the kitchen. It becomes clear that John is setting out plates and cups with a frenzied and unnatural vigor. Worst of all, it does nothing to deter him from overhearing John's rushed whisper. "He does better if we're not staring". The consideration annoys him.
His eyes narrow as he enters. There's no reason for John to be like this…like he may break at any moment. It's irritating and absurd (and necessary). He's fine, for Christ's sake. And if he must prove it with a mind numbingly dull dinner of ground beef and cooked ketchup then so be it.
He barely glances at John as he enters, instead looking at…at…
"Oh, Sherlock, it's so nice to see you."
The voice high and has a musical quality to it. Its familiarity fills him with comfort and warmth. The word 'maternal' floats through his mind before he chases it away. It's true, but not quite. The Germans probably have a better word for that too.
"Come now, have a seat," she says, ushering him into the closest chair. From her proximity and the lingering scent, he can tell she recently coloured her hair. L'Oreal Rich Honey, he would presume. He glances over her dated jewelry (clearly sentimental) and purple frock, though she would have an absurd name for it, like eggplant or palatinate.
He briefly closes his eyes and a baritone voice fills his thoughts.
Mrs. Hudson leave Baker Street? England would fall.
Ah, yes. Mrs. Hudson.
See, John, he's fine.
He hears John's hushed whispers from the hallway. It's clear by his tone John doesn't want to be overheard. So, the conversation is about him and/or at least minutely interesting.
He leans closer against the wall.
"I just…I'm not sure if it's a good idea."
Intriguing.
"I know. You can never tell with him. Who knows what he needs."
He scowls at that. He doesn't need anything.
"Even if we did come, there's no way he could possibly be of any help. He still hasn't said a word since…" John pauses and trails off into an uncomfortable cough.
So John's noticed. Well, of course he's noticed. John's not that dense. But it's never brought up in their constant one-sided conversations, and he had (foolishly) hoped it was explained away with his prior quirkiness. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end.
No matter. There's a case. Finally. Something to do before he jammed his violin bow into his brain to save himself from the monotony. He quickly walks back to his bedroom.
Within minutes, John's remark is out of his head and he's walking (strutting) past the living room. He hears John sigh as he descends the staircase.
"Never mind. He's already got his coat on. See you in a few."
He enters the crime scene feeling invigorated. Even the police sergeant's (C?...S?...unimportant) half-hearted quip isn't enough to get him down. He passes the forensics team as they're setting up lights and marking the floor. If he was just five minutes earlier he could have avoided the contamination. How unbearably frustrating.
The moment he sees the corpse everything else drifts away. One simple cut to the left common carotid artery from behind. (Killer's right handed.) It's so clichéd he almost wants to strangle the killer himself.
Luckily, this criminal has something going for him. It's a classic mystery: locked room murder. No sexual trauma. No weapon found. No possible escape. Not even a window to help the single, muted light bulb dangling from the ceiling.
And it's the third case like this in the same number of weeks. There's no apparent connection between the victims. The police are clearly eager to find a lead.
It all adds up to a worthwhile case.
He casually shoves forensics away as he approaches the corpse. The victim's a younger man, in his early thirties. Recently married. Honeymoon in Greece. String of ex-girlfriends but hasn't cheated…yet, or ever. Impossible to cheat as a corpse. Wouldn't that be a far more interesting case?
Around him he can still here the scuttle of the Yard's police force. He wishes he could tell them all to shut up and go away. He hopes a glare in their direction will do the trick.
As he turns, he hears a click and a bright industrial light flares on.
Within seconds he can no longer see the corpse or the incompetent bastards of Scotland Yard. All he sees, all he knows, is the piercing light burning through every neuron. He can feel the cold stone of his cell beneath his knees and hands. He can smell the off-brand cologne of a guard masking the coppery stench of blood and sweat. He's back (they're back) and he needs to warn them (warn John). He opens his mouth to shout something (anything) when another voice cuts through.
"For God's sake, turn it off!"
As suddenly as it began, he's thrown back into the muted light, casting soft halos around his despondent cell. He blinks the remnant flashes away, leaving an unassuming room and a very worried John in its wake.
"This was a bad idea. I shouldn't have brought you here." John's so close, he practically whispers it.
He vehemently shakes his head. For the life of him he can't remember why, but he wants to be here.
John slowly guides him to his feet. "We'll try again later."
He shakes his head again and attempts to push John away only to find his legs are suddenly unable to support his weight.
John simply wraps his arm around his shoulders and guides him towards the door. "Don't worry, I'll get the files from Greg later."
He doesn't bother to listen to John's blathering. He's far too busy loathing himself.
Time passes without much acknowledgement. If John's stubble and mounting concern are any indication it's been at least a week.
True to his word, John retrieves a stack of files. The pictures and words blur together until it's nothing more than meaningless drabble. The few pictures that do stand out leave a tight ache in his chest and a sharp pain in his throat.
His deductions were left somewhere in the abyss of his cell and the feeling that's left behind can only be described as ordinary. No matter how genuine John is, he has no way to understand the disgust that fills him. Ordinary.
Instead, John seems to only have one suggestion. "Maybe it would help if you talked about it…" he pauses and makes a grotesque noise with his throat "…or talked."
He glares at John for a brief moment before walking out.
He's boiling a goat head when he hears John fumble with the lock on the door. It takes him three times longer than usual to open it…likely trying to balance the groceries. He goes to the living room to move the intestines off the table. The last thing he needs today is to listen to unrelenting scolding.
He hears an awkward gait below and wonders who John invited over. The thought is erased when he hears John argue between clenched teeth. "I…can't…damn leg".
John doesn't have a limp. Hasn't in years. And even when he had a limp he never walked as awkwardly as he is now, hands and feet tapping out an uneven pattern on the steps.
No man walks like that.
–U-N-G-U… Gun.
With one hand, he reaches into the end table drawer and dials his phone with the other.
"Sherlock? What-"
"Shut up. Get here now…with backup." His voice comes out dry and raspy. It's in no way his own, but it can be understood.
He immediately ends the call and pulls out John's service pistol, aiming it at the doorway. His eyes narrow as he smells diesel, gun oil, and burning hair. The scent belongs to only one man.
John rounds the corner, a 9mm pistol with a silencer pointed directly at the back of his head, revealing Sebastian Moran behind him.
Sebastian looks at the service weapon pointed at him and smirks. "Can't say I'm surprised. I knew he'd tip you off somehow."
He opens his mouth for the perfect retort but it is stuck somewhere between the thoughts of John, Jim, Sebastian, stop.
"Come now, Sherlock, Jim's not greedy. I'm taking either him or you."
He stares directly at Sebastian. He knows he can believe him. Sebastian has always been a man of his word. He raises his arms above his head, the pistol now loose in his grip. He can easily ignore John's pleads. "Sherlock! Don't!"
"Fine," he rasps, immediately silencing John. "Let go of John."
Sebastian simply nods before violently swinging his pistol hand into the back of John's head. Neither man flinches as John crumples to the floor. "Drop your weapon," Sebastian calmly states, his pistol now pointed at the detective.
He is no longer sure if he is breathing as he lowers the pistol to the floor by John's bleeding head. His heart is beating wildly in his ears. Moving forward, his vision is blurred with flashes of a dangerously similar event. The event that caused his madness. There's live video feed of John, threats of immediate harm, images of Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and even Lestrade. He cannot count the number of times he has been here and starts to wonder if his life is a never ending loop of despair and redemption.
The moment he is within arm's reach of Sebastian, he feels a warm, thick hand gripping the back of his neck.
"Come now. The others are waiting outside."
The words fade in and out as he is guided down the stairs. He tries reconstructing the door to his mind palace, but the brick and mortar keep disintegrating through his fingers.
A loud bang echoes behind him. The hand falls from his neck as he crashes into the nearby wall.
He glances around, but he can't make any sense of his surroundings. The overwhelming scents and sounds leave him breathless. He can still feel the coarse brick dust on his fingertips as he tries to shake out the smell of blood and gunpowder. He blinks out images of his cell and a bloody and dead John with little success.
There are far too many pieces to this puzzle and he needs to remove the ones that don't exist.
Strong hands are gently shaking his shoulders. He looks up to see John kneeling in front of him. John. John is the key. John only exists in reality. He's too genuine and whole to exist anywhere else. He glances to the side to see Sebastian laying face down, bullet hole in the back of his head.
A hand leaves his shoulder to turn his head away. John's mouth is moving but he can't hear his voice. A loud whirring noise is blocking any sound from filtering through.
Sherlock grabs John's arms. "That was good. You did good." John smiles in response. The pain of his grating voice is little compared to the relief of being heard.
"So did you," John states as he pats his shoulder.
His mind is now working double time. He quickly stands up. "There's others… Where the bloody hell is Lestrade?!"
John looks at him with a combination of sarcasm and concern that only he can pull off. "He's probably outside."
Brow furrowing, he finally recognizes the sound of police sirens and helicopter blades loudly whirring.
He rolls his eyes as Lestrade barges through the door, face hardened and gun drawn. "As always, five minutes late to the party," he remarks.
"You're okay?" Lestrade questions until he finally glances down at the body. "You're okay."
He's no longer paying attention when John comments, "Chopper's a nice touch."
Lestrade shrugs as he lowers his gun. "You can thank his brother for that."
Clearly by the sound of retreating sirens, the necessary people have been caught. There would only be a few. Jim Moriarty always takes pride in his ability to use the least number of people necessary. He's resourceful like that.
John places a hand on his back, effectively snapping him out of his thoughts of the unhinged man with size nine shoes and lilting voice. "Let's go upstairs," John whispers.
He balks at the overly concerned tone, until he glances down and notices the minute shake in his left hand. What an annoyance. He quickly puts it his pocket. "And miss the glory?" Really, John, nothing has changed that much.
With that said, Sherlock shoves John aside and strides through the open door.