Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock and I don't profit from writing this. Sadly.
Warning: this story will contain descriptions or mentions of torture, self-mutilation, probably sex, hence rated M. So read at your own discretion.
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The cell was small and excruciatingly medieval looking. And feeling. Sherlock thought someone needed to be really crazy to reproduce the interior of an ancient prison so painstakingly – taking into account the level of verisimilitude with a dirty heap of straw as the only furniture, a disgusting small hole in a corner and damp walls built of rough irregular stones. The floor was stone as well with small pools of water gathering in the depressions. Sherlock was already gratified by chest-wrecking cough and he has only been here for - he consulted his notches on the wall – ten days. His only weapon of sorts was his belt buckle that he spent three days sharpening on a slightly prominent side of one of the stones. Now he used it to count the days – although his inner clock was faltering – he could see the change of night and day in a tiny slit of a window high above under the ceiling. He considered climbing up there at first but then calculated that at most he would be able to force only his fingers through it – and as this particular cell was practically under the roof – he won't be able to see anything except for the sky as well.
He knew that he wasn't the only prisoner in the castle and he also assumed the cells were on each floor – it wasn't probable that some would just shift the common position of the cells in the cellar to the one in the attic. No, in all probability the whole castle was full of prisoners. Sherlock shook his tangled and dirty curls in wonder. This criminal organization was so immense that late Moriarty would probably eat his heart out from sheer envy.
Pacing the cell the consulting detective marveled at his own stupidity. He tended to forget all about safety once he was on the right track. Usually Dr. Watson managed to set him right of course, he was his safety net. But this was in the past, now John was married to Mary and joined Sherlock to assist with the cases increasingly less often. And Sherlock couldn't blame him for that although he missed his blogger immensely and 221b in Baker street felt so empty and boring most of the time. This was another reason for Sherlock's carelessness. He was so glad when a case came up, so relieved that the oppressing boredom was alleviated for a while that he plunged in the search without any second thought. Which, as it turned out, had been a huge mistake. But who could tell that a rather simple case of a crooked man with a trained mongoose will suddenly turn into a thin thread leading the sleuth to a monstrous revelation of criminal network that could impress even Mycroft. Not that he had time to inform his brother or anyone else.
Sherlock turned for an umpteenth time and found that one spot near the left wall that looked a little bit less damp than the rest of the floor. He curled against the wall, bringing his knees to his chest for ephemeral warmth and tentatively rested his shoulder against the wall. He didn't feel like doing anything, although his wounds healed he was considerably weaker from the fever and cough and boredom now. But his mind screamed for some occupation so he began to scrape the cement between two stones as he had been doing for several days already. He was sure he must be watched via some hidden camera – as the door was solid metal and lacked any shutters so it was opened once a day to let in two armed men in masks with food and water. Even if he was watched it seemed his captors didn't care as no one tried to search him to take the buckle away. The cement was crumbling too slowly but it was better than nothing. In fact Sherlock was close to giving up at some point but then he heard a voice coming from the other side of the wall. It took him several hours to make sure he wasn't hallucinating and another day to make sure that as he deepened the tiny opening between two stones the voice was heard more and more clearly. He still couldn't make out any words, but he was pretty much sure there were two voices rather than one – and both were female.
While his hands were routinely scraping the barely yielding cement Sherlock's thoughts returned to his first and last encounter with the prison master. He was thrown on a dark crimson carpet (good choice, Sherlock was bleeding profusely, and he couldn't be the first one lying on this carpet in such a state) in front of a short plump man wearing a ridiculously plush sweatsuit. A round bald head was glistening with beads of perspiration. A benign smile seemed glued to his face and all in all he gave an impression of a sweet family man just out of the gym and soon to be on his way home to wife and kids. But Sherlock's good eye (the one not swelled close from a direct blow) ran across the plush Humpty Dumpty and realized that the Grand Inquisitor was just a schoolgirl compared to this man. One detail was especially clear for Sherlock – as it was right at his eyelevel – the boots of the man were on a high platform. And the platform was splattered with fresh blood.
"Well, well", - the man purred, smiling, his eyes were sliding along Sherlock's injured body (lots of bruises and cuts, several bone fractures, shoulder dislocated, nothing really dangerous). " What have we got here?"
"Who," Sherlock tried to speak calmly but his voice was shaking from pain, "Who not what."
"Ooh, trying to preserve our dignity, aren't we?" The plump man giggled excitedly. "Well, Mister Holmes, I am delighted to inform you that you have to say goodbye to your dignity – and the rest of the world as well. We can't have you poking and prying. Any other man couldn't have done any harm alone – but you are so special, aren't you, Mister Holmes? Poor Jim Moriarty should have known better. "
The man curiously prodded Sherlock's knee with his bloody boot. "You will stay with us, Sherlock," he sighed lustily, "I don't promise your sanity stays intact as you probably understand you own value. Still we can't kill you. As simple as that would be, your brother could make some trouble to us. We don't need that. " He turned to the masked guards, "Take him away."
Sherlock hissed at the memory, still humiliated and overpowered. There were too many of them and he didn't care enough to be carrying a gun. His hand slipped and the buckle suddenly tore a large chunk of cement out of the wall. He clearly heard the voice now, velvety and low, bored and almost disgusted, "Amber, I can't hear any more of that, please do shut up!"
The second voice was more high-pitched and almost whining, pleading, "Nickie, I am so afraid, what would they do to my daughter?"
"We've been here for five days," the first voice replied, Sherlock suddenly realizing he was holding his breath not to miss a single note of that rich low timbre. "And over that five days I have told you about 125 times that my name is Dominique and I would really appreciate if you call me by my real name not some affectionate diminutive that people seem to think I have to be called by."
All of a sudden Sherlock was completely taken over by an urgent wish to call that woman Dominique and feel how that name rolls off his lips. He tried to shrug this feeling off and thought he spent too much time in this dirty and lonely cell. His unaffected asexual self was for some reason unmade by this terrifying seclusion. Damp unchanging walls and the scent of his own dirt and urine made him turn his deductions on himself. And what was slowly unraveling in front of his inner vision were his own feelings – never inexistent – but suppressed for too long.