*Kings Hide Dragons*
by: WhiteGloves
CHAPTER 4
"Alone is what I want. Alone protects me."
Sherlock's side of the bed in this chapter!
(Prepare yourself for prison lingo!)
*Enjoy Reading!*
'Incarceration.
One would think that here lies the defeat of freedom when in reality it merely limits the physical embodiment and never one's mind. No. Nothing can stop the freedom of the mind...
And my mind and mind palace can be anything but stopped.'
Sherlock Holmes opened his green eyes to the four walls of his room, staring directly into the same space of the white wall he had gotten accustomed to for the past few days.
His four walled room was hardly the size of his kitchen back at 221B but interesting enough it shows the same promise. It was made of brick with the only entrance and exit the metal doorway with a tiny square metal aperture the height of his eyes and a small bed attached to the wall and nothing more yet the detective could hardly find another most appealing room for there on the wall, screaming to him like it was fully alive and meant only for him, were marks and messages of its late occupant and his murder.
Though he has been told many times by the authorities that the previous man had committed suicide.
Whereas he had proved them wrong so many times with literally concrete evidences he cannot believe the police had missed. But no surprise there. They would miss the picture of a murderer even if it was under their noses because it was a habit. What he could not understand was the continuous dismissal of the warden staff no matter how he, Sherlock, had been bugging them to it. Even Lestrade was not that dim-witted.
But that's the thing with being the greenhorn inmate, as he was called. Nobody takes your side.
Nobody takes your opinion.
The only thing that Sherlock could do for the poor man was to mutter to everyone who would listen his real story.
He gets thrown a lot back inside his jail for that though. Such amateurs!
Like that would be enough to stop him—
Sherlock's train of thoughts were disrupted by the sound of the metal locks clinking open and the next thing the inmate heard was the sound of the hinges and his door opening wide.
"Time to come out, boffindo."
Sherlock pressed his eyes closed and shook his head. He did not even turn his back as he was sitting on the floor with cross legs and fingertips pressed together, his elbows on his knees like some sort of meditation as he muttered, "It's boffin, boffin. The least you could do is study your British."
"Don't get paid for it do I? Now come out."
"Do I really have to go out? Can't you all just pretend I don't exist for the entire day?"
"Trust me we'd rather leave you alone," The jail staff said with a bit of a snarky remark, "you're not exactly Mr. Popular."
"Oh yeah, I'm striving for that title." Sherlock stood up in his loose orange jail clothing as he walked to face his jail guard—a large man a few inches taller than himself with square black beard, crooked nose and dark eyes. Really suits his job except for the extra pounds, "And Jimmy, your doctor did tell you many times to watch your sweet consumption didn't he? Your diabetes will not improve on its own."
He simply walked pass the guard and was already focusing his eyes on the outside when he heard the guard call to him as he walked away—
"You weirdo, how'd you guess that out? My name?"
"Obviously on your name collar? And you smell like you swam in sugar lake and believe me it took me all ounce of consideration not to tell you your other stench. You better stop sleeping with the dog too."
He heard the banging of his cell door and distinctly heard a curse after him but he was already preoccupied of the outside world inside this great prison. Now as he casually walked across the hall, he observed everything and everyone. And he did take notice of them slowly looking his way and following him with their eyes be it the jail staff or the inmates. This part Sherlock liked best.
For then when people act doubtful and suspicious of others, they themselves become the most suspicious. Clearly having something to be cautious about and hide makes them all susceptible to show it.
And this experiment he did again as he took his lunch tray from the jail cafeteria where most inmates where in now for it was already a quarter to noon and carried it to the next table where five occupants were sitting.
The moment he sat there comfortable was the exact moment when the inmates shot each other looks and carried their lunch trays away to join other tables. Sherlock's eyes glinted at this experiment of observation.
Highly suspicious, he noted and took a bite on his bread. Prison bullies.
The prison cafeteria was as commonplace as it gets. People sitting and walking around, authorities lounging about, kitchen staff absorbed in estimating the scoop of their servings; the reigning sound of utensils and plates and the nonstop sound of dozens of teeth chatting and chewing. The chatting Sherlock would never miss even with all the unnecessary sounds. It was the most rewarding part of his every day for one—the inmates would be talking about different sorts of highly intellectual topics like bosses, boobs, skins, ghosting, woods, snitches and snouts— perfectly making sense to Sherlock after his four days stay in the yard.
Soon, the sound of the utensils and grindings of teeth have disappeared as his ears perked up...
"—Cat A—"
"—he lookin' for somebody to be his maytag in blue,"
"—kangaroos all around sniffin'—"
"—they gonna be meetin' at the weights—"
"—he can be no guys maytag—"
"— don't make me laugh, got me an image to hold idiot—"
"—is it one of my mates in blue?"
"—it ye they was tense I heard a lot—"
"—the boss not hanging about here in green—"
"—gonna get banging out that new cat—"
"—no govs be watching there—"
"— I got a jammer ready for boffin—"
Unconsciously as he wanted to believe, Sherlock stood up abruptly from his chair and slinked along the chairs and tables of prisoners on his way with eyes straight to the place he wanted to reach. The moment he did, he stopped at a table where at least six men were seated and without warning—struck the end of his plastic fork down the table so loud that shook the table and made all heads turn his way.
"Oi!" an officer shouted from the corner of the room while making his way toward the group meanwhile Sherlock was admiring his fork and the appalled faces of his inmates.
"Ah, look at that. It didn't split up considering its plastic. There's a certain technique—"
"Oi, what the hell are ye doing?" the large inmate seated below Sherlock who was now ogling at him irately breathed out loud, "you lookin' for a fight?" he stood up with all his cronies doing the same, their eyes on the lone detective.
"Don't be silly, why would I look for a fight?" Sherlock said sarcastically, his face not far away from the man, "I just can't help overhearing a conversation concerning me—you guys are planning to invite me at the gym? One on one? Two on two? Here's my answer."
He inclined his head on the fork, his eyes narrowing.
The large man frowned at the dark haired man, "But you was sitting on the other side! How could you hear—"
"It's elementary. And it's 'you were'. Also elementary."
"You real weirdo—"
"Oi!" came the officer to Sherlock's little satisfaction, "what's going on here?"
"Apparently officer—"
"I wasn't talking to you." Snapped the officer with a curt nod at the large man who was still eyeing Sherlock with deepest loathe, "What's going on?"
"This loony guy just come attacking from nowhere with his fork—"
"Plastic fork, hardly can scratch you—" Sherlock went on—
"Quiet." The officer glared at him as the large inmate continued—
"We was not done eating and the bloke just lost it attacking people—"
"You do realize you're babbling?" Sherlock snapped and ignored another glare from the officer, "It will save us an amount of time not listening to this cat send him to his boob—"
"Boob—?" the officer's expression hardened that made Sherlock roll his eyes.
"Why are they sending new police here? There are like twenty of you and none of you knows the basic except squat around with your high chins. By the way you've got to get rid of your shave, its tetanus. Alright the best advice is to study the lingo of your job. Now apparently this guy here whose root canal must be paining him and who's decided to ignore it by smoking is planning to attack me at gym with a knife so you might want to search him otherwise leave us to our own devices and there'd be plenty of bleeding heads rolling tonight and it's not going to be mine."
There was a hushed silence at the group of inmates on the table as they exchanged looks.
"Too obvious a plan." Sherlock offered with a snarky expression, "No wits at all."
The large man's jaw twitched.
"What? Did you see those in his possession?" the officer look clearly confused— making Sherlock snap—
"Try talking to him an inch close and you'll see everything that needs to be knowing—dark lips, breathing pattern, end of nose with a discoloured spot and the fact that he smells of cigarette—actually half the people here have them. Now as for the knife—"
"You been lookin' at our stuff this bastard—!" a fist came flying that Sherlock easily dodged—the fist contacted with another inmate who was in attempt to hold the detective down. The inmate tumbled backwards and hit another table of prisoners who gave roar of outrage as they also tumble down and all stood up, eyes at Sherlock—
Loud whistles were heard amidst the roars of raging souls.
"Mr. Holmes, lay off the officers and inmates!"
This was the very advice that was given to the dark haired man detective as he found himself seated inside another room sporting a bleeding lip, purple left cheek and swollen arm, courtesy of the brawl that broke up in the cafeteria minutes ago. The room he was in smelled of perfume, an aroma that gave Sherlock data to add rather than to enjoy.
Seated across him behind a table was a red haired woman wearing spectacles, in her long white coat and clipboard. She was looking very severe and tight lipped at the moment as she said those words to the inmate. It was not the first time Sherlock heard it though and not the first time meeting that doctor. Still he continued sitting there with an air of placidness.
And the woman whose name tag addresses to Dr. Andrea T. Bell, PhD, psychologist, continued with eyes on her clipboard—
"We've been through this many times. Your information doesn't benefit you at all, Mr. Holmes, I've already noted your—
"—'misconduct of behaviour in relation to dealings with other inmates, aggressiveness, tactless, imprudence and getting on people's nerves with sociopathic tendencies— it's high functioning sociopath, I thought you do research?"
"And you read my writings even though it's turned against you?" she raised her delicate thin brows at him.
"It's obvious in your strokes. Didn't even have to glimpse."
She sighed and set the clipboard aside.
"Then you've also 'read' that I wrote there 'excellent observation skills and undeniably smart'—?"
"'To that point of idiocy'" Sherlock finished her sentences with narrowed eyes, "obviously doctor, you're not complimenting me. That reminds me of my friend."
"Hmm," she nodded and leaned back on her chair conversationally, "you have a friend?"
"He does tend to mix up words that elates you in a second and brings you crashing down in the next."
"You must be very fond of him."
"You can tell?"
"Well, he's the only person to stick around you is he?"
"I let him stay." Sherlock watched her get the clipboard and smirked as he distinctly read the stroke of 'arrogant' added under his note. He raised his eyes next and the two eyed each other.
"Mr. Holmes," the psychologist now put both clasped hands on the table and for Sherlock that was never a good sign. It was the sign of 'let-us-get-down-to-business' and down to business she did. "I cannot do anything for you anymore. Sooner or later I'm going to have to label you under the DSPD in Category A—"
"Excellent."
"—for being a danger to those around you—sorry—?" she seemed to catch his response late and gave him a curious look. Sherlock glanced at her innocently and she continued, "You know that Whitemoor is one of the eight highest maximum prisons in Britain with almost half if not all Prisoners terrorists. It's not helping us that you are creating these disturbances where peace is divided from catastrophe by a hair strand—"
"Am I supposed to help you have 'peace'?"
"With your record as a previous boffin detective—"
"Well, I am now an inmate," Sherlock frowned, "am I suppose to have a role when I'm already thrown in prison, doctor? Have you forgotten my case? Treason."
"Which undeniably is a lost in our side," she gave him the strangest look, "the day you decided to be one of them. What I'm trying to say is this time you have no liberty over your choices whatsoever because you are now under the restrictions of Her Majesty's Prison, Mr. Holmes, and that whether you like it or not you're going to have to cooperate. Something that you've been neglecting to do in you free days."
Sherlock stared at her as she finished with almost twinkling eyes.
"Cooperate?" he echoed with head nodding, "And that includes 'mingling' I suppose?"
"Mingling properly. With less violence." She nodded at his injuries.
"Then you are deluding yourself, doctor. You better find another job if you wish to get rid of violence in this place."
"I do not wish for it, Mr. Holmes, I'm trying to do something about it by telling you to lay off the inmates and officers."
"Me, why me? They're the ones planning to attack me—"
"Your verbal abuse—"
"'Verbal abuse'?" he nearly laughed— "Since when has telling the truth of their history and actions and plan actions or their smoking habits or sexual habits part of abuse?"
"When you've decided to narrate it when you're not suppose to know it." She marked with sarcasm.
"I don't even know what that means." He snapped.
"Mr. Holmes, do you know how many of these people hate you now? And... do you know how many officers actually dislike you?"
"Why should I give them special treatment? Inspector Lestrade hardly gets one—"
"—what we're trying to avoid is not only a prison riot but another violent death—"
"If I make a habit of making people like me then I won't tell you you need to brush the dust at the left side of your bed which is actually making you cranky."
He knew he had touched a nerve at how her eyes sparked.
"Is it the absence of ring on my fingers?" she asked as she surveyed him haughtily.
"That and the fact that you don't have any pictures of a man save your cat. And you're in mid 30's."
"I know." She shook her head and sat straight in her chair as she scribbled a few notes on her clipboard again, "Then I suppose you won't mind isolation... because Mr. Holmes, you've been to Category C in your first two days...and Category B in the last two days... I can't believe a man can pull himself up this fast in the rankings of prisoners. But I think Category A will suit you just fine."
Sherlock sat rigid as she wrote what he could read with expression indifferent. Later on, he frowned.
"'Down the brink'?" he quoted, reading from her writings.
She looked up in mock surprise. "I thought you know the prison lingo, Mr. Holmes? You don't think you can escape from today's activity before your transfer, do you?"
He could swear he saw a twitch of smile at the side of her lips.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed.
"Do you know what they call you?" he asked as he stood up to take his leave knowing that the interview was over. "You and your people acting like you know what's on their head? I'm called sociopath and that's fine, but psycho-squad? A bit telling, isn't?"
He grinned and turned without even looking back.
As Sherlock Holmes went out of the Psychologist ward, he was met by his tall officer, Jimmy, who had always had the pleasure of locking him in his cell.
"Knew you wouldn't last a minute even in lunch time," he smirked at him as he pulled on his handcuffs, "what'd you do that for? Head butting an officer?"
"I didn't head butt an officer, Jimm—" Sherlock had hardly finished his words when out of nowhere the officer's head collided with his—sending impact so strong that threw him down the ground in extreme pain.
"You did now," the jail staff stood tall next to him with eyes around, "I do not smell like no dog. And nobody seen that, you know? And nobody'd believe you."
It took Sherlock time to realize the guard had grabbed him by the neck and was urging him to stand whilst his head was swimming. He was made to walk forcefully.
"If you're so concerned about being seen," the detective muttered with one eye trying to blink open from pain, "then you shouldn't have done it, yeah? Tough guy?"
"Shut it," Jimmy gripped the back of his neck tightly Sherlock could actually feel his nails digging down his skin, "even if we was seen by inmates who'd come rescue you? You don't have any one here who got your back. Because that's the thing here, boffindo, you're safe if you've got people's back and they've got yours. Whose back do you have? Bet you didn't even have that outside these walls."
"You'd be surprised."
Sherlock broke away from him forcefully after getting his head to stop swirling and eyed the officer who cautiously looked at him in case there was a violent return. There wasn't. Sherlock continued blinking his eyes and shaking his head.
"I am surprised." Jimmy went on as he pushed Sherlock by the shoulder gruffly, "you've got a visitor."
"You look terrible."
"What?" Sherlock frowned at his friend, John Watson's first comment the moment he sat across him in the visitor's centre few minutes. He had not properly looked at the doctor in the first minute because of the lingering pain on his head but once he did, he saw that John was watching him with a strange concerned and defiant look on his face. Blinking at him, Sherlock remembered the state he was in. "Oh, you mean these... it's nothing—"
"Nothing?" John breathed almost angrily, "You look like a beaten cock! I haven't seen you in the past few days and now—"
"Don't exaggerate it," Sherlock cut him off with now fully opened eyes, "these are bruises acquired today, not a compilation of four days—"
"God, that's helpful." The doctor buried his face on his palms that caught the detective's attention.
"What's the matter—what are you so angry about? You didn't visit for days I should get angry—"
To Sherlock's bewilderment there came an eruption—
"What I'm so angry about?!— You're getting yourself beaten to pulp and I know it's your fault! They don't let prisoners get beaten up like that in here Sherlock—they don't! This place is secured but you looking like that—you brought that on yourself by not stopping yourself from being who you are!"
The dark haired detective blinked a few times, "So you're telling me to not be myself and I'll get less attention?"
"That's all there is!" the doctor clamped his hands together, his eyes scrutinizing each of his injuries with a grave expression, "You've just got to stop provoking them, I'm begging you."
"I don't understand what you are so concerned about John," Sherlock muttered as he sat straight, his eyes on his best friend's face, "it's about me, isn't? Why are you so angry when I'm the one getting the bang-out?"
"Bang-out?"
"Means 'beaten'," Sherlock dismissed the question and leaned on the table, "look, it's hardly my fault the cats here are too suspicious and violent—well, more interesting than the outside world— but I'm telling you I don't actually enjoy it—"
"—liar."
"—but the boobs are fun. It's not when even the kangaroo is after your neck."
He unconsciously reached his handcuffed hands at the back of his neck and rubbed it.
"What, boobs?" John's face contorted as he sat up, "Cat? Kangaroos? What the hell are you talking about?"
"Their prison lingo, John. The prisoners have created their own society, what stops them from using their own lingo? 'Boobs' is hardly imaginative, it means prison. Cat's a convict, obviously—same with the kangaroo." He nodded his head at the jail guards standing by the doorway.
"How long have you've been studying their language?"
"Oh waste of time, hardly a second, there's not much on the list—"
"Hang on a minute—" now John Watson's eyes suddenly lit up, occasions that Sherlock often noticed when his friend was in the verge of exploding again, "when you said 'the kangaroo is after your neck...'?"
"Obviously police that jumps around knocking people." Sherlock stretched his neck on the left to ease the pain when John suddenly shot out of his chair and rounded behind him. Without a word, the doctor grabbed hold of the detective's head and nape and forced him to look down—
"John—what are you—"
"Fingertips," the doctor whispered slowly as he released Sherlock and the two looked at each other, "there're marks of fingertips at the back of your neck!"
"Yeah, well—"
John's face sharply looked up to the guard by the door, his expression the most intimidating, "Is that him?"
He was already walking toward the guard when Sherlock called him back.
"What are you doing, John?"
"Is that the guy who hurt you?"
"No—now come back here, what's the matter with you?" he asked as he too, stood up with expression full of disbelief as the doctor reluctantly went back with his right palm swabbing his face and the two stood up face to face. "You're not planning to beat a guard are you?"
"Just gonna chin him up, yeah," sighed the doctor as he calmed down a little and eyed his friend, "Sherlock look—stop this. Whatever you're playing at, at least do that without losing a limb or something. You are alone there... probably the most alone you've ever been. No police to help you apparently, no brother to watch you—"
"And no friend to watch my back clearly." Sherlock could just remember the words of his warden and sighed considerably as he looked down at the doctor again. John was staring at him fixedly. "What?"
"Are you okay?"
"Except for bruises the level of interest will keep me away from cigarette for a long time." He smirked. "Do you know they attack people at night?"
"Attack? What attack?"
"Simple enough the only thing it can happen is when the officers are involved—"
"Sherlock—"
"I wonder how many of them actually are—"
"Have you been attacked then?"
"Second night. They couldn't stand me, you saw my bruise."
"You shouldn't be proud." John looked unimpressed, "You better have someone look after your cuts. It's not appealing for your doctor."
"Never mind, the meds ready to throw a syringe at me when I told him he should stop two timing his boyfriend with another bloke—"
"Sherlock—!"
"Plus I got down the brink at my psychologist's referral."
"Down the brink? What's down the brink?"
"Don't be so alarmed. Be put in segregation. Lock up."
"I think that's better. Keep you away from people."
Sherlock gave John a look.
"Isolation. They won't keep me there for long I'll be ghosted."
"Ghosted?" the doctor was waiting for an answer when they heard the visiting room's door opened from the quarter of the prison and saw a tall, large man enter with eyes on the detective.
"Anyways, you visiting did prove a point." Sherlock muttered as he stood in his full height, his eyes on the walking warden officer, "but due to demands I don't think it's wiser to call upon me after this. I won't be allowed visitors next time."
"What?" John shot him another look of unease, "Why?"
"Time's Up, boffindo." Jimmy officer had crossed the tables and was now standing feet from the two and Sherlock saw John threw him a livid look.
"It's boffin," John had said before Sherlock could even stop him; he even stepped forward despite the height difference with his seething eyes up at the man, "and if you ever lay a finger on my friend again I swear that's the last thing your hands will do."
The warden officer frowned at the small man and then looked up at Sherlock whose eyes had gotten dark all of a sudden as if daring him to say anything at all.
"Well, John thanks a lot," the detective then said when Jimmy had stepped away waiting for him to move, "that proves another point. You're a very dangerous man."
"Sherlock," there was uncertainty in his voice that the detective heard as he was ushered away.
"Don't worry John, things are under control."
"You believe that?" Jimmy muttered once he locked the door behind him and he and Sherlock were at the other side of the world again. "Crazy little bloke you've got for a friend. But then again no normal person would actually stick with you eh? Does he really think he can threaten me? I'd beat him—"
Sherlock smiled and—thud— collided his head on the officer's face.
Despite the darkness, Sherlock knew how long time had elapsed. He had been in that complete darkness for two days. Too much a word for segregating someone, though he actually knows for a fact that there was some guy recently who got segregated longer than he...for about two years? But was he ever inside a cell with no lights be it at morning or night? Talk about personal authority.
Ration of food was no problem and truth be told there was less injury while he was there. Dull. Recuperating for those two days, Sherlock Holmes prepared himself for the next opening of that door. Because the next time it will be opened, he will be sent to the real masters of crimes.
His feral Loki.
And long he waited in darkness...
Finally, as the third day dropped its cue, he heard the locks opening. Sherlock opened his glinting eyes.
The time has come.
Straightening up, he waited for light to grace his little abode.
"Get up, boffindo. We're sending you to Category A. About time to." There was some sort of humour in that new officer's voice. Did they sack Jimmy or something? Or did he get pawned by the other inmates?
Sherlock had stayed too much in the dark that his own thoughts and sight was clouded and all he could think about was finding his prey. Not expecting the real light to appear when the door opened and showered him with its brilliance.
And saw John Watson standing outside his door with a smirk.
In a warden officer's clothes.
Sherlock had to blink his eyes several times as John tapped his baton at the metal door.
"Come on then boffin! The game's on."
Sherlock jumped out of his cell and looked at his friend from head to foot.
"John..."
"Move it," the officer muttered, lightly shoving the detective from the back after putting his cuff on with hands behind, "Don't worry. I got you."
Sherlock pressed his lips and silently gave out a sigh.
"You sure about this?" he muttered back, barely moving his lips as he saw other officers waiting for them to move, "being an officer in this place isn't really same with waltzing you know."
"Trust me." John finally said with a firm hold at the detective's arm, "I know exactly what I'm doing."
~ TO BE CONTINUED~
A/N: A chapter to go and the doctor's just gotten in!?
Is that really gonna be the wrap up!?
*I'm all gears!*
~Thanks for Reading~