The Lesser and Greater Circles of Hell

{Christ, can it be 38 already?}

{I have this stupid idea for a wingfic stuck in my head. It won't go away. Goddamn you, brain. Focus. We're not going to do two fics at the same time. That means disaster.}

38

When you can't run, you hide.

When freedom means unnecessary pain, lock yourself in a cage.

Wearily, Sherlock looked blankly out of his window.

For all he could care, it could be snowing out there. It'd suit him much better than a pristine summer day.

A small, white bird fluttered up to the windowsill, peering into the room.

And here, the feral animal has greater power than I.

On closer look, it wasn't pure white; mottled with increasingly dark shades of grey, it seemed oddly symbolic.

As Sherlock gave it his full attention, it jumped off of the sill, winging away in a great arcing flight over the moor, weaving freely.

As he had nothing better to do, Sherlock went to the window.

The bird seemed so carefree, without a single worry in the world as it played.

Not a single threat to you, is there?

The motion off to the side caught his eye; the blue-brown streak, a peregrine falcon, whipped through the air at an incredible speed.

The bird screeched in fear, diving suddenly to evade. The chase was short.

The peregrine caught the sparrow in its talons, and killed it instantly.

Sherlock turned away.

Symbolic. A more complete metaphor, I should think, would be hard to find.

**

In the end, it was the transport that betrayed him.

Irritated, Sherlock snarled under his breath as he fisted his hand, trying to quell the tremors that ran through his muscles.

Hunger was inconveniently inescapable.

He glanced out the window.

It's nighttime. I could risk it.

He drew open a drawer, taking Moran's knife into his hand.

Nothing left to lose.

He knew where to walk, where the steps creaked and where they were silent; how to navigate exclusively by touch, the darkness overwhelming.

Nine steps forward, turn, five, turn, six, turn, sixteen, downstairs. Kitchen, front and right.

He'd crept to one of the cupboards, surveying his choices just as there was a loud clatter behind him.

Sherlock turned in an instant, whipping out the knife and pointing it at the source of the noise.

"Master Sherlock," one of the servants gasped, clutching her broom to her chest, "you gave me quite a scare."

Distrustfully, Sherlock's eyes narrowed, but he lowered the knife.

Young, twenty-seven or so. Needed the money, heard about a vacancy at the Holmes residence for a housekeeper, signed up. Was accepted because everyone local knows the horror stories of Undershaw.

"Simbelmynë," he asked, "what are you doing here?"

"I couldn't sleep," she admitted. "So, I figured I might as well put myself to use."

Sherlock tilted his head. "At an uncivilised hour of the morning?"

"Yes, sir."

"Without turning any lights on?"

Visible in the moonlight, a blush rose over her cheeks. "Yes, sir."

"You'll need to find a quicker mind for excuses than that if you expect to survive here," he said brusquely, turning back to the cabinet. "My father encourages such things."

She swallowed audibly. "But what, sir, did you come down for?"

"Something to eat," he replied stiffly. "Isn't it obvious?"

Simbelmynë was one of those who were truly human in the Holmes residence; among the staff, there was a great deal of talk.

She knew.

"I- they told me, about the Lord, sir, your father, about what he- what he does to you-"

Sherlock stiffened. "Your point?" he demanded.

"It seems, master Sherlock, sir, that instead of risking yourself to come downstairs, I could help. I could bring supplies up to your room, sir, and nobody would be the wiser."

Acutely aware of the deep look those green eyes were giving her, Simbelmynë straightened.

"Sir," she added.

His expression softened.

"Don't call me sir, if you will," Sherlock murmured. "The Lord Acerspina is my father, the Lady my mother, and sir is my brother."

{Acerspina, translated from Latin, is "sharpthorn".}

Simbelmynë's eyes glinted in the light as she stepped forward. "And what are you, then?" she asked softly.

"I, Simbelmynë?" Sherlock turned to her, fully.

"I am nothing."

**

Evasion was successful.

With the aid of a defiant servant- an unexpected development, but an incredibly fortunate one- Sherlock survived. Encounters with his father were kept to a minimum, easing things on all sides.

The week of terror ended.

And before going to his own dormitory, Sherlock thought, he had a detour to make.

He quickly trotted up steps that didn't lead directly to his destination, thanking a higher power that the train had been delayed, causing him to arrive late at night.

He snapped a knuckle against Mycroft's door, then set off a quick series of communicative sounds.

Tap-tap, tik-tik-tik tik-tik-tik, tap tik-tik-tik, tik-tik-tik tap-tap, tap, tap-tap, tik-tik-tik.

The reply was quick in coming.

Welcome back to the lesser circle of hell.

A pause.

Morse code? I'm impressed.

Sherlock, for the first time in what felt like years, grinned.

**

Sherlock's message is easy to translate: I made it. Swear to God, if I have to type "tap" one more time, SOMEBODY DIES.

It doesn't sound like a word anymore.

Seriously: OUT OF IDEAS, FOLKS. NEED SUGGESTIONS. Just timeskip now and save the filler hassle, and get it over with? It seems Druggie-Sherlock is in high demand, but we've got to explain the years that lie between! Is there anything, anything at all that you might want to see, or possibly imagined between the two brothers? I swear, I'll take on anything right about now. Come on, guys, I posted a oneshot day before yesterday because I couldn't come up with this chapter! Give me fresh meat!

Twenty-six words to one thousand. I can spend them.

Um…

They say confession is good for the soul. I encourage it. Strongly.

Four, three, two, 1,000.