[fic] Caledonian Road; Sherlock BBC; NC-17
Title: Caledonian Road (1/?)
Author: omen1x2
Rating: Eventual NC-17
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: Sherlock/John, multiple OMCs/Sherlock
Disclaimer: Like all fanfic writers, I twist reality to please me. Brit-picked by my very dear friend kdelioncourt. Any remaining issues are entirely my fault and not hers.
Summary: John goes to prison for burglary, and meets a fascinating, broken genius. He wants nothing more than to just keep to himself for the entirety of his sentence, but something about this man gets under his skin.
Warnings: Mentions of non-con, sexual and physical abuse, may have inaccurate info
Caledonian Road
By Omen
Chapter One
Harry was still yelling at him. He’d tuned her out half an hour ago, and she still hadn’t let up in the slightest.
He stared down at his hands, rough and chapped, slightly stubby fingers, dirt under his nails. He really needed to have a bath. The cuffs at his wrists weren’t helping either, reddening and over-sensitising his skin.
Tiring of that, he instead focused on the table underneath his hands. Nice wood, no lacquer. One of the knots swirled in a way that made him think of a top he had loved as a child. It had been green and red, and Harry had broken it.
Thinking of Harry made him tune in to her rants again. “You’re just being stubborn and selfish! I can’t understand why you don’t realise that I just want to help you! You never accept help from anyone; I don’t know why I even try-”
This whole thing was her fault anyway, and she knew it. She just preferred to be angry with him instead of herself, and John was providing her with an excellent excuse.
The lawyer John had refused tried to interrupt again. “Ms. Watson, I really don’t think I will be any help at all if your brother doesn’t-”
“Oh, you’re going to help him, whether he likes it or not! This is just him being a stubborn arse, and I won’t have it!”
John could have said any number of things. He could have said “You’re the one that made me do it to begin with,” or “Perhaps I should turn you in to get a reduced sentence?” or even, “How much do you think Clara would like to hear the truth of what happened?” After all, that was the real reason why Harry was so insistent on John taking her lawyer. She didn’t want Clara finding out about those photographs, and a trial would almost undoubtedly make them public.
Instead, he said, “Just shut up, Harry. I’ll do whatever the bloody hell you want if you’ll just shut your bloody mouth first.”
He ignored the self-satisfied gleam in her eye and went back to staring down at that whorl of a knot.
Two years. Two bloody years for something he hadn’t even wanted to do in the first place. It didn’t make him feel any less angry that he might have got even less, if he’d mentioned the extenuating circumstances, but he wouldn’t do that to Harry. Even after all this, he still wouldn’t ruin his sister’s life as well as his own.
And in all honesty, he was just thankful that they had never found his gun.
“Home sweet home,” John muttered to himself as he saw the gates of Pentonville loom through the window.
John went through the changing of his clothes and his cleaning in a blank daze. Some part of him knew that the guard was speaking to him, but no sooner had his ears heard the words than they slipped away. Instead, he kept focusing on the oddest things, like the mould in the corner, and the rat feces near the window.
Someone really ought to clean, he thought vaguely. These old buildings need to be taken better care of.
But then, who would care about the upkeep of a prison?
When the guard gave him a blanket and waved him towards a door, John obeyed.
He’d been in the army. He knew that sometimes the best way was to just keep your head down and obey orders.
He was in luck, the guard had said. His cellmate was currently finishing another round of detox in the F Wing, and wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow.
Lucky, John thought as he placed his blanket on one of the bunks.
He looked around the cell, at the two beds and the toilet.
Lucky, he thought again.
Dinner was uneventful. He knew some of them were watching him, while he queued for his food and when he sat to eat. He didn’t make eye contact with any of them, never looked up from his tray. John only knew they were looking at all from the way the hair stood on the back of his neck, and the way his spine tingled with the suppressed animosity.
Still, he knew it was like working with wild animals. Only make eye contact if you plan on engaging.
He knew it wouldn’t work for long; at some point, one or several of them would engage anyway. But he would not go out of his way to exacerbate them.
The food was vaguely reminiscent of an even lower grade of army rations. He frowned as he realised he’d been playing with his food like a child. He immediately began to eat and refused to let himself resort to any more signs of discomfort.
He hadn’t moved for hours. He just lay back and let his eyes trace the cracks over his bunk. If he didn’t look away, he could almost believe he was back in Afghanistan. He pretended the air was acrid and hot, the smell of sun and sweat everywhere, the sand and dust permeating every bodily crevice and finding its way into every piece of food or clothing.
John’s fingers twitched, but he didn’t let himself touch his shoulder. He wasn’t wounded. He was still in Afghanistan, where life made sense and he hadn’t yet fucked up his own past redemption. Before Harry had-
No, no, he’d lost it.
John frowned and almost managed to bring it back, when the door to his cell opened with a deafening clang.
He didn’t want to look, but he couldn’t stop himself. He pushed himself up so that his back was against the wall as he waited.
Someone obscenely tall, pale skin and dark hair stepped inside and the door crashed shut again behind him.
This, then, was his cellmate.
~to be continued…~
A/N: I hadn’t ever planned on writing any Sherlock fic, because there’s just so many good ones out there already. However, every prison fic I’d seen so far seemed to be about Sherlock being this highly respected guy in prison, and ends up taking John under his wing. Perhaps in some situations, this might even be possible. The thing that bothered me about it, though, is that I really can’t imagine Benedict Cumberbatch’s Sherlock being able to keep from offending prison convicts (and especially not for an extended period, over months or even years), because he truly never understands that things he says may be hurtful, and so I always thought it much more likely that John were the one offering protection. And I’m not trying to say anything negative about such fics, because I’ve read some really good ones.
Also, I tried to put in as much research as possible in the British sentencing system for the crimes that will be mentioned in this, as well as the British prison system (specifically Her Majesty’s Pentonville Prison, where this story takes place) . If there are any inaccuracies, I apologize in advance.
Next chapter...
Author: omen1x2
Rating: Eventual NC-17
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: Sherlock/John, multiple OMCs/Sherlock
Disclaimer: Like all fanfic writers, I twist reality to please me. Brit-picked by my very dear friend kdelioncourt. Any remaining issues are entirely my fault and not hers.
Summary: John goes to prison for burglary, and meets a fascinating, broken genius. He wants nothing more than to just keep to himself for the entirety of his sentence, but something about this man gets under his skin.
Warnings: Mentions of non-con, sexual and physical abuse, may have inaccurate info
Caledonian Road
By Omen
Chapter One
Harry was still yelling at him. He’d tuned her out half an hour ago, and she still hadn’t let up in the slightest.
He stared down at his hands, rough and chapped, slightly stubby fingers, dirt under his nails. He really needed to have a bath. The cuffs at his wrists weren’t helping either, reddening and over-sensitising his skin.
Tiring of that, he instead focused on the table underneath his hands. Nice wood, no lacquer. One of the knots swirled in a way that made him think of a top he had loved as a child. It had been green and red, and Harry had broken it.
Thinking of Harry made him tune in to her rants again. “You’re just being stubborn and selfish! I can’t understand why you don’t realise that I just want to help you! You never accept help from anyone; I don’t know why I even try-”
This whole thing was her fault anyway, and she knew it. She just preferred to be angry with him instead of herself, and John was providing her with an excellent excuse.
The lawyer John had refused tried to interrupt again. “Ms. Watson, I really don’t think I will be any help at all if your brother doesn’t-”
“Oh, you’re going to help him, whether he likes it or not! This is just him being a stubborn arse, and I won’t have it!”
John could have said any number of things. He could have said “You’re the one that made me do it to begin with,” or “Perhaps I should turn you in to get a reduced sentence?” or even, “How much do you think Clara would like to hear the truth of what happened?” After all, that was the real reason why Harry was so insistent on John taking her lawyer. She didn’t want Clara finding out about those photographs, and a trial would almost undoubtedly make them public.
Instead, he said, “Just shut up, Harry. I’ll do whatever the bloody hell you want if you’ll just shut your bloody mouth first.”
He ignored the self-satisfied gleam in her eye and went back to staring down at that whorl of a knot.
Two years. Two bloody years for something he hadn’t even wanted to do in the first place. It didn’t make him feel any less angry that he might have got even less, if he’d mentioned the extenuating circumstances, but he wouldn’t do that to Harry. Even after all this, he still wouldn’t ruin his sister’s life as well as his own.
And in all honesty, he was just thankful that they had never found his gun.
“Home sweet home,” John muttered to himself as he saw the gates of Pentonville loom through the window.
John went through the changing of his clothes and his cleaning in a blank daze. Some part of him knew that the guard was speaking to him, but no sooner had his ears heard the words than they slipped away. Instead, he kept focusing on the oddest things, like the mould in the corner, and the rat feces near the window.
Someone really ought to clean, he thought vaguely. These old buildings need to be taken better care of.
But then, who would care about the upkeep of a prison?
When the guard gave him a blanket and waved him towards a door, John obeyed.
He’d been in the army. He knew that sometimes the best way was to just keep your head down and obey orders.
He was in luck, the guard had said. His cellmate was currently finishing another round of detox in the F Wing, and wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow.
Lucky, John thought as he placed his blanket on one of the bunks.
He looked around the cell, at the two beds and the toilet.
Lucky, he thought again.
Dinner was uneventful. He knew some of them were watching him, while he queued for his food and when he sat to eat. He didn’t make eye contact with any of them, never looked up from his tray. John only knew they were looking at all from the way the hair stood on the back of his neck, and the way his spine tingled with the suppressed animosity.
Still, he knew it was like working with wild animals. Only make eye contact if you plan on engaging.
He knew it wouldn’t work for long; at some point, one or several of them would engage anyway. But he would not go out of his way to exacerbate them.
The food was vaguely reminiscent of an even lower grade of army rations. He frowned as he realised he’d been playing with his food like a child. He immediately began to eat and refused to let himself resort to any more signs of discomfort.
He hadn’t moved for hours. He just lay back and let his eyes trace the cracks over his bunk. If he didn’t look away, he could almost believe he was back in Afghanistan. He pretended the air was acrid and hot, the smell of sun and sweat everywhere, the sand and dust permeating every bodily crevice and finding its way into every piece of food or clothing.
John’s fingers twitched, but he didn’t let himself touch his shoulder. He wasn’t wounded. He was still in Afghanistan, where life made sense and he hadn’t yet fucked up his own past redemption. Before Harry had-
No, no, he’d lost it.
John frowned and almost managed to bring it back, when the door to his cell opened with a deafening clang.
He didn’t want to look, but he couldn’t stop himself. He pushed himself up so that his back was against the wall as he waited.
Someone obscenely tall, pale skin and dark hair stepped inside and the door crashed shut again behind him.
This, then, was his cellmate.
~to be continued…~
A/N: I hadn’t ever planned on writing any Sherlock fic, because there’s just so many good ones out there already. However, every prison fic I’d seen so far seemed to be about Sherlock being this highly respected guy in prison, and ends up taking John under his wing. Perhaps in some situations, this might even be possible. The thing that bothered me about it, though, is that I really can’t imagine Benedict Cumberbatch’s Sherlock being able to keep from offending prison convicts (and especially not for an extended period, over months or even years), because he truly never understands that things he says may be hurtful, and so I always thought it much more likely that John were the one offering protection. And I’m not trying to say anything negative about such fics, because I’ve read some really good ones.
Also, I tried to put in as much research as possible in the British sentencing system for the crimes that will be mentioned in this, as well as the British prison system (specifically Her Majesty’s Pentonville Prison, where this story takes place) . If there are any inaccuracies, I apologize in advance.
Next chapter...