[fic] Caledonian Road Chapter Two; NC-17; Sherlock/John
Title: Caledonian Road (2/?)
Author: omen1x2
Rating: Eventual NC-17
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: Sherlock/John, multiple OCs/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 Two
John Watson took in the sight of his new cellmate. The man refused to move from his position just inside the cell, so it was easy. The dark hair was lank and stiff with grease and dirt. Bruises showed stark against the pale skin, scattered here and there as though aiming for maximum pain with minimal contact. Only one bruise marred his face - the dark of his cheekbone made the understated brilliance of his eyes even more apparent.
This… was not the cellmate John had expected.
“Hello,” John said, momentarily surprised out of his apathy.
The man just stood there, eyes darting over him as if seeing everything and nothing all at once. It made John feel oddly exposed.
He found, much to his surprise, that he didn’t mind.
“You’re a war veteran recently invalided home only to find yourself arrested for a minor crime that still resulted in incarceration. Clearly a strong moral principle, and so the crime in question was in self-defence, or, more likely, in the defence of someone else. You weren’t given a lean sentence, so you didn’t take any deals, or if you did, you didn’t take the best one open to you. Either punishing yourself or protecting someone else, either are equally possible, if not both. Unmarried, obviously, and no close friends or family.”
John gaped. “That was… bloody hell. How-?”
But for some reason, at his words, the man seemed to close in on himself. His eyes shuttered and his back hunched as he carefully made his way toward his own bunk without moving too close to John’s despite the small space.
John tried again. “I’m John Watson.”
His cellmate made no move to show he’d heard.
John stayed up the rest of the night, but the other man never said another word.
He wondered where the man’s bruises had come from.
It’s prison, you idiot, he reminded himself. Don’t get involved.
Someone was talking to him for a full five minutes the next morning in the caf before the words really penetrated in John’s mind. And even so, the man had nothing to say that interested John in the slightest.
He found himself scanning the canteen, (cafeteria, he reminded himself; he wasn’t on base anymore) noting the doors, no windows, and one tall cellmate with pale skin and bruises being eyed by three men in a way that was decidedly unfriendly.
“… So obviously if you want a go at the telly you better be ready to pay for it, is all I’m saying. Say, have you got any cash? I haven’t got to watch my favorite program in weeks, and I’m just about ready to punch myself with boredom.”
“No use punching yourself,” John muttered, distracted. “Might as well punch someone else and be useful about it.” He didn’t wait for an answer as he stood and walked across the cafeteria, leaving his food behind him.
Horrible rations, anyway, John didn’t even realise he’d thought as he found himself sitting across from his cellmate.
The man didn’t look up, but John had the feeling that he was fully aware, not only of John’s presence, but of every glance in his direction.
“So are you ever going to tell me your name?”
No response whatsoever. It was somewhat like talking to Harry’s dolls when he’d been a boy.
“Usually when someone tells you their name, it’s polite to give them your own in return.”
The head of dark hair tilted, as if questioning, but still no answer.
“Well, go on, then. You’ve obviously got a question. Let’s have it.”
Grey eyes flicked around the large room before resting on John with the intensity of a laser. “Odd practice, isn’t it? As if you’re exchanging names the way you exchange presents at Christmas.”
John blinked, and then laughed. Loud and hard and it was as much the surprise of it as anything else that made it so difficult for him to stop. Everyone around them stared. John didn’t care, because he could see his cellmate’s shoulders shaking, as if silently laughing himself.
“Sherlock Holmes,” the man said quietly. “Although I don’t think it’s much of a gift.”
“Sherlock,” John said eagerly. “So, last night. How did you-”
“Why, Holmes, I had no idea you had a new boyfriend.” The same three men John had noticed eyeing Sherlock earlier stood over them. The largest had a tattoo on the side of his neck, head shaved, and a nose that had clearly been broken before, and was the one that had spoken. “You should have introduced us. We don’t mind sharing.”
The two others gave fake chuckles. None of them were looking at John.
Sherlock’s momentary openness had shut off as quickly as a switch being thrown.
Don’t get involved, John reminded himself.
“Lucky for us, he doesn’t seem much like he’d mind sharing either.” The look Tattoo gave John was contemptuous, taking in his small size.
Sherlock said nothing. His hands were folded in his lap, knuckles as white as his face.
Don’t get involved.
“Have you told him any of your little fortunes yet? Or have we finally managed to fuck the psychic right out of you?”
Sherlock’s shoulders twitched. “Not-”
Tattoo grabbed Sherlock by the hair and pulled his head back, hissing, “What was that, bitch? You want to say something about how everything you say isn’t as much bollocks as anything some old whore says on the street?”
For a brief moment, Sherlock’s eyes met John’s.
Don’t get involved.
Suddenly, the tall, enigmatic man seemed to find some source of inner strength. He straightened his back, somehow looking as though that fist in his hair was nothing more than decoration as he said, “You fucked Hall this morning in your cell, most likely while the security guard was only a few cells down. But then, we both know you enjoy nearly being caught, don’t we? Hall wasn’t interested, but your closeted homosexuality makes you feel as if a place like this can leave you many possibilities, as long as you’re the ‘biggest and the strongest.’ Of course, you are neither, but in a Category B prison, no one is willing to challenge you if they have no reason, which you know full well. This is why you only rape the ones you believe will not fight back.”
Tattoo’s face had grown redder and redder over the course of Sherlock’s spiel until he appeared almost purple.
“Did you-” Tattoo’s hand pulled Sherlock’s head back further, until he was almost yanked off the bench entirely. “-just call me-” He lowered his head to Sherlock’s ear. “-a fag?!” His teeth ripped into Sherlock’s ear.
John saw blood on Tattoo’s lips and teeth as he pulled away. He felt sick.
Sherlock’s hands twitched. He opened his mouth. Shut it. Opened it again.
Don’t get involved.
“Yes,” Sherlock said, defiant. His fingers were shaking, and something in his face seemed to say that he would die before he gave in.
Something in Tattoo’s said he’d do it.
No one, not even John, noticed when he stood.
Everyone noticed when he threw his first punch.
“You’re an idiot.”
John glared at the man as he did his best to use the wetted end of his blanket to clean his scraped knuckles but didn’t say anything.
“Don’t be like that. You ought to know that getting in a fight in a common area where the guards can catch you can ruin any chances you have of getting out of here early.”
“Says the idiot that decided to fling insults at convicted felons.”
“I most certainly did no such thing.”
“What? But you-”
“I merely said he was gay. He was the one that chose to take it as an insult.”
“But…” John stopped and slowly lowered his blanket. “You’re right.”
“Of course I’m right.” Sherlock’s tone seemed to suggest that anything else would be utterly impossible.
“But you knew he’d take it as an insult.”
“Perhaps. Some people seem to find their sexuality threatening.”
“And you knew he would be threatened by it when you said it.”
“It was likely, yes. Everything about his actions has suggested he is a closeted, self-hating homosexual. Including the fact that he’s responded negatively to such comments in the past.”
John considered being exasperated or berating Sherlock because it was clear that the past comments had likely been from the man himself. It was also equally clear that any exasperation or rebuke on John’s part would be ignored.
“There’s nothing wrong with being gay,” John said absently as he took his blanket up again, thinking that it was somewhat of a pity that he didn’t have any gauze for his knuckles.
“Thank you, yes, I’m aware.”
Having just finished cleaning his scrapes, it took John a moment to realise what Sherlock had said, and then swallowed. “Oh. You’re... gay, then? Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course.”
Sherlock’s eyes had never left John since they’d returned to their cell, but they suddenly narrowed and sharpened. “Ah. Of course.” Sherlock pressed his back against the wall, every inch of him tense and waiting. “You expect thanks.”
Confused, John’s tongue flicked out to lick his lips. “Well, yes, I suppose. I did just attack three men for you. A thank you would be nice.”
Moving fluidly to his feet, face a careful mask of sharp-edged nonchalance, Sherlock unzipped his jumpersuit. It dropped to his feet, too baggy to cling to his thin frame unaided, and stepped out of it, each movement too quick for John to react, until he found himself pressed back against his bunk.
John’s voice was strangled, choking as he grasped at Sherlock’s hand on his own zipper. “Wait! What are you doing?” He had a lap full of pale, dark haired stranger and his mind was short circuiting between arousal and confusion.
“You wanted me to thank you, Doctor, so I’m thanking you.”
~to be continued…~
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Author: omen1x2
Rating: Eventual NC-17
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: Sherlock/John, multiple OCs/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 Two
John Watson took in the sight of his new cellmate. The man refused to move from his position just inside the cell, so it was easy. The dark hair was lank and stiff with grease and dirt. Bruises showed stark against the pale skin, scattered here and there as though aiming for maximum pain with minimal contact. Only one bruise marred his face - the dark of his cheekbone made the understated brilliance of his eyes even more apparent.
This… was not the cellmate John had expected.
“Hello,” John said, momentarily surprised out of his apathy.
The man just stood there, eyes darting over him as if seeing everything and nothing all at once. It made John feel oddly exposed.
He found, much to his surprise, that he didn’t mind.
“You’re a war veteran recently invalided home only to find yourself arrested for a minor crime that still resulted in incarceration. Clearly a strong moral principle, and so the crime in question was in self-defence, or, more likely, in the defence of someone else. You weren’t given a lean sentence, so you didn’t take any deals, or if you did, you didn’t take the best one open to you. Either punishing yourself or protecting someone else, either are equally possible, if not both. Unmarried, obviously, and no close friends or family.”
John gaped. “That was… bloody hell. How-?”
But for some reason, at his words, the man seemed to close in on himself. His eyes shuttered and his back hunched as he carefully made his way toward his own bunk without moving too close to John’s despite the small space.
John tried again. “I’m John Watson.”
His cellmate made no move to show he’d heard.
John stayed up the rest of the night, but the other man never said another word.
He wondered where the man’s bruises had come from.
It’s prison, you idiot, he reminded himself. Don’t get involved.
Someone was talking to him for a full five minutes the next morning in the caf before the words really penetrated in John’s mind. And even so, the man had nothing to say that interested John in the slightest.
He found himself scanning the canteen, (cafeteria, he reminded himself; he wasn’t on base anymore) noting the doors, no windows, and one tall cellmate with pale skin and bruises being eyed by three men in a way that was decidedly unfriendly.
“… So obviously if you want a go at the telly you better be ready to pay for it, is all I’m saying. Say, have you got any cash? I haven’t got to watch my favorite program in weeks, and I’m just about ready to punch myself with boredom.”
“No use punching yourself,” John muttered, distracted. “Might as well punch someone else and be useful about it.” He didn’t wait for an answer as he stood and walked across the cafeteria, leaving his food behind him.
Horrible rations, anyway, John didn’t even realise he’d thought as he found himself sitting across from his cellmate.
The man didn’t look up, but John had the feeling that he was fully aware, not only of John’s presence, but of every glance in his direction.
“So are you ever going to tell me your name?”
No response whatsoever. It was somewhat like talking to Harry’s dolls when he’d been a boy.
“Usually when someone tells you their name, it’s polite to give them your own in return.”
The head of dark hair tilted, as if questioning, but still no answer.
“Well, go on, then. You’ve obviously got a question. Let’s have it.”
Grey eyes flicked around the large room before resting on John with the intensity of a laser. “Odd practice, isn’t it? As if you’re exchanging names the way you exchange presents at Christmas.”
John blinked, and then laughed. Loud and hard and it was as much the surprise of it as anything else that made it so difficult for him to stop. Everyone around them stared. John didn’t care, because he could see his cellmate’s shoulders shaking, as if silently laughing himself.
“Sherlock Holmes,” the man said quietly. “Although I don’t think it’s much of a gift.”
“Sherlock,” John said eagerly. “So, last night. How did you-”
“Why, Holmes, I had no idea you had a new boyfriend.” The same three men John had noticed eyeing Sherlock earlier stood over them. The largest had a tattoo on the side of his neck, head shaved, and a nose that had clearly been broken before, and was the one that had spoken. “You should have introduced us. We don’t mind sharing.”
The two others gave fake chuckles. None of them were looking at John.
Sherlock’s momentary openness had shut off as quickly as a switch being thrown.
Don’t get involved, John reminded himself.
“Lucky for us, he doesn’t seem much like he’d mind sharing either.” The look Tattoo gave John was contemptuous, taking in his small size.
Sherlock said nothing. His hands were folded in his lap, knuckles as white as his face.
Don’t get involved.
“Have you told him any of your little fortunes yet? Or have we finally managed to fuck the psychic right out of you?”
Sherlock’s shoulders twitched. “Not-”
Tattoo grabbed Sherlock by the hair and pulled his head back, hissing, “What was that, bitch? You want to say something about how everything you say isn’t as much bollocks as anything some old whore says on the street?”
For a brief moment, Sherlock’s eyes met John’s.
Don’t get involved.
Suddenly, the tall, enigmatic man seemed to find some source of inner strength. He straightened his back, somehow looking as though that fist in his hair was nothing more than decoration as he said, “You fucked Hall this morning in your cell, most likely while the security guard was only a few cells down. But then, we both know you enjoy nearly being caught, don’t we? Hall wasn’t interested, but your closeted homosexuality makes you feel as if a place like this can leave you many possibilities, as long as you’re the ‘biggest and the strongest.’ Of course, you are neither, but in a Category B prison, no one is willing to challenge you if they have no reason, which you know full well. This is why you only rape the ones you believe will not fight back.”
Tattoo’s face had grown redder and redder over the course of Sherlock’s spiel until he appeared almost purple.
“Did you-” Tattoo’s hand pulled Sherlock’s head back further, until he was almost yanked off the bench entirely. “-just call me-” He lowered his head to Sherlock’s ear. “-a fag?!” His teeth ripped into Sherlock’s ear.
John saw blood on Tattoo’s lips and teeth as he pulled away. He felt sick.
Sherlock’s hands twitched. He opened his mouth. Shut it. Opened it again.
Don’t get involved.
“Yes,” Sherlock said, defiant. His fingers were shaking, and something in his face seemed to say that he would die before he gave in.
Something in Tattoo’s said he’d do it.
No one, not even John, noticed when he stood.
Everyone noticed when he threw his first punch.
“You’re an idiot.”
John glared at the man as he did his best to use the wetted end of his blanket to clean his scraped knuckles but didn’t say anything.
“Don’t be like that. You ought to know that getting in a fight in a common area where the guards can catch you can ruin any chances you have of getting out of here early.”
“Says the idiot that decided to fling insults at convicted felons.”
“I most certainly did no such thing.”
“What? But you-”
“I merely said he was gay. He was the one that chose to take it as an insult.”
“But…” John stopped and slowly lowered his blanket. “You’re right.”
“Of course I’m right.” Sherlock’s tone seemed to suggest that anything else would be utterly impossible.
“But you knew he’d take it as an insult.”
“Perhaps. Some people seem to find their sexuality threatening.”
“And you knew he would be threatened by it when you said it.”
“It was likely, yes. Everything about his actions has suggested he is a closeted, self-hating homosexual. Including the fact that he’s responded negatively to such comments in the past.”
John considered being exasperated or berating Sherlock because it was clear that the past comments had likely been from the man himself. It was also equally clear that any exasperation or rebuke on John’s part would be ignored.
“There’s nothing wrong with being gay,” John said absently as he took his blanket up again, thinking that it was somewhat of a pity that he didn’t have any gauze for his knuckles.
“Thank you, yes, I’m aware.”
Having just finished cleaning his scrapes, it took John a moment to realise what Sherlock had said, and then swallowed. “Oh. You’re... gay, then? Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course.”
Sherlock’s eyes had never left John since they’d returned to their cell, but they suddenly narrowed and sharpened. “Ah. Of course.” Sherlock pressed his back against the wall, every inch of him tense and waiting. “You expect thanks.”
Confused, John’s tongue flicked out to lick his lips. “Well, yes, I suppose. I did just attack three men for you. A thank you would be nice.”
Moving fluidly to his feet, face a careful mask of sharp-edged nonchalance, Sherlock unzipped his jumpersuit. It dropped to his feet, too baggy to cling to his thin frame unaided, and stepped out of it, each movement too quick for John to react, until he found himself pressed back against his bunk.
John’s voice was strangled, choking as he grasped at Sherlock’s hand on his own zipper. “Wait! What are you doing?” He had a lap full of pale, dark haired stranger and his mind was short circuiting between arousal and confusion.
“You wanted me to thank you, Doctor, so I’m thanking you.”
~to be continued…~
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