[fic] Caledonian Road; Chapter Eight
Title: Caledonian Road (8/?)
Author: omen1x2
Rating: 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 Eight
The shriek echoed off the grey walls, and the uniformed man that had come bearing the news flinched away.
“How could he possibly be back?! He killed someone! There were even witnesses!”
The man mumbled something, and a smaller form pressed into him. Despite the baton at his side, the prison officer felt a deep terror as the wild eyes stared into his.
“Speak up, you overrated waste bin of human thought.”
“D-Don’t know, sir. Came from the top. No one really knows.”
The small man gave a hiss of a deadly snake and turned away. The officer relaxed slightly. “I see. So the good doctor has friends in high places, then.” Moriarty turned back with a smile, causing the other man to straighten into attention again. “Luckily for me, so do I.”
A sharp crack resounded, and the officer crumpled to the floor.
“He’s not dead,” another voice at the back of the room muttered.
“Of course not. He wouldn’t be any use to me if he were.” A hand wave, and feet trudged towards the collapsed officer. “Just a little reminder, is all.”
The only difference, as far as John could tell, was the number of steps needed to pace the circumference of the cell. The change in surroundings, the added furniture, all superfluous. Until Sherlock returned from the F Wing, John might as well have been back in seclusion for all the care he took for his old cell.
He was taken to F Wing for drugs. What does that mean? Did he overdose? Or did they catch him in possession? John paused beside Sherlock’s bed, staring down at it. How could he have - Why?! He slammed his fist into the pillow. Unsatisfactory. He knew better than to punch the wall, but oh, how he wanted to. Maybe he’d punch one of Sherlock’s ridiculously perfect cheekbones when he came back.
John began to pace again. What kind of drugs? Morphine? Heroin? Cocaine? Cocaine was most likely. His mind raced through years of medical training, running through norepinephrine releases and serotonin and dopamine blockages. Potassium deficiency. Catecholamine toxins overrunning his system. Tachycardia. John gagged as his mind shied away from the image of Sherlock’s brain, that unique brain, hemorrhaging from drug toxicity, blood spreading over and damaging those sensitive neurons, destroying brain tissue, causing that innate elegance to become nothing more than stumbling awkwardness, those all-seeing eyes to blur… He refused to imagine that genius mind comatose, dormant and unused.
For the first time in his life, John Watson wished he weren’t a doctor.
How long would it take for Sherlock to return? He would, right? How long were prisoners kept in the drug wing? Why hadn’t he asked Sherlock when he’d had the chance? Would they keep him for long term care? This obviously wasn’t the first time he’d been there, but John had no way of knowing if Sherlock’s stay in the drug wing might become more permanent for continual drug abuse. Or would they just give him a shot of diazepam and let him go after a sufficient observation period?
Would he ever see Sherlock again? Hell, even if Sherlock was returned to C Wing, there was every possibility that the guards would move him to a different cell.
He just… he had no way of knowing.
John’s pacing slowed, and then stopped next to Sherlock’s bed again.
This waiting was going to kill him.
Water and soap splashed into the sink, suds swirling together. John stood, naked and uncaring of any possible passersby as he used a clean undershirt to give himself a rigorous sponge bath. When the guards had come by earlier in the day, he had told them in the politest terms but with a tone that brooked no argument, that he would not be using the showers that day.
John wiped his face, and then rubbed his scalp until it ached, before moving on to his neck and shoulders.
Crimson blood smeared over an erect phallus. Pale thighs marred by livid bruises.
John Watson refused to leave this cell again until Sherlock had returned. He did not want to imagine what could happen if Sherlock arrived, and he wasn’t there.
Sherlock was beautiful, brilliant, and utterly impossible. He was much too good for any of the fuckers trapped in this warzone of a prison, and John would not allow any of them to take from Sherlock what they so little deserved ever again.
Death had been too good for that fucking bastard.
“Bloody 'ell, Watson, aren’t you comin’ out?”
“No, thank you.” This guard had been the only person to even talk to him in days. While any other questions would have been met with short answers, John felt he could at least be polite to the man that had informed him of Sherlock’s situation in the first place.
“Still full from last night, yeah?”
“No, I did not eat yesterday either.”
The young man stared at him, agog. “Wot is this, then, mate? Ain’t ya 'ungry?”
“Some, but I’m not leaving this cell.”
It seemed to take a few minutes for the guard to process this. “Scared o’ the others? Yeah, I c’n see that. But I’d be in the shit if’n I brought you some nosh. But I’ll see wot I c’n do.”
“You really don’t have to.”
“Ch’, I’m not about ta let ya starve, Watson.”
John’s stomach was beginning to complain rather incessantly when he discovered a new form of entertainment to pass the time until Sherlock’s return. He braced himself against the bars of his cell, and waited.
Ten minutes, twenty minutes, and then an inmate, middle-aged, balding, and about twice John’s size, passed in front of his cell, keeping as far to the other side of the corridor without actually hugging the wall.
“Hey.”
The man jumped. Refusing to meet John’s eyes, he fled the scene as quickly as he could.
Really, snapping a man’s neck certainly brought a certain kind of notoriety in prison.
John hoped Sherlock would return soon. This really wouldn’t be entertaining for long.
“Oi, Watson!” The young guard gave a loud whistle through the bars, completely counteracting his whispering tone. “Watson!” The dim lights for the night hours made his ginger hair glow oddly.
“I’m right here. What is it?” John refrained from vocalising his thoughts, which were mainly “Did you expect to find me anywhere else?”
“I found a bloke that offered to bring you some nosh now 'n' ag’n.”
“Oh!” John blinked, rather taken aback. “Thanks.”
The friendly young man winked. “Don’t worry about it, mate. His shift starts in an hour, so jus’ 'ang tight, yeah?”
It was rather nice to see someone smile at him, John realised. As entertaining as it had been to see everyone run from the sight of him, he had begun to miss being treated like a human being.
Now if only Sherlock would just come back.
~to be continued…~
A/N: I realize that this chapter is obscenely short, considering I haven't updated in what feels like a million years. Sadly, a combination of truly annoying circumstances has kept me busy and/or internet-less for quite a long period. I do hope to have the next chapter up relatively soon, to make up for the shortness of this one.
This was quite possibly one of the most difficult things I've had to write (another reason why it took so long), because really, very little happens in this chapter. I refused to just have Sherlock reappear as soon as John left solitary, because I'm a stickler for realism, but it also left me with very few options as to how this chapter was going to progress. I could have had John leaving for the cafeteria and working out in the gym, but I didn't think it likely, since John is on a mission, so to speak. He wouldn't just abandon his duties to go work out.
...Previous chapter | Next chapter...
Author: omen1x2
Rating: 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 Eight
The shriek echoed off the grey walls, and the uniformed man that had come bearing the news flinched away.
“How could he possibly be back?! He killed someone! There were even witnesses!”
The man mumbled something, and a smaller form pressed into him. Despite the baton at his side, the prison officer felt a deep terror as the wild eyes stared into his.
“Speak up, you overrated waste bin of human thought.”
“D-Don’t know, sir. Came from the top. No one really knows.”
The small man gave a hiss of a deadly snake and turned away. The officer relaxed slightly. “I see. So the good doctor has friends in high places, then.” Moriarty turned back with a smile, causing the other man to straighten into attention again. “Luckily for me, so do I.”
A sharp crack resounded, and the officer crumpled to the floor.
“He’s not dead,” another voice at the back of the room muttered.
“Of course not. He wouldn’t be any use to me if he were.” A hand wave, and feet trudged towards the collapsed officer. “Just a little reminder, is all.”
The only difference, as far as John could tell, was the number of steps needed to pace the circumference of the cell. The change in surroundings, the added furniture, all superfluous. Until Sherlock returned from the F Wing, John might as well have been back in seclusion for all the care he took for his old cell.
He was taken to F Wing for drugs. What does that mean? Did he overdose? Or did they catch him in possession? John paused beside Sherlock’s bed, staring down at it. How could he have - Why?! He slammed his fist into the pillow. Unsatisfactory. He knew better than to punch the wall, but oh, how he wanted to. Maybe he’d punch one of Sherlock’s ridiculously perfect cheekbones when he came back.
John began to pace again. What kind of drugs? Morphine? Heroin? Cocaine? Cocaine was most likely. His mind raced through years of medical training, running through norepinephrine releases and serotonin and dopamine blockages. Potassium deficiency. Catecholamine toxins overrunning his system. Tachycardia. John gagged as his mind shied away from the image of Sherlock’s brain, that unique brain, hemorrhaging from drug toxicity, blood spreading over and damaging those sensitive neurons, destroying brain tissue, causing that innate elegance to become nothing more than stumbling awkwardness, those all-seeing eyes to blur… He refused to imagine that genius mind comatose, dormant and unused.
For the first time in his life, John Watson wished he weren’t a doctor.
How long would it take for Sherlock to return? He would, right? How long were prisoners kept in the drug wing? Why hadn’t he asked Sherlock when he’d had the chance? Would they keep him for long term care? This obviously wasn’t the first time he’d been there, but John had no way of knowing if Sherlock’s stay in the drug wing might become more permanent for continual drug abuse. Or would they just give him a shot of diazepam and let him go after a sufficient observation period?
Would he ever see Sherlock again? Hell, even if Sherlock was returned to C Wing, there was every possibility that the guards would move him to a different cell.
He just… he had no way of knowing.
John’s pacing slowed, and then stopped next to Sherlock’s bed again.
This waiting was going to kill him.
Water and soap splashed into the sink, suds swirling together. John stood, naked and uncaring of any possible passersby as he used a clean undershirt to give himself a rigorous sponge bath. When the guards had come by earlier in the day, he had told them in the politest terms but with a tone that brooked no argument, that he would not be using the showers that day.
John wiped his face, and then rubbed his scalp until it ached, before moving on to his neck and shoulders.
Crimson blood smeared over an erect phallus. Pale thighs marred by livid bruises.
John Watson refused to leave this cell again until Sherlock had returned. He did not want to imagine what could happen if Sherlock arrived, and he wasn’t there.
Sherlock was beautiful, brilliant, and utterly impossible. He was much too good for any of the fuckers trapped in this warzone of a prison, and John would not allow any of them to take from Sherlock what they so little deserved ever again.
Death had been too good for that fucking bastard.
“Bloody 'ell, Watson, aren’t you comin’ out?”
“No, thank you.” This guard had been the only person to even talk to him in days. While any other questions would have been met with short answers, John felt he could at least be polite to the man that had informed him of Sherlock’s situation in the first place.
“Still full from last night, yeah?”
“No, I did not eat yesterday either.”
The young man stared at him, agog. “Wot is this, then, mate? Ain’t ya 'ungry?”
“Some, but I’m not leaving this cell.”
It seemed to take a few minutes for the guard to process this. “Scared o’ the others? Yeah, I c’n see that. But I’d be in the shit if’n I brought you some nosh. But I’ll see wot I c’n do.”
“You really don’t have to.”
“Ch’, I’m not about ta let ya starve, Watson.”
John’s stomach was beginning to complain rather incessantly when he discovered a new form of entertainment to pass the time until Sherlock’s return. He braced himself against the bars of his cell, and waited.
Ten minutes, twenty minutes, and then an inmate, middle-aged, balding, and about twice John’s size, passed in front of his cell, keeping as far to the other side of the corridor without actually hugging the wall.
“Hey.”
The man jumped. Refusing to meet John’s eyes, he fled the scene as quickly as he could.
Really, snapping a man’s neck certainly brought a certain kind of notoriety in prison.
John hoped Sherlock would return soon. This really wouldn’t be entertaining for long.
“Oi, Watson!” The young guard gave a loud whistle through the bars, completely counteracting his whispering tone. “Watson!” The dim lights for the night hours made his ginger hair glow oddly.
“I’m right here. What is it?” John refrained from vocalising his thoughts, which were mainly “Did you expect to find me anywhere else?”
“I found a bloke that offered to bring you some nosh now 'n' ag’n.”
“Oh!” John blinked, rather taken aback. “Thanks.”
The friendly young man winked. “Don’t worry about it, mate. His shift starts in an hour, so jus’ 'ang tight, yeah?”
It was rather nice to see someone smile at him, John realised. As entertaining as it had been to see everyone run from the sight of him, he had begun to miss being treated like a human being.
Now if only Sherlock would just come back.
~to be continued…~
A/N: I realize that this chapter is obscenely short, considering I haven't updated in what feels like a million years. Sadly, a combination of truly annoying circumstances has kept me busy and/or internet-less for quite a long period. I do hope to have the next chapter up relatively soon, to make up for the shortness of this one.
This was quite possibly one of the most difficult things I've had to write (another reason why it took so long), because really, very little happens in this chapter. I refused to just have Sherlock reappear as soon as John left solitary, because I'm a stickler for realism, but it also left me with very few options as to how this chapter was going to progress. I could have had John leaving for the cafeteria and working out in the gym, but I didn't think it likely, since John is on a mission, so to speak. He wouldn't just abandon his duties to go work out.
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