[fic] Caledonian Road Chapter Nine, Sherlock/John
Title: Caledonian Road (9/?)
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 Nine
The arrangement had worked well so far. Ramon, the officer that the young guard had introduced him to, had managed to sneak energy bars and water to John at irregular intervals for the past three days. The bars had been stale and tasteless and done nothing more than keep John from starving, but that was fine. He was in no condition to appreciate fine food. Officer Ramon always came back fifteen minutes later to dispose of the garbage, and John was left in relative peace.
He spent most of it pacing.
Ramon wasn’t the type to engage in much conversation during his visits, and that was just fine with John. He only wished to speak to one person, and the only benefit to this interminable wait was that he now knew exactly what he wished to say.
When the cell door finally opened, John did not even turn. He stood at attention, facing the wall, and breathed deeply.
“Oh, John, you’re here,” Sherlock’s voice drawled. “I did wonder if Mycroft would manage to get off his corpulent backside to do any good.”
“Is there any more?” John asked, his own voice tight and controlled.
“John?” John might have rejoiced at the sudden confusion that garbled Sherlock’s voice, but he had more important things to worry about.
“The drugs. Cocaine, right? Is there any more?”
“Oh. How on earth did you know- Oh, of course, someone told you. Even the murderers left in seclusion hear gossip. Someone really ought to buy a dictionary for these people, so they can understand the meaning of the word.”
“Sherlock, answer the question.”
After a long pause, Sherlock responded, “I really cannot understand why you are so upset. I was never in any real danger. It is not as though I am some sort of wilting flower, John.”
John whirled on his heel, suddenly infuriated. He wanted to say so many things in reply. Of course you were in danger. Do you even use that brain at all? Or even trying to explain to Sherlock what multiple overdoses could do to one’s body. His throat worked. “Good,” he managed and slammed his fist into Sherlock’s cheekbone.
He watched as Sherlock fell back against the door, eyes wide with shock and holding his hand up to his face. Inhaling sharply, John tried to ignore the nausea he felt at the sight. “Listen.” His voice came out strangled and harsh. He cleared his throat. “Listen. I don’t know if you get this, but I care about you. I don’t even know why. But if I… If I kill a man, and the next thing I hear is that you’ve been wheeled off to the A&E or whatever the fuck they have in prison for shit like this, then I will be very-” He paused. “You just aren’t going to do that again. It’s not right that apparently I care more about your health than you do.”
Sherlock sneered and straightened away from the door. “Oh, really, John, how can you be so dim? I wasn’t trying to kill myself, or anything so boring. It was a calculated risk.” He stalked away, leaving John to stare blindly at the door. “I was well aware that even if Mycroft chose to assist you, it would likely take some time, mostly out of curiosity and spite. He’d have wanted to know why, and he would have also enjoyed the idea of my begging him for help of any kind. Therefore, after I phoned him, I collected the last of the cocaine I had been saving for emergencies, dosed it correctly, and intentionally overdosed myself.”
John could not stand to look at him, but his fists were beginning to shake. “You… you unbelievable bastard. Are you saying that you overdosed yourself so you wouldn’t have to keep asking your brother for help?”
“Don’t be an idiot, John,” Sherlock snapped. He threw himself onto his bed. “The overdose had absolutely nothing to do with Mycroft, except in that I knew there would be a delay.” There were loud shifting noises from behind John, as if Sherlock were trying to find a comfortable place, before finally settling. “But I knew that I would be at my most vulnerable in this cell alone. I simply needed to ensure that wouldn’t happen.”
It would be too much, John knew, if he turned around. Likely it would end in another bruised cheekbone. He simply continued to face the door. “I… see. So you felt that this was your only alternative? Drugs?”
“Hardly the only alternative, John, but certainly the least damaging.”
“Right,” John said. He finally turned away from the door and sat down on his bunk. “Right,” he said again. “Calculated risk. I see.”
“John?”
“No, listen to me, Sherlock. Listen closely.” He paused, but Sherlock seemed to be paying attention. “This is not going to happen again. I mean it. If there’s ever a reason to- I mean.” He stopped again. “I don’t plan on killing anyone else.”
“You didn’t plan on killing the first one.”
“Shut up. I don’t plan on killing anyone else. But if… if it happens. Or something. If anything happens, I mean. And I’m not there to- You are not going to do that again. You will call your brother, and you will have him get you out of here.”
Sherlock huffed. “Oh, honestly, John.”
“Shut up. I don’t care about this bloody stupid power play. I don’t care if you hate your git of a brother more than anything. I don’t care. I’m not going to make you leave right now. But- But you chose a cocaine overdose over getting off your fucking pedestal and actually asking someone for help, and I’m going to make it clear. This isn’t going to happen again. If for any reason we’re separated again, you are going to call your brother and get him to get you the fuck out of here. Promise me.”
“John, that is the most ridiculous-”
“Shut the fuck up, Sherlock!” John very nearly screeched, and exploded off the bed. “This is not up for fucking debate. This is not even going to be fucking questioned. You are going to promise me this, right now, or I am going to fucking call your brother and tell him to get you out of here, whether you like it or not!”
Sherlock stared at him, lips pressed tightly, and expression rebellious.
John deflated, sitting back on the bed, and resting his head in his hands. “Please, Sherlock. If I’m willing to kill a man for you, then the least you can do is say you’ll do this one thing for me. Please.”
There was a long silence. Sherlock turned to stare at the wall. John stared down at his hands.
“How did you know?”
“What?” John’s head jerked and his left hand twitched.
“The drugs. How did you know it was cocaine? Did they tell you that also?”
“No. I… just figured. It’s the most common of the major drugs in Europe, you know. What’s easy to get out there would probably be easier to get in here too.”
“Hmmm,” Sherlock replied. That was apparently the end of the conversation, and John, defeated, lied back on his bunk.
“John?”
He didn’t want to answer. He’d had enough of being led around by his nose and banging his head up against the wall, but still, as if compelled, he said, “What is it, Sherlock?”
“I promise.”
John’s shoulders relaxed and his face softened. He smiled up at the ceiling. “Thank you.”
~to be continued…~
A/N: So this chapter is also disgustingly short because I’m an evil bitch, but I really just wanted to get this out as soon as possible. I feel like shit for leaving John and Sherlock separated for so long, and needed to get this truly intense scene out of the way so the plot could progress.
That said, this is probably my favorite scene I’ve ever written. It has also led me to deeply respect any and all writers that can successfully translate “this room is so thick you could spread it on toast” tension without trying to attract too much attention to it (because my least favorite kind of writing is the kind that tells and doesn’t show), because I found this damn near impossible. Did my best, though.
I also didn’t send this chapter to my darling kdelioncourt to be Brit-picked, because again, I wanted to put it up as soon as possible. (I am so sorry, my readers! I really do love you! I mean it!) Therefore, any and all errors are totally mine, and if anyone sees anything that should be fixed, just let me know, and I’ll take care of it.
...Previous 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 Nine
The arrangement had worked well so far. Ramon, the officer that the young guard had introduced him to, had managed to sneak energy bars and water to John at irregular intervals for the past three days. The bars had been stale and tasteless and done nothing more than keep John from starving, but that was fine. He was in no condition to appreciate fine food. Officer Ramon always came back fifteen minutes later to dispose of the garbage, and John was left in relative peace.
He spent most of it pacing.
Ramon wasn’t the type to engage in much conversation during his visits, and that was just fine with John. He only wished to speak to one person, and the only benefit to this interminable wait was that he now knew exactly what he wished to say.
When the cell door finally opened, John did not even turn. He stood at attention, facing the wall, and breathed deeply.
“Oh, John, you’re here,” Sherlock’s voice drawled. “I did wonder if Mycroft would manage to get off his corpulent backside to do any good.”
“Is there any more?” John asked, his own voice tight and controlled.
“John?” John might have rejoiced at the sudden confusion that garbled Sherlock’s voice, but he had more important things to worry about.
“The drugs. Cocaine, right? Is there any more?”
“Oh. How on earth did you know- Oh, of course, someone told you. Even the murderers left in seclusion hear gossip. Someone really ought to buy a dictionary for these people, so they can understand the meaning of the word.”
“Sherlock, answer the question.”
After a long pause, Sherlock responded, “I really cannot understand why you are so upset. I was never in any real danger. It is not as though I am some sort of wilting flower, John.”
John whirled on his heel, suddenly infuriated. He wanted to say so many things in reply. Of course you were in danger. Do you even use that brain at all? Or even trying to explain to Sherlock what multiple overdoses could do to one’s body. His throat worked. “Good,” he managed and slammed his fist into Sherlock’s cheekbone.
He watched as Sherlock fell back against the door, eyes wide with shock and holding his hand up to his face. Inhaling sharply, John tried to ignore the nausea he felt at the sight. “Listen.” His voice came out strangled and harsh. He cleared his throat. “Listen. I don’t know if you get this, but I care about you. I don’t even know why. But if I… If I kill a man, and the next thing I hear is that you’ve been wheeled off to the A&E or whatever the fuck they have in prison for shit like this, then I will be very-” He paused. “You just aren’t going to do that again. It’s not right that apparently I care more about your health than you do.”
Sherlock sneered and straightened away from the door. “Oh, really, John, how can you be so dim? I wasn’t trying to kill myself, or anything so boring. It was a calculated risk.” He stalked away, leaving John to stare blindly at the door. “I was well aware that even if Mycroft chose to assist you, it would likely take some time, mostly out of curiosity and spite. He’d have wanted to know why, and he would have also enjoyed the idea of my begging him for help of any kind. Therefore, after I phoned him, I collected the last of the cocaine I had been saving for emergencies, dosed it correctly, and intentionally overdosed myself.”
John could not stand to look at him, but his fists were beginning to shake. “You… you unbelievable bastard. Are you saying that you overdosed yourself so you wouldn’t have to keep asking your brother for help?”
“Don’t be an idiot, John,” Sherlock snapped. He threw himself onto his bed. “The overdose had absolutely nothing to do with Mycroft, except in that I knew there would be a delay.” There were loud shifting noises from behind John, as if Sherlock were trying to find a comfortable place, before finally settling. “But I knew that I would be at my most vulnerable in this cell alone. I simply needed to ensure that wouldn’t happen.”
It would be too much, John knew, if he turned around. Likely it would end in another bruised cheekbone. He simply continued to face the door. “I… see. So you felt that this was your only alternative? Drugs?”
“Hardly the only alternative, John, but certainly the least damaging.”
“Right,” John said. He finally turned away from the door and sat down on his bunk. “Right,” he said again. “Calculated risk. I see.”
“John?”
“No, listen to me, Sherlock. Listen closely.” He paused, but Sherlock seemed to be paying attention. “This is not going to happen again. I mean it. If there’s ever a reason to- I mean.” He stopped again. “I don’t plan on killing anyone else.”
“You didn’t plan on killing the first one.”
“Shut up. I don’t plan on killing anyone else. But if… if it happens. Or something. If anything happens, I mean. And I’m not there to- You are not going to do that again. You will call your brother, and you will have him get you out of here.”
Sherlock huffed. “Oh, honestly, John.”
“Shut up. I don’t care about this bloody stupid power play. I don’t care if you hate your git of a brother more than anything. I don’t care. I’m not going to make you leave right now. But- But you chose a cocaine overdose over getting off your fucking pedestal and actually asking someone for help, and I’m going to make it clear. This isn’t going to happen again. If for any reason we’re separated again, you are going to call your brother and get him to get you the fuck out of here. Promise me.”
“John, that is the most ridiculous-”
“Shut the fuck up, Sherlock!” John very nearly screeched, and exploded off the bed. “This is not up for fucking debate. This is not even going to be fucking questioned. You are going to promise me this, right now, or I am going to fucking call your brother and tell him to get you out of here, whether you like it or not!”
Sherlock stared at him, lips pressed tightly, and expression rebellious.
John deflated, sitting back on the bed, and resting his head in his hands. “Please, Sherlock. If I’m willing to kill a man for you, then the least you can do is say you’ll do this one thing for me. Please.”
There was a long silence. Sherlock turned to stare at the wall. John stared down at his hands.
“How did you know?”
“What?” John’s head jerked and his left hand twitched.
“The drugs. How did you know it was cocaine? Did they tell you that also?”
“No. I… just figured. It’s the most common of the major drugs in Europe, you know. What’s easy to get out there would probably be easier to get in here too.”
“Hmmm,” Sherlock replied. That was apparently the end of the conversation, and John, defeated, lied back on his bunk.
“John?”
He didn’t want to answer. He’d had enough of being led around by his nose and banging his head up against the wall, but still, as if compelled, he said, “What is it, Sherlock?”
“I promise.”
John’s shoulders relaxed and his face softened. He smiled up at the ceiling. “Thank you.”
~to be continued…~
A/N: So this chapter is also disgustingly short because I’m an evil bitch, but I really just wanted to get this out as soon as possible. I feel like shit for leaving John and Sherlock separated for so long, and needed to get this truly intense scene out of the way so the plot could progress.
That said, this is probably my favorite scene I’ve ever written. It has also led me to deeply respect any and all writers that can successfully translate “this room is so thick you could spread it on toast” tension without trying to attract too much attention to it (because my least favorite kind of writing is the kind that tells and doesn’t show), because I found this damn near impossible. Did my best, though.
I also didn’t send this chapter to my darling kdelioncourt to be Brit-picked, because again, I wanted to put it up as soon as possible. (I am so sorry, my readers! I really do love you! I mean it!) Therefore, any and all errors are totally mine, and if anyone sees anything that should be fixed, just let me know, and I’ll take care of it.
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