Sherlock 100 9/100 #8 Weeks
Title: This is for your own good Part 2
Fanart or Fanfic: Fanfic
Characters: Sherlock
Prompt: Sherlock in a strait jacket. It's for his own good!
Word Count: 800
Spoilers: Series one
Rating: PG 13
Summary: Sherlock's been locked away.
Author's Notes: Woot!
Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock or John
Warnings: This involves much more darkness.
The first week Sherlock fought tooth and nail to keep hands off of him, to keep food and drink out of his body, and to keep his brain from running in circles. He snarled and snapped like a wild animal, ineffectively trying to keep control.
The first time he woke up in his cell, the first time he’d woken up since John had walked out of sight, he realized that he had been sedated for some amount of time. His body felt sore and bruised like someone had been manhandling him. His clothes had been taken from him, except of course for the strait jacket. Now, the crotch strap was in use, far too tightly, making every movement (and even complete stillness) nearly unbearable.
At dawn, three men came into the prison room and snatched him up to standing, wordlessly. Sherlock thrashed about, cursing at them but was held firmly. He decided to go limp in the rough hands on his biceps and got dragged into a community shower room. His bare feet started struggled for purchase against the slick tiles underneath them as he was forced into a shower stall effortlessly.
It unnerved him how none of the orderlies made eye contact or spoke to him. It was as if they were trying to wash a dog, or perhaps more accurately, a machine. Orderly A, One Earring, held Sherlock against the wall of the shower with one meaty hand and turned on the water with the other. Sherlock was confused that they hadn’t bothered to take the strait jacket off of him. Surely they didn’t plan to keep him restrained indefinitely.
Sherlock gasped as the ice-cold water hit him in the face and ran down his neck inside the strait jacket. He jerked away from One Earring’s hold for just a moment, long enough to squeeze into a corner away from the water. Crew Cut grabbed him by the neck of his jacket and One Earring got a firm grip on his arm.
“Oh, fuck!” Sherlock yelled, as the cold water cascaded over him. He scrunched his eyes tightly shut as a violent shudder went through him. Sherlock tried to shoulder his way out of the strait jacket, realizing fully well that he wouldn’t have any more luck in the shower with three men on him than he’d had all night trying to struggle out of the damn thing.
The third orderly, Frown Lines, appeared in front of him with a soapy sponge. Sherlock was determined that no one was going to touch him like that. With each of him arms held steady by One Earring and Crew Cut, Sherlock picked up his shackled feet and aimed for Frown Lines’ chest. He didn’t expect that they would just drop him.
“Easier like this anyway,” said Frown Lines, his voice swimming through the haze of bells ringing. Sherlock felt a stabbing pain in his head for about two seconds before a calloused sponge began to run over his legs.
He was dumped back in the cell after they had finished scrubbing him down. He hadn’t been offered a towel or a robe and he was dripping wet in the cold room. His teeth chattered and he pulled his legs up to his chest to try and keep some heat in.
It was some hours later with his head throbbing and the strait jacket smelling damp that Frown Lines and One Earring returned. They placed a tray of hospital grade food on the floor in front of him and left. Sherlock turned his nose up at the plate arrogantly. He would prefer starvation.
The first week bled into the second. Sherlock’s right arm was numb and his left was a dull ache which would probably turn numb as well.
His routine never varied. Every morning at sunrise, he was pulled struggling from his cell (a struggle which grew weaker and weaker each day) and into an ice-cold shower where rough hands would scrub him in a manner that was far too intimate. Strait jacket sopping wet, he’d be thrown back into the unheated cell for a few more hours. He always tried to walk around a little during those hours to keep warm and to keep up his strength. Looking out the little window at least gave him a little variation.
Food was delivered once daily and he was forced to inelegantly eat whatever it was face-first. He only accepted it because the threat of force-feeding him had been brought up.
He couldn’t do anything to stop the boredom. It kept pulling at him until he thought he’d go as mad as they said he was.
One day in the third week, they boarded up his window, and Sherlock gave up.
….
Marill: I know! Sad times, right? Next time, we’ll see if Sherlock can manage to get out of there!
Part 3