[fic] Caledonian Road Chapter Seven; NC-17
Title: Caledonian Road (7/?)
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 Seven
John wondered what it said about each of them that they had their most tender moment together with a corpse barely a foot away. He pressed his fingertips against Sherlock’s temples, gently removing the tension there as he murmured, “You’re aware, of course, that you almost certainly have an STD.”
“I’m hardly an idiot, doctor.” Despite the words, the tone was low, rumbling forth from Sherlock’s chest as John continued to rub Sherlock’s forehead and run his fingers through his hair. “But if you’re worried for yourself, you oughtn’t be. I’ll have you know that I do usually manage to have condoms on me. Even convicts prefer to go without any social diseases than otherwise, so when I pull one out, they’ll use it.”
“Except today.”
“A lapse of judgment on my part. I should have realised they would likely try to make a move when we were apart.”
John’s eyes narrowed, anger flickering across before he managed to suppress the emotion. “None of this is your fault, Sherlock.”
“Noted.”
Sighing, John glanced down the bed at Sherlock’s lower half. “You really ought to have a doctor look at you.”
“I have a doctor.”
“Sherlock…” John glanced towards the door of the cell. The guards still hadn’t arrived, but… “There’s no time.”
“Then look at me after. I’m certainly not going anywhere.”
“Maybe not, but I probably am.”
Sherlock’s eyes opened, apparently remembering something. “Oh! Right.” He stiffened, as if to sit up, but then relaxed and pressed his face to John’s abdomen. “Don’t want to move. You get it.”
“Get what?”
“My mobile.”
John just stared down at him. “You have a phone? In prison?!” John couldn’t help but be worried that the most current trauma had addled Sherlock’s brain. Had he confused the past with the present?
“Yes, of course I do. I wouldn’t have asked for it otherwise. Do try to keep up, John.”
“Okay, fine. Tell me where you placed this highly contraband item, so that I may fetch it for you, O Master of the Universe.”
Sherlock didn’t react at all to the sarcasm. Possibly he really did believe himself master of the universe. “Under the head of the mattress. I hate looking at the thing.”
John stretched slowly, not wanting to disturb the man in his lap, and awkwardly angled himself to reach under the bed. “If you don’t like it, why do you have it?”
“It was forced upon me. I stopped bothering to get rid of them after the fifth replacement.” He held his hand out impatiently. “Well?”
“Hold on a minute, will you?”
“Haven’t got a minute.” Sherlock’s voice was tense and testy, despite the flippant words, and John noticed what Sherlock must have already heard - footsteps. Quite a few of them.
“Fuck… Fucking, fucking - Got it!” John held the mobile aloft in triumph, and then rolled his eyes at himself. Really, as if a single phone call could get him out of this rather spectacular mess.
John handed the phone to Sherlock just as the door crashed open.
Well, this isn’t so bad, John told himself. He paced the small, empty chamber. Eight steps, turn, eight steps, turn. No snarky cell mate, no having to get into fights every two seconds… Eight steps, turn, eight steps, turn. First real chance to hear myself think that I’ve had in ages. Eight steps, turn, eight steps, turn.
“And I’m hating every fucking second of it,” John snarled to himself. The mindless, grey tedium that his small cell provided reminded him too much of the world after he’d left the army. He remembered noisy shops and bland food. He remembered a barren bedsit, devoid of personality. He remembered the constant, aching misery of living a suddenly pointless existence.
And yet, remembering those things were better than having to think of what might be happening to Sherlock right at this moment without his protection.
John deflated, his steps faltering, as he realised what he had just done. He may have protected Sherlock for the moment, but it had already been made horrifyingly obvious that any of those men could simply walk into their cell at any time, and without him there…
“Fuck.” John’s voice was strangled as he bent down and braced himself against his new bunk. He choked down the bile rising in his throat as image after image of what could be happening at that exact moment bludgeoned him.
John took a deep breath and straightened. He gave the wall in front of him a long, blank look, and then turned about.
Eight steps, turn.
“Watson, ya’ve really gone an’ mucked things up, ’aven’t ya? Ev’ryone’s all arse over tit tryin’ to figure out wot to do wiv ya.” The guard, young and ginger-haired, was vaguely familiar to John, but he was rather more surprised to find that someone had deigned to speak with him at all.
“I’d have thought it’d be pretty obvious what they would do with me.”
“Ya’d think so, right? But the lot of ‘em are wafflin’ on. They’d wanted to send you off to Belmarsh right off, but then some posh bloke comes up an’ throws a spanner in the works. An’ yer mate was sent back to F Wing ag’n, ’parently happens pretty oft’n-”
“What? Sherlock was moved?”
“Yah, mate, for drugs. None o’ the guards ever seem to find his stash, but he’s got one somewhere. He’ll be back event’lly, though. Always is.”
John sucked in a breath. How had he not known this? He seemed to recall his first day, someone telling him he was lucky because his cell mate was in detox, but he’d somehow managed to push it to the back of his mind.
Honestly, what the sacred bloody hell was the man thinking?!
“I better sod off, Watson. Stiff upper lip, yeah?”
And before John had a chance to reply, the man was gone.
John was really getting rather tired of walking those same eight steps, but the idea of sitting down, or worse, sleeping was so utterly abhorrent that he couldn’t bring himself to stop. The food the ginger guard had brought him had been cleared of everything that could be eaten while ambulatory, and utterly ignored for all other unmanageable substances.
Sherlock was in detox. “Again,” the guard had said. Why? How? Had Sherlock managed to, somehow, sneak in hoards of drugs the same way he had somehow managed to sneak in his mobile? And why had Sherlock abstained in the relatively short period they had been roomed together? Because he had abstained, of this John was certain. There was no way Sherlock could have hidden drug use from him, not as a doctor, and certainly not as a cell mate. Had Sherlock not wanted to share? Or perhaps the drugs were Sherlock’s last resort? There was simply no way John could believe that Sherlock was stupid enough to overdose accidentally. And this would have been an overdose, if he’d been sent to detox this quickly. How quickly? How long had John been in here?
Bile rose in John’s throat at his sheer helplessness. Sherlock was in trouble, still in trouble, because truly, he’d never left it, and John was trapped inside solitary.
He would have punched the wall, except he knew that it would do no good at all. No, he needed to keep in top physical condition if, by some miracle, he could ever be allowed to fix this.
His head rose and he stopped his constant pacing when he heard the door finally opening.
“Watson. Face away from the door and put your hands behind your back.”
Questions would be useless, and obedience could only help him. John turned on his heel, legs spread and head high as he waited for them to cuff him again.
“Hello again, Dr. Watson.” Sherlock’s brother gave him a smile as he was shown into the visitation room.
“Oh, bloody hell,” John sighed. “What do you want?”
“To chat, of course. Preferably without any crass displays of barbarism on your part.”
John moved to sit across from the smarmy bastard, back straight. He’d been cuffed from behind this time, so sitting was rather uncomfortable, but John would be damned if he’d show that kind of weakness, Sherlock’s brother or not. “I don’t find it all that barbaric to punch someone that accuses you of raping their friend.”
“’Friend,’ John, really? Aren’t you being a tad too generous?”
“Not in the least. Now what do you want?”
“To help you, of course, just as I offered last time.”
John rolled his eyes. “Look, I don’t know how good you think you are, but if you’ve been paying any sort of attention you’ll have heard I killed a man. Not exactly something as easy to cover up as burglary.”
“Oh, you let me worry about that. Now, do you find yourself rather more amenable to my assistance this time?”
“Same offer as last time?”
“Absolutely. Cleared name, no criminal record, and you could be out of Her Majesty’s prison system by morning.”
“I see. And what about Sherlock?”
The man tilted his head. “What about him?”
“Come off it. You’re the one he called, right? Did he ask you to help me?”
“Quite astute, doctor. Yes, I gave Sherlock his phone. If he were to ever find himself in need, he could always contact me and request aid.”
This made no sense at all. If Sherlock had the capacity to leave at any time, why would he willingly subject himself to constant abuse? “Has he ever called you before?”
“No. You must have made quite an impression on my brother, Dr. Watson. He called me yesterday, said that there had been an incident, and to help you. Not quite in such polite terms, but the intent was still there.” He began to tap his fingers against the table. “I would have almost thought you had coerced him, if I hadn’t known you had already been brought to solitary when he made the call.”
John’s face twitched and he took a deep, calming breath before he replied, “I would not do that to him.”
The noise Sherlock’s brother made was neither affirmation or denial. After another moment, he continued, “So are you willing to accept, Dr. Watson?”
It still seemed too good to be true. John stared down at the table, mind tripping over itself as he tried to understand what was happening. Who was this man, that he had that kind of power? And… “What about Sherlock?”
“What about him?” Same answer. The man was a brick wall.
“Well, you can apparently let any one of the people in here out if you want to. Why haven’t you done it for your own brother?”
“Did Sherlock tell you that?”
“Yes. Was he lying?”
“You know very well he was not, doctor.” The man shifted back in his seat. “My brother and I have what you might call a… difficult… relationship. He knows very well that I will help him if and when he sees fit to ask. He does not, however, choose to ask.”
This was too much. John’s breath came harder, and the fists behind his back clenched. “Do you mean to say that you… you bloody bastard… let Sherlock get raped every single fucking day and you won’t do anything about it because of some sort of sodding power play?!”
“Really, John, you should know by now that my brother has a tendency towards hyperbole.”
John’s chair screeched. “I saw it fucking happen, you bloody minded prick!” The guard to John’s left moved forward and shoved him back into the chair, but didn’t move away, his hand hot and infuriating on John’s shoulder.
The elder Holmes, at the least, looked actually pale with shock. “I… see.” He nodded at the guard, who thankfully moved back to stand against the wall. “I do apologise, John. I did not…” The man looked almost human and disconcertingly like his brother as he pressed his fingers to his temples. “Do not worry. I have made arrangements, and the tragic but natural death of one Mr. Andrew Terrence shall not be blamed on you.”
John snorted. Surely no one would believe that the man’s broken neck had been natural.
The man continued, “I take it you wish to return to your regular cell, then?”
“Yes.”
“Very well.” He waved the guard back over and stood. “Then this conversation is over. I’m aware you may have more questions, and I promise to attempt to answer them at a later date, but now is not the time.” He looked at the guard. “You may unshackle him.” At the guard’s hesitation, Sherlock’s brother huffed. “Well?”
A moment later, John was utterly unsurprised as he felt the cuffs leave his wrists.
The guard reached around and John glared at the man’s hand as it was held out to help him, and struggled to his feet on his own. The elder Holmes held his own hand out for him once John had his feet under himself, and John glared at that too. He frowned up at the man.
“I would like to formally introduce myself, Dr. Watson. I am Mycroft Holmes, your friend Sherlock’s brother.” He gave John the same smarmy smile he had when John had first walked in, and his hand didn’t waver.
John shook it, and turned to leave. He paused, and turned back. “You’re bloody lucky, you know. Just because my hands are tied doesn’t mean I couldn’t have kicked you in the bollocks under the table.”
Inexplicably, the man smiled. “Yes, John, I am aware.”
~to be continued…~
A/N: Yes, I am well aware that this was rather a cop out in terms of repercussions for John, but this was also always the plan. All things considered, this fic is still rather in the beginning stages - not all the characters have been fully introduced yet, and Moriarty’s main plot has only just begun to show itself. The idea was to have John be his deliciously BAMF!self, get into some serious trouble, and then have the show’s built-in deus ex machina come in and save the day. Why? Because there’s no way in hell Mycroft would have come back to talk to John unless something pretty big inspired him to do so. Why risk another black eye? It would clash horribly with his umbrellas!
Also, I absolutely apologize for making Mycroft seem like an utter dick in his two scenes. I love Mycroft. I think he’s awesome (not least of which because he’s played by the almighty Godtiss), and I in no way think he’s such a prick as I had to write him in this. Rather (and there will be more on this later), he’s being the big brother that knows best, and absolutely cannot comprehend that his methods might not be the best ones. And keep in mind that Sherlock would sooner chew off his own arm than tell Mycroft that he was being raped and could big brother come save him please please please? Yeah. Not going to happen.
Random Note: It is really, really odd to write any portion of this fanfic while listening to Beethoven’s Symphony No. 6.
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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 Seven
John wondered what it said about each of them that they had their most tender moment together with a corpse barely a foot away. He pressed his fingertips against Sherlock’s temples, gently removing the tension there as he murmured, “You’re aware, of course, that you almost certainly have an STD.”
“I’m hardly an idiot, doctor.” Despite the words, the tone was low, rumbling forth from Sherlock’s chest as John continued to rub Sherlock’s forehead and run his fingers through his hair. “But if you’re worried for yourself, you oughtn’t be. I’ll have you know that I do usually manage to have condoms on me. Even convicts prefer to go without any social diseases than otherwise, so when I pull one out, they’ll use it.”
“Except today.”
“A lapse of judgment on my part. I should have realised they would likely try to make a move when we were apart.”
John’s eyes narrowed, anger flickering across before he managed to suppress the emotion. “None of this is your fault, Sherlock.”
“Noted.”
Sighing, John glanced down the bed at Sherlock’s lower half. “You really ought to have a doctor look at you.”
“I have a doctor.”
“Sherlock…” John glanced towards the door of the cell. The guards still hadn’t arrived, but… “There’s no time.”
“Then look at me after. I’m certainly not going anywhere.”
“Maybe not, but I probably am.”
Sherlock’s eyes opened, apparently remembering something. “Oh! Right.” He stiffened, as if to sit up, but then relaxed and pressed his face to John’s abdomen. “Don’t want to move. You get it.”
“Get what?”
“My mobile.”
John just stared down at him. “You have a phone? In prison?!” John couldn’t help but be worried that the most current trauma had addled Sherlock’s brain. Had he confused the past with the present?
“Yes, of course I do. I wouldn’t have asked for it otherwise. Do try to keep up, John.”
“Okay, fine. Tell me where you placed this highly contraband item, so that I may fetch it for you, O Master of the Universe.”
Sherlock didn’t react at all to the sarcasm. Possibly he really did believe himself master of the universe. “Under the head of the mattress. I hate looking at the thing.”
John stretched slowly, not wanting to disturb the man in his lap, and awkwardly angled himself to reach under the bed. “If you don’t like it, why do you have it?”
“It was forced upon me. I stopped bothering to get rid of them after the fifth replacement.” He held his hand out impatiently. “Well?”
“Hold on a minute, will you?”
“Haven’t got a minute.” Sherlock’s voice was tense and testy, despite the flippant words, and John noticed what Sherlock must have already heard - footsteps. Quite a few of them.
“Fuck… Fucking, fucking - Got it!” John held the mobile aloft in triumph, and then rolled his eyes at himself. Really, as if a single phone call could get him out of this rather spectacular mess.
John handed the phone to Sherlock just as the door crashed open.
Well, this isn’t so bad, John told himself. He paced the small, empty chamber. Eight steps, turn, eight steps, turn. No snarky cell mate, no having to get into fights every two seconds… Eight steps, turn, eight steps, turn. First real chance to hear myself think that I’ve had in ages. Eight steps, turn, eight steps, turn.
“And I’m hating every fucking second of it,” John snarled to himself. The mindless, grey tedium that his small cell provided reminded him too much of the world after he’d left the army. He remembered noisy shops and bland food. He remembered a barren bedsit, devoid of personality. He remembered the constant, aching misery of living a suddenly pointless existence.
And yet, remembering those things were better than having to think of what might be happening to Sherlock right at this moment without his protection.
John deflated, his steps faltering, as he realised what he had just done. He may have protected Sherlock for the moment, but it had already been made horrifyingly obvious that any of those men could simply walk into their cell at any time, and without him there…
“Fuck.” John’s voice was strangled as he bent down and braced himself against his new bunk. He choked down the bile rising in his throat as image after image of what could be happening at that exact moment bludgeoned him.
John took a deep breath and straightened. He gave the wall in front of him a long, blank look, and then turned about.
Eight steps, turn.
“Watson, ya’ve really gone an’ mucked things up, ’aven’t ya? Ev’ryone’s all arse over tit tryin’ to figure out wot to do wiv ya.” The guard, young and ginger-haired, was vaguely familiar to John, but he was rather more surprised to find that someone had deigned to speak with him at all.
“I’d have thought it’d be pretty obvious what they would do with me.”
“Ya’d think so, right? But the lot of ‘em are wafflin’ on. They’d wanted to send you off to Belmarsh right off, but then some posh bloke comes up an’ throws a spanner in the works. An’ yer mate was sent back to F Wing ag’n, ’parently happens pretty oft’n-”
“What? Sherlock was moved?”
“Yah, mate, for drugs. None o’ the guards ever seem to find his stash, but he’s got one somewhere. He’ll be back event’lly, though. Always is.”
John sucked in a breath. How had he not known this? He seemed to recall his first day, someone telling him he was lucky because his cell mate was in detox, but he’d somehow managed to push it to the back of his mind.
Honestly, what the sacred bloody hell was the man thinking?!
“I better sod off, Watson. Stiff upper lip, yeah?”
And before John had a chance to reply, the man was gone.
John was really getting rather tired of walking those same eight steps, but the idea of sitting down, or worse, sleeping was so utterly abhorrent that he couldn’t bring himself to stop. The food the ginger guard had brought him had been cleared of everything that could be eaten while ambulatory, and utterly ignored for all other unmanageable substances.
Sherlock was in detox. “Again,” the guard had said. Why? How? Had Sherlock managed to, somehow, sneak in hoards of drugs the same way he had somehow managed to sneak in his mobile? And why had Sherlock abstained in the relatively short period they had been roomed together? Because he had abstained, of this John was certain. There was no way Sherlock could have hidden drug use from him, not as a doctor, and certainly not as a cell mate. Had Sherlock not wanted to share? Or perhaps the drugs were Sherlock’s last resort? There was simply no way John could believe that Sherlock was stupid enough to overdose accidentally. And this would have been an overdose, if he’d been sent to detox this quickly. How quickly? How long had John been in here?
Bile rose in John’s throat at his sheer helplessness. Sherlock was in trouble, still in trouble, because truly, he’d never left it, and John was trapped inside solitary.
He would have punched the wall, except he knew that it would do no good at all. No, he needed to keep in top physical condition if, by some miracle, he could ever be allowed to fix this.
His head rose and he stopped his constant pacing when he heard the door finally opening.
“Watson. Face away from the door and put your hands behind your back.”
Questions would be useless, and obedience could only help him. John turned on his heel, legs spread and head high as he waited for them to cuff him again.
“Hello again, Dr. Watson.” Sherlock’s brother gave him a smile as he was shown into the visitation room.
“Oh, bloody hell,” John sighed. “What do you want?”
“To chat, of course. Preferably without any crass displays of barbarism on your part.”
John moved to sit across from the smarmy bastard, back straight. He’d been cuffed from behind this time, so sitting was rather uncomfortable, but John would be damned if he’d show that kind of weakness, Sherlock’s brother or not. “I don’t find it all that barbaric to punch someone that accuses you of raping their friend.”
“’Friend,’ John, really? Aren’t you being a tad too generous?”
“Not in the least. Now what do you want?”
“To help you, of course, just as I offered last time.”
John rolled his eyes. “Look, I don’t know how good you think you are, but if you’ve been paying any sort of attention you’ll have heard I killed a man. Not exactly something as easy to cover up as burglary.”
“Oh, you let me worry about that. Now, do you find yourself rather more amenable to my assistance this time?”
“Same offer as last time?”
“Absolutely. Cleared name, no criminal record, and you could be out of Her Majesty’s prison system by morning.”
“I see. And what about Sherlock?”
The man tilted his head. “What about him?”
“Come off it. You’re the one he called, right? Did he ask you to help me?”
“Quite astute, doctor. Yes, I gave Sherlock his phone. If he were to ever find himself in need, he could always contact me and request aid.”
This made no sense at all. If Sherlock had the capacity to leave at any time, why would he willingly subject himself to constant abuse? “Has he ever called you before?”
“No. You must have made quite an impression on my brother, Dr. Watson. He called me yesterday, said that there had been an incident, and to help you. Not quite in such polite terms, but the intent was still there.” He began to tap his fingers against the table. “I would have almost thought you had coerced him, if I hadn’t known you had already been brought to solitary when he made the call.”
John’s face twitched and he took a deep, calming breath before he replied, “I would not do that to him.”
The noise Sherlock’s brother made was neither affirmation or denial. After another moment, he continued, “So are you willing to accept, Dr. Watson?”
It still seemed too good to be true. John stared down at the table, mind tripping over itself as he tried to understand what was happening. Who was this man, that he had that kind of power? And… “What about Sherlock?”
“What about him?” Same answer. The man was a brick wall.
“Well, you can apparently let any one of the people in here out if you want to. Why haven’t you done it for your own brother?”
“Did Sherlock tell you that?”
“Yes. Was he lying?”
“You know very well he was not, doctor.” The man shifted back in his seat. “My brother and I have what you might call a… difficult… relationship. He knows very well that I will help him if and when he sees fit to ask. He does not, however, choose to ask.”
This was too much. John’s breath came harder, and the fists behind his back clenched. “Do you mean to say that you… you bloody bastard… let Sherlock get raped every single fucking day and you won’t do anything about it because of some sort of sodding power play?!”
“Really, John, you should know by now that my brother has a tendency towards hyperbole.”
John’s chair screeched. “I saw it fucking happen, you bloody minded prick!” The guard to John’s left moved forward and shoved him back into the chair, but didn’t move away, his hand hot and infuriating on John’s shoulder.
The elder Holmes, at the least, looked actually pale with shock. “I… see.” He nodded at the guard, who thankfully moved back to stand against the wall. “I do apologise, John. I did not…” The man looked almost human and disconcertingly like his brother as he pressed his fingers to his temples. “Do not worry. I have made arrangements, and the tragic but natural death of one Mr. Andrew Terrence shall not be blamed on you.”
John snorted. Surely no one would believe that the man’s broken neck had been natural.
The man continued, “I take it you wish to return to your regular cell, then?”
“Yes.”
“Very well.” He waved the guard back over and stood. “Then this conversation is over. I’m aware you may have more questions, and I promise to attempt to answer them at a later date, but now is not the time.” He looked at the guard. “You may unshackle him.” At the guard’s hesitation, Sherlock’s brother huffed. “Well?”
A moment later, John was utterly unsurprised as he felt the cuffs leave his wrists.
The guard reached around and John glared at the man’s hand as it was held out to help him, and struggled to his feet on his own. The elder Holmes held his own hand out for him once John had his feet under himself, and John glared at that too. He frowned up at the man.
“I would like to formally introduce myself, Dr. Watson. I am Mycroft Holmes, your friend Sherlock’s brother.” He gave John the same smarmy smile he had when John had first walked in, and his hand didn’t waver.
John shook it, and turned to leave. He paused, and turned back. “You’re bloody lucky, you know. Just because my hands are tied doesn’t mean I couldn’t have kicked you in the bollocks under the table.”
Inexplicably, the man smiled. “Yes, John, I am aware.”
~to be continued…~
A/N: Yes, I am well aware that this was rather a cop out in terms of repercussions for John, but this was also always the plan. All things considered, this fic is still rather in the beginning stages - not all the characters have been fully introduced yet, and Moriarty’s main plot has only just begun to show itself. The idea was to have John be his deliciously BAMF!self, get into some serious trouble, and then have the show’s built-in deus ex machina come in and save the day. Why? Because there’s no way in hell Mycroft would have come back to talk to John unless something pretty big inspired him to do so. Why risk another black eye? It would clash horribly with his umbrellas!
Also, I absolutely apologize for making Mycroft seem like an utter dick in his two scenes. I love Mycroft. I think he’s awesome (not least of which because he’s played by the almighty Godtiss), and I in no way think he’s such a prick as I had to write him in this. Rather (and there will be more on this later), he’s being the big brother that knows best, and absolutely cannot comprehend that his methods might not be the best ones. And keep in mind that Sherlock would sooner chew off his own arm than tell Mycroft that he was being raped and could big brother come save him please please please? Yeah. Not going to happen.
Random Note: It is really, really odd to write any portion of this fanfic while listening to Beethoven’s Symphony No. 6.
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