FILL: Fantastic Tentacles And Where To Find Them (1b/1) - NON-CONs0mmerspr0ssenMarch 19 2011, 20:46:41 UTC
And struggling was bad, a no-go - Sherlock knew the rules by now.
There were three of them; three simple but highly important little laws.
Number one - don't put up a fight, never. It will only make it worse.
Number two - don't shout for help, don't make any noise unless it's one of appreciation. That, too, will make it worse.
Number three - don't leave when it's over. Unless you want another turn.
By now, Sherlock was fairly good at dealing with it, dealing with the whole thing. On occasions, he still felt desperate, felt like crying, felt like telling somebody, anybody really. But not even Mycroft had believed him - Mycroft who had always, always listened.
Which was why, nowadays, Sherlock Holmes simply accepted his situation and worked himself to exhaustion until he'd have to go to bed.
Today was a day like that.
The case had been a long and tricky one, the kind Sherlock loved the most, with hardly any clues to work from and lots of legwork. Sherlock loved the chase, the hunt - it distracted him from what was to come.
The end, however, Sherlock dreaded. The end meant it was time for another round of sleep. Well, he said sleep.
Sherlock had special going-to-bed rituals by now. Whenever he decided it was time to lie down, he would go through the same steps. It helped to calm him down and prepare for what was to come.
First of all, he'd take a long, warm shower, to ease his muscles and help his body relax. He'd dry his hair, brush it and arrange it as if he were going on a date. He'd brush his teeth, rub some lotion into his skin, then dress in a pair of loose and soft pyjama bottoms.
He didn't bother with underwear anymore. He knew better than that.
Taking deep, calming breaths, Sherlock would look in the mirror then. He'd look and say: "You can do it. It's fine. It will be over soon."
His body would feel great after the good treatment, which would almost make Sherlock believe in his own words.
Then, he'd go to bed - which was where he was lying right now.
The waiting was the worst. Always four minutes and thirty seconds of excruciatingly long waiting. Sherlock kept himself from running by sheer force of will, curling his hands into the bed sheets when, at the moment, there wasn't a reason to - yet.
He was exhausted, yes, but he still knew what would happen and the panicked hammering of his own heart was why he was never able to fall asleep before the time was up.
Closing his eyelids, Sherlock took a last deep breath through his nose and willed himself to sleep.
Thirty seconds later, strong tugging at the hems of his trousers startled him awake.
It had begun.
Once, Sherlock had made the mistake and left on the light in the bedroom. He'd never make that mistake again. Never..
It was enough to feel the hands, feel the scrawny fingers brush over his calves as they pulled down the piece of fabric in practiced ease. Sherlock didn't want to see it happen, didn't want to see the hands and, most importantly, didn't want to see the fat tendrils.
There were three of them; three simple but highly important little laws.
Number one - don't put up a fight, never. It will only make it worse.
Number two - don't shout for help, don't make any noise unless it's one of appreciation. That, too, will make it worse.
Number three - don't leave when it's over. Unless you want another turn.
By now, Sherlock was fairly good at dealing with it, dealing with the whole thing. On occasions, he still felt desperate, felt like crying, felt like telling somebody, anybody really. But not even Mycroft had believed him - Mycroft who had always, always listened.
Which was why, nowadays, Sherlock Holmes simply accepted his situation and worked himself to exhaustion until he'd have to go to bed.
Today was a day like that.
The case had been a long and tricky one, the kind Sherlock loved the most, with hardly any clues to work from and lots of legwork. Sherlock loved the chase, the hunt - it distracted him from what was to come.
The end, however, Sherlock dreaded. The end meant it was time for another round of sleep. Well, he said sleep.
Sherlock had special going-to-bed rituals by now. Whenever he decided it was time to lie down, he would go through the same steps. It helped to calm him down and prepare for what was to come.
First of all, he'd take a long, warm shower, to ease his muscles and help his body relax. He'd dry his hair, brush it and arrange it as if he were going on a date. He'd brush his teeth, rub some lotion into his skin, then dress in a pair of loose and soft pyjama bottoms.
He didn't bother with underwear anymore. He knew better than that.
Taking deep, calming breaths, Sherlock would look in the mirror then. He'd look and say: "You can do it. It's fine. It will be over soon."
His body would feel great after the good treatment, which would almost make Sherlock believe in his own words.
Then, he'd go to bed - which was where he was lying right now.
The waiting was the worst. Always four minutes and thirty seconds of excruciatingly long waiting. Sherlock kept himself from running by sheer force of will, curling his hands into the bed sheets when, at the moment, there wasn't a reason to - yet.
He was exhausted, yes, but he still knew what would happen and the panicked hammering of his own heart was why he was never able to fall asleep before the time was up.
Closing his eyelids, Sherlock took a last deep breath through his nose and willed himself to sleep.
Thirty seconds later, strong tugging at the hems of his trousers startled him awake.
It had begun.
Once, Sherlock had made the mistake and left on the light in the bedroom. He'd never make that mistake again. Never..
It was enough to feel the hands, feel the scrawny fingers brush over his calves as they pulled down the piece of fabric in practiced ease. Sherlock didn't want to see it happen, didn't want to see the hands and, most importantly, didn't want to see the fat tendrils.
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