I know that you're dying, and I know I'm unwell
Who: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Where: 20A. More or less.
When: Sunday
Summary: Tick tock.
Rating: R+, one assumes.
Warnings: Saw week, obviously.
Sundays. As a general category, Sherlock decided, they'd never exactly been pleasant, but they'd taken on an entirely new meaning over these past few months. And this one, really... this one was one for the books. A bit nostalgic, really, truth be told. It'd been a long time since he'd woken up tied to a chair. Perhaps that wasn't a thing to be nostalgic about, really, particularly given the situation, but Sherlock couldn't help it. He missed home, its peculiarities and dangers and all.
Everything else filtered in as he came to properly and looked around. Not tied, strapped. Fitted metal loops, bolted down. Arms free. Legs bound, hips bound, head permitted some freedom of movement, shoulders strapped to the straight chair back. Bare room, cold concrete, two desks, one lit by a plain ceiling lamp in front of him and one well out of reach in the dark behind it. He couldn't lean forward or to either side but he could look around within a normal range of movement and his hands were free to interact with the items on the desk in front of him: a business-card-sized rectangle of paper -- sturdy, nice quality, sickeningly familiar -- and his communicator.
Sherlock picked up the paper, bringing it to his nose to sniff. He licked one corner thoughtfully. Lignin likely removed, acid-free and therefore of modern manufacture, recently produced judging by the smell... either a very good imitation or roughly the same Bohemian stationary with which he'd become altogether too closely acquainted not so very long before he and John had awoken here for the first time. He turned it over. No, not the same. At least, the typing wasn't.
Call for him. Five hours.
He tilted the card in the light. The text was faintly depressed into the paper, typed via typewriter rather than printed. Minimal smudging, but the letters were crisp. A new machine with a fresh ribbon. No, scratch that, nearly fresh. Useless, thinking about all this, but interesting nonetheless. Clearly it was all for him, the paper if not the typing, the setup, the message... they were all intended to bother him which meant, in all likelihood, his punishment for not following instructions was also tailor-made to play into his fears.
As if on cue, there was a sound behind him as of something falling into place, triggering, and something began to move, pushing forward and then stopping. Two points pressed into his back on either side of his spine, just below the ribcage. He could tell they were sharp, though they didn't hurt. Not yet, but as the echo of the mechanical clunk faded out Sherlock could hear the faintest ticking, a clock running down. All mechanical, even down to the text on the paper. Curious. Call for him.
Not a chance. Sherlock picked up his communicator to browse the feeds. He had a lot of time to kill.
Where: 20A. More or less.
When: Sunday
Summary: Tick tock.
Rating: R+, one assumes.
Warnings: Saw week, obviously.
Sundays. As a general category, Sherlock decided, they'd never exactly been pleasant, but they'd taken on an entirely new meaning over these past few months. And this one, really... this one was one for the books. A bit nostalgic, really, truth be told. It'd been a long time since he'd woken up tied to a chair. Perhaps that wasn't a thing to be nostalgic about, really, particularly given the situation, but Sherlock couldn't help it. He missed home, its peculiarities and dangers and all.
Everything else filtered in as he came to properly and looked around. Not tied, strapped. Fitted metal loops, bolted down. Arms free. Legs bound, hips bound, head permitted some freedom of movement, shoulders strapped to the straight chair back. Bare room, cold concrete, two desks, one lit by a plain ceiling lamp in front of him and one well out of reach in the dark behind it. He couldn't lean forward or to either side but he could look around within a normal range of movement and his hands were free to interact with the items on the desk in front of him: a business-card-sized rectangle of paper -- sturdy, nice quality, sickeningly familiar -- and his communicator.
Sherlock picked up the paper, bringing it to his nose to sniff. He licked one corner thoughtfully. Lignin likely removed, acid-free and therefore of modern manufacture, recently produced judging by the smell... either a very good imitation or roughly the same Bohemian stationary with which he'd become altogether too closely acquainted not so very long before he and John had awoken here for the first time. He turned it over. No, not the same. At least, the typing wasn't.
Call for him. Five hours.
He tilted the card in the light. The text was faintly depressed into the paper, typed via typewriter rather than printed. Minimal smudging, but the letters were crisp. A new machine with a fresh ribbon. No, scratch that, nearly fresh. Useless, thinking about all this, but interesting nonetheless. Clearly it was all for him, the paper if not the typing, the setup, the message... they were all intended to bother him which meant, in all likelihood, his punishment for not following instructions was also tailor-made to play into his fears.
As if on cue, there was a sound behind him as of something falling into place, triggering, and something began to move, pushing forward and then stopping. Two points pressed into his back on either side of his spine, just below the ribcage. He could tell they were sharp, though they didn't hurt. Not yet, but as the echo of the mechanical clunk faded out Sherlock could hear the faintest ticking, a clock running down. All mechanical, even down to the text on the paper. Curious. Call for him.
Not a chance. Sherlock picked up his communicator to browse the feeds. He had a lot of time to kill.