Fic for trickybonmot: Ford (1/5)

[holmesticemods]

Title: Ford
Recipient: trickybonmot
Author: burnt_hearts
Characters/Pairings: SH/JW, past JW/MM
Rating: Mature (some violence, sexuality, and swearing)
Warnings: None
Summary: He turns back round then and looks down at me, eyes curious. “Your name, W.S.S. Holmes.” That’s not my name. “Is it Walter? Or Wilbur? Maybe something really awful like, er,” he smiles wryly, “Willoughby? Winchester?”

I feel my face go blank as my body numbs over. “Scott,” I say, voice devoid of emotion. “My name is Scott.”

Also on AO3: "Ford" (slightly revised from LJ's version)

FORD

Oh, god.

Oh, god.

Oh, god-

“Please, please, let me go. I won’t-” I barely recognise my own voice, I’ve never heard myself so terrified, never been so terrified, “-won’t tell anyone, I won’t call the police, just please, please-”

“No, you’d never call the police, would you? You’d never ask anyone for help if you thought you could handle it yourself - you don’t fool me!”

Oh, god, what is this place? Who are you? Who are you? “I’m not- I’m not trying to fool you,” Who are you? “I don’t-don’t even know you!”

He huffs a dry little laugh. God, why is he laughing? What the- “’Course you don’t. You’ve probably forgotten me - deleted me.” Deleted? What on earth- “S’not like I ever mattered, not like I was ever anything more than a bloody hanger-on.”

I think it’s a garage. No. No, not a garage. Too small for a car. Jesus, what is this place? What’s happening, what’s- “Please, please-”

My heart is doing something odd in my chest, like an arrhythmia or something. Oh Christ, am I having a heart attack?

His face scrunches up like he’s tasted something foul. “Oh, stop begging, you tit. I don’t buy it, Sherlock.”

Sherlock? Sherlock? Who the hell is- “I’m not Sherlock!” It’s not me, it’s not me- “I’ve never even met anyone called Sherlock.” It’s not me! “Please, you have the wrong man-”

“That’s right, Sherlock,” Oh, god, “you are the wrong man. You were always the wrong man.”

Bloody h- what is he talking about? This doesn’t make any sense! “Please, oh god, please, I’m not-”

“Stop it, stop this!” he’s shouting now, leaning in close to my face. I can feel his breath on my forehead. It’s warm, it’s making me warm, febrile, I’m- oh, god, what’s happeni- “Stop lying to me! I know it’s you, I know who you are!”

I shake my head side to side, quick as a shiver. No, actually, it is a shiver. I’m shivering, quaking where I sit, my arms pulling at the cuffs, I can feel my wrists chafing. God, where am I? Where am- “No, no, you don’t! I’m not him, I’m not- Sh-Sherlock, I’m-I’m-” Oh, Jesus, it’s not me, it’s not me- “I’m Scott Ford Williams, I’m thirty-four years old, from Dorset, I’m a schoolteacher-”

Another gust of breath against my face. “You’re lying.”

The musculature in my neck seems to have seized up entirely now, I can’t shake my head. Can’t move at all. Frozen. “I’m not - oh, god, I swear to you, I’m not.”

“Where were you, Sherlock?” I’m not, I’m not, I’m not- “Hm? Four years. Four years since I’ve seen you, four years since you killed yourself-” what the fuck? “-although, with you here now, seems that was a lark-”

No. Nonono. “I’m not-”

Another laugh, more like a bark, and he straightens up, stepping back a pace. I suck in a breath, and the air is cooler in the absence of his body heat. “Yes, of course, you’re Scott Ford Williams, of course you are-”

“I am!”

He shakes his head several times, then cocks it to the side. “Why, Sherlock?” Oh my god, I’m not- “Why would you do this? Why would you disappear like that?” He throws his hands up, and I flinch backward. “Where would you even go?”

I shake my head again, can’t seem to stop. “I’ve been in Dorset, I’m from Dorset. I’m in London visiting my cousin and-” shit, Maggie, “-oh, god, she’ll be worried sick, please, please let me go, I’ll do anything-” anything you want, anything you say, anything, anyth- “I’ll-”

He smiles and looks down at his feet before peering back up at me. “Oh, you’ll do anything will you?” His eyes narrow inimically, and I find myself pressing my back against the chair. “If I just let you go see your cousin?” Another barking laugh. “It’s not even a good lie, Sherlock!”

Jesus f- “I am not Sherlock!”

Silence.

… Oh, god. I yelled that last bit, I think. Screamed it. He’ll be angry, he must be. But… Perhaps someone heard me, maybe someone will come, maybe they’ll-

He’s staring at me. Eyes boring into mine. His face is lined, particularly around the eyes and brow, a bit around the mouth. Bags under his eyes, dark circles too. The colour… I can’t tell his eye colour. Brown, blue, maybe grey? Oh, well done, Ford, I’m sure the police will have a perfectly easy time scouring London for a short, white, English kidnapper with brown, blue, or grey eyes-

“Know what?” His voice cuts through my thoughts, sharp like one of those old Japanese swords. “Fine.” Fine? What’s fine? Is he letting me go? Will he unchain me? Can I- “I’m expected at the clinic anyway. I’ll give you some time to think about it, shall I?”

He makes a quick volte-face like a soldier and approaches the roll-up door.

He hasn’t uncuffed me. Why hasn’t he uncuffed me?

He slides the door up and steps through, giving me a quick once-over before he starts to pull it back down.

No.

NO.

“What? No, wait! Where are you going?” He’s leaving me. He’s leaving me here. Oh god, oh my g- “You have to let me out! You have to let me out of here!” He rolls his eyes and continues sliding the door down. “Please, just, just uncuff me, please!”

The door is nearly to the floor, all I can see is his shoes. “I get off at seven tonight,” I hear him say. His voice is muffled through the door, I can barely make it out. “I’ll see you round half-past, maybe eight.”

Oh, god no, please. I don’t even know what time it is, I don’t know how long he’ll be. My arms ache from being pulled behind me for so long, it’s dark and damp and dank, I can’t- can’t stay here, I can’t- “No, no,” the door clicks as it hits the ground, and I hear a snicking sound as it’s locked. “Please, please, ple-”

—

The click of a lock unlatching wakes me up. It’s dark, nearly pitch black, save for a line of dark blue light coming from the door in front of me. My back aches, can’t believe I fell asleep in a chair. Rather uncomfortable chair too, not the sort of quality I’d expect at a hotel-

… No. No, I’m not at a hotel. I… I was on the tube and then… then-

The metal door creaks as it’s lifted. I squint my eyes - Mum always told me not to squint, said I’d ruin my lovely face with crow’s feet, oh god, Mum, I miss you, I love you, I love you so m- and I see shoes. Worn Oxfords, cheap, like mine. Then legs. Clean, tan trousers, a bit wrinkled. Torso - a dark blue jumper, same as earlier, collar of a white dress shirt poking up around the neck. Face -

… Him.

Silver-blond hair is a bit ruffled, but he looks much the same as earlier. Same as when I woke up cuffed to this chair the first time. Same as when he screamed at me, laughed at me, barked at me, called me that name - Shane? Shirley? - god, I can’t remember, but it wasn’t mine, wasn’t me. I’m not who he’s looking for, who he wants, I’m no one, nobody, he doesn’t want me, I can’t answer his questions, don’t know anything, so- so- “You have to let me go.”

He stares blankly at me for a second then snorts, stepping into the room and flicking on a light switch. A fluorescent bulb flickers on almost directly above me. Storage unit. That’s where I am. A storage unit.

“Good evening to you, too,” he says, pulling the door closed behind himself.

Good evening? Good evening? No, it’s not a bloody good evening, this is- this is- “This is wrong and, and-” he turns around and narrows his eyes at me, “-and criminal and-” another snort at that, and he folds his arms across his chest, “and…” oh, god, I can’t breathe, can’t get enough air, it’s too bright now and, and humid and cold and- “insane! This is- this is madness, you must know this, you must! I’m-” having a panic attack, heart attack, falling apart- “I’m not the man you’re looking for, I’m-”

“You’d know all about insane, wouldn’t you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock. Sherlock.

Head shaking again. Feels like it might shake right off my shoulders. “I’m not Sherlock! I’m Scott F-”

“Ford Williams. Schoolteacher from, er, whatsit? Devon?”

He… he knows my name? He knows I’m not- “Dorset. I’m from- from Dorset.” And I’m never leaving there again. Annie warned me, she said London was awful, but Maggie begged me to come, told me she’d show me the best spots, find me a holiday boyfriend, take care of me-

“Ah, yes,” he says, tilting his head back in a nod. “Visiting a cousin here in London.” I dip my head, and he snorts. Oh, no. “You know, that’d be a good cover story,” oh, Jesus, “if your, er-” he wags a finger at my face, “disguise were a bit better.”

Disguise? Have I tripped and fallen into a Bond film? “I’m not wearing a disg-”

“I mean, dying your hair red and growing a bit of stubble?” he interrupts, pitching his voice to carry over mine. “You seriously think that’s enough to make you - you - unrecognisable?”

Christ’s sake, have I got a secret twin or something? Me? With the curly hair and slanty eyes and freakish face? “I don’t-”

“It’s shoddy, Sherlock,” he shakes his head in condescension, “shoddy work, at best. Really, I’ve-” he barks out another laugh - god, I hate that sound, “-I’ve come to expect better from you,” he finishes, peering into my face with squinted eyes.

Oh, god, please. “Please, please, I’m not- I’m not-”

His face goes blank, eyebrows setting low. “You won’t convince me, Sherlock,” he says, and his voice is a low rumble that sits like lead in my stomach. “You’ve convinced me of enough lies,” what? “I won’t fall for another.”

Lies? What lies? What- “Please, I-I’m not-not-”

“Did you know about her?”

…What? Her? What her? Did I know- “About who?”

His jaw clenches for half a second - long enough for me to notice the muscle jump in his jaw and press myself back against the chair. “Mary,” he says, and it sounds like a curse. “Did you know about her.”

Mary? “I don’t- I don’t…” Mary, Mary, Ma- …Mrs. Edgeworth? “Th-the only Mary I know is the old florist who lives up the street from me, Mrs. Edgeworth. I don’t- is that who you mean-”

“Goddamnit, Sherlock, stop this! Stop it!” he bellows, and I flinch, curling my head down over my torso. The movement pulls on my wrists, and I feel something warm and wet trickle down the side of my hand. “I know it’s you, I know it is, so tell me,” he leans in close to my face, “tell me right now,” won’t look up at him, can’t look up at him, “tell me the truth!”

A sob wrenches from my throat, and I cough and sputter. “Oh god, oh god please, d-don’t hurt me. Please, please, I- I-” A snippet of dialogue from Annie’s favourite police procedural pops into my head: Abductors think of their captives as objects; sometimes reminding an abductor that you’re human is your best protection. I shake my head again - he knows I’m human, knows I’m a person, just - fuck - the wrong person.

“I’ve got family back home,” I whisper, lowering my chin to my chest, “and-and my students, there are people-” I lick my chapped lips. I can feel the outline of my lip balm in my pocket and desperately wish I could grab it. Lip balm - such a silly thing to wish for, when it’s entirely likely that this man will kill m- “people who need me, people who will- will notice if I’m not there-”

The man smiles, and it looks crooked and wrong. “Oh, right. Of course. Your back story, yeah?” He nods with his lips pursed, and I squeeze my eyes shut. “Alright, go on then, tell me about your-” a breathy laugh that makes me shiver, “-your family. I’d love - absolutely love - to hear about them.”

“I-…” I can tell it’s sarcasm, and if not for the fact that he’s demanding I answer his nonsensical questions, I’d assume he’d rather I didn’t speak at all. But… remind him you’re human. “There’s my-” I swallow, and my throat feels tight, “my sister.” Annie. I love you, Annie, I love you, I love you, I love y-

Another barking laugh, this one a bit heartier than the others. Why is that funny? “Sister? Oh, yeah?” I peer up at him and am surprised to find his amusement almost entirely genuine, save for a slight hard edge in his eyes. I nod once, and he cocks his head to the side. “What’s she like then?”

“I-” Can’t tell if he really wants to know. Can’t read him at all, really, I… God, I want to go home. “She’s an artist.”

He huffs a laugh and squints. “Oh, an artist,” he says, and it sounds almost conversational, like we’re new mates met round the pub, “how lovely.”

A sudden violent shiver starts at my tailbone and travels up my spine. “Y-yes.” He steps closer, looking down at his feet and nodding. “She’s a- a painter.” I press my back so hard against the chair I can feel the slats making indentations in my skin through my shirt and vest. “M-mostly acrylics-”

“Acrylics,” he repeats, still looking down, and his voice is a low rumble. He’s close to me now, so close I can feel the heat emanating from him, and it feels angry, vicious.

“Y-y-yes,” I stammer out through the chattering of my teeth, “but-but she’s worked a bit with o-oils as well-”

Suddenly he’s bent over, face bare inches from mine. “I don’t give a toss about your fake fucking sister!”

Jesus. I whimper and turn my head sharply to the side, a vain attempt to get as far away from him as possible. “Oh god, oh god please, I’m sorry!” My eyes burn, and I feel snot congealing in my nose. “I’m sorry! Please, I’m sorry!” I yell out, shudders racking my entire body.

He leans closer, and I squeeze my eyes tight, pushing tears down my cheeks. “What are you sorry for!”

“Everything,” I say in a fervent whisper, “anything, anything you say, I’ll do-I’ll do anything you say, please.” I can feel my heart beating, and it’s an odd sensation. Strange, really; our hearts are always beating, so why do we almost never feel them? “Please. Please… I’m sorry.”

He’s silent for a long moment, and I feel an aching tension rising in my shoulders. There’s a sudden gust of cool air, and I know he has stepped back. I lick my lips - they’re burning at the corners, where my salty tears collected - and hazard a glance at his face. He looks… stricken. His eyes are wide, almost manic, and his head shakes side to side, seemingly of it’s own accord.

“Why-” he cuts himself off sharply and clenches his jaw for a split second. “Why are you doing this, Sherlock? Why are you…” His eyelashes flutter, and he looks… hurt. My eyes widen in incredulity; he’s hurt? Him? “Why are you doing this?” he whispers.

There’s a glassy sort of haze in his eyes, and for a second, they shine a deep, opaque blue. It occurs to me suddenly that this man is not a professional, maybe not even a criminal at all. This man is… mad.

I’ve no idea if that’s better or worse.

I shake my head. “I’m not-… I’m not doing anything. I swear it, I just…” Let me go. Please, you have to let me go. “I just want to go home.”

His eyes narrow slightly, the manic edge disappearing and leaving him looking crestfallen. “You just want to go home,” he murmurs, and his eyes - blue, definitively blue - bore into mine. I want to look away - get away - but the moment feels wrought, heavy with something I can’t understand.

“Yes,” I whisper, and nod as calmly as I can. “Yes, please.”

He continues to stare at me, fixated, until I get the feeling he’s not seeing me at all. I nearly snort at that; of course, he isn’t seeing me, he doesn’t know who I am. If he’s seeing anyone, it’s this- this Sherlock person. Sherlock, who is dead. Sherlock, who killed himself. Sherlock, who isn’t me.

Then, he smiles. It’s an odd smile, not hard-edged or sarky like they have been before, but sad, almost… wistful.

“I want to go home, too. Sherlock.” My eyes flutter closed at the name, then snap back open when he continues. “But, see,” he takes a deep, slow breath and swallows, “see, there is no home for me.” He looks down at his feet again, and I frown. “Not anymore.”

“I-” No home? As in- “You’re-” a vagrant. A mad vagrant. Not forty-eight hours in London, and I’ve been abducted by an insane transient. God, I want to go home, want to go home, want home, home, home, h-

“I’m sorry,” I blurt, the words tumbling out before my brain has a chance to filter them. “I’m- I’m very, very…” I trail off for a second, swallowing once, twice, three times. “I’m sorry.”

He makes an odd choking sound, and it’s only when I peer into his face that I recognise it as a scoff. “No you’re not,” he says, and the conviction in the statement - the condemnation, really - widens my eyes.

I blink rapidly, the burn of tears dissipating into a dull itch. “Yes, I-”

“You’re completely incapable,” he states plainly, and I flinch back, shaking my head. “Entirely,” he adds.

We stare at one another, him with an air of expectancy, and me flapping my lips like a fish. I’ve no idea what to say, don’t think there’s anything I can say. After an indeterminate amount of time, he looks off to the side with a crooked smile. “But that’s fine,” he says, and nods once. “I’ll be back in the morning.”

He turns around and steps towards the door, and I- I can’t, can’t stay here, he can’t leave me here, he can’t- “Please no, I- please!”

He doesn’t turn round, doesn’t look back. “I’ll bring you some breakfast. Still like blueberry scones, yeah?”

Scones? Scones? “I-”

“I’ll get you a cinnamon one then.”

No, no, you have to let me out, you have to let me out of here! “No, please, I-…”

He turns his head to the side, and his jaw looks razor-sharp in profile. “I’m not letting you go.”

“I-…” What do I say? What do I do? What… what- “I need the facilities,” I murmur, looking down at my lap.

He’s preternaturally still for a moment, then he bends quickly to pull up the door and steps through. When he turns round, his face is stony, expression indecipherable. “It’s only transport,” he says, tone inflectionless, and god, what does that even mean? He reaches a hand above his head to grip the door, the other hand reaching inside and feeling along the wall til it happens on the light switch.

“Hold it,” he says blankly, and flips the switch. The door comes down with a clank, and I am again immersed in darkness.

—

“What exactly are you suggesting?”

Ugh, that tone.

In the forty-two odd months Sherlock has been… abroad, I cannot help but admit I have come to - I feel myself grimace - miss him. Unsurprising, really; aside from being family, there’s the fact that he’s (somewhat) willing to take on those cases which require the legwork I find so odious, he puts Mummy in a much better mood than my presence alone does, and he is, of course, quite adept at minimising organised crime within the Greater London area. Really, there’s quite a lot to miss about my wayward little brother.

And yet, that tone.

I roll my eyes, certain that he can sense my doing so even from his location, roughly 1500 miles away. “I would like to take you into protective custody-”

“No.”

Quelle surprise. I take a moment to try to recall the last instance in which he responded favourably to any sentence I began with the words ‘I would like’. Nothing comes to mind.

I sigh heavily into the handset. “It’s Moran’s board, Sherlock. He knows you’re alive-”

“Then why hasn’t he moved on John?”

I clench my jaw, then sigh again. Always so combative. “Perhaps he has.”

There’s a brief silence, during which I can practically feel his rising tension buzzing down the line. “What do you mean perhaps he has?” he demands, doing an admittedly quite accurate facsimile of my voice. I grimace. “You’ve had eyes on John since the moment I left, haven’t you?”

My eyes fall closed in exasperation. “Sherlock-”

“If John is in danger, Mycroft, I-”

Another sigh. I’m feeling rather winded now. “John is perfectly safe, Sherlock, I’ve made sure of it,” I say flatly, inserting enough confidence in my tone to calm him; I can hear the growing anxiety in the cadence of his breath, though he’s doing an admirable job of trying to mask it. “But that doesn’t mean that Moran hasn’t already established counter-surveillance.”

He snorts inelegantly, and I frown, twirling a paper clip between my thumb and forefinger. “Then there’s nothing to worry about, is there.”

Nothing to worry about? What foolishness is this? “Sherlock-”

“If Moran knew I was alive, he’d try to draw me out,” he says, the timbre of his voice cut with a condescending edge, “which would necessitate a threat to John’s life, not counter-surveillance.” He spits the phrase as if it were ludicrous, nigh on laughable. “We already know Moran is watching him-”

“Sherlock.” My voice is heavy, tone brooking no room for argument.

“What.”

Ugh, there’s that tone again.

Genius though my brother certainly is - that is, compared to the dull, slack-jowled masses with whom we must unfortunately engage - he never fully outgrew the childlike naivety that so often upended his logical faculties as a boy. I recall the infinite chess games we played as children, how he sacrificed all his pawns, impugned castling, forgot to cross-check, walked his king for days on end. And was always surprised and churlish when he lost.

I shake my head in lieu of sighing. “Moran knows that you’re alive, Sherlock. For god’s sake, Moriarty’s entire web has crumbled in the span of a few years, how could he not suspect your involvement?”

A frustrated noise crackles out of the earpiece. “Fine, he knows I’m alive, what does it matter?” It’s only a pawn, Mycroft, what does it matter? “He hasn’t threatened John - he can’t threaten John, and John’s the only bargaining chip in his possession.” I could crush you without any pawns at all, Mycroft. “If anything, this is my board, I’ve had him in check for over a year-”

Cross-check, brother dear. Don’t forgot your cross-check. “Not check, Sherlock.” I pause for effect in that way I know he deplores. “… Stalemate.”

The silence from the line is thick and heavy, a bitter miasma. I can see Sherlock’s face in my head, blank in a pointless attempt to veil his confusion. Another fatal flaw in his game: he’d rather make a blunder than ask for help. Silly boy.

I bring the mouthpiece a scant few millimeters closer to my mouth and lower my voice the few decibels required to ensure Sherlock listens closely. “The only way to gain the upper hand on Moran,” I begin, returning his condescension to him tenfold, “is to find and capture his as-yet-unidentified accomplice. A feat which you have failed to do, I might add-”

“I have leads,” he interjects, tone petulant. Ah, yes, there’s the king walking.

“Which we both know will be dead ends like the rest,” I respond sharply. “There is no recourse that way.” I hear a tiny rustle of fabric and surmise that his posture has slumped. “But you cannot return to London,” I murmur, softening my voice. I learned very young not to gloat at my brother’s losses; not only is the act boorish and inelegant, but it would often preclude Sherlock from playing. And though he very rarely won, he played with a riveting unpredictability, a constant stream of unexpected brilliancies. “I don’t have the resources to put an MI5 detail on John and you and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade,” I continue, tone circumspect, “and even if I did, Moran’s counter-surveillance would almost certainly take notice-”

“Assigning me a detail would be pointless as the blundering buffoons in your employ would only draw attention to my presence, and-”

And there’s the churlishness. To think I missed him. Perish the thought. “Sherlock-”

“And Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson don’t come into it at all, they’re no longer under threat-”

Cross-check. “But if you show your face in London, they will be.” I sense him preparingto walk his king, and I continue before he can speak. “You cannot go back, Sherlock.” No gloating, I tell myself, keep him in the game. “You’ve eliminated every aspect of Moriarty’s web that you could - financial, legal, executive - you’ve done well, Sherlock, truly-”

“Don’t patronise me.”

Yes, well. Now that I think about it, I suppose he was always churlish, whether I won or not. “But Moran’s accomplice presents an unknown, one which we cannot abide.” I pause briefly, giving him a moment to assimilate. “ …It’s your turn, Sherlock, yes,” I say, and I know he recognises the words from the innumerable times I said them to him at endgame, “but it’s not your board.” And the much dreaded question: “Do you see why.”

There is a short, pregnant silence, before I hear him suck in a short breath. “… I have no legal moves.”

I nod my head, my lips tightening in unbidden sympathy. After all, a brilliancy is still a loss for someone. “Stalemate.”

Another pause and then an odd scratching sound, which takes me a full five seconds to identify as him rubbing a defeated hand across his face. My lips purse further.

“I do have leads,” he says.

I sigh again, unable to contain it. Another flaw - perhaps a fatal flaw: Sherlock never knows when to forfeit. “Sherlock-”

“It’s a thin possibility, I’ll admit that,” he says, and his voice is wavering with a sort of urgency I have rarely heard from him. It sets my teeth on edge, “but there’s a lead in London that I can-”

I shake my head. “Sherlock-”

His makes a short, guttural noise, and his voice rises in both pitch and volume. “If you take me into protective custody now, I will rot there. … This isn’t chess, Mycroft. Stalemate is not an acceptable endgame.”

I flinch away from the handset and rub the back of my hand across my forehead. He isn’t wrong, of course. There’s very little he can accomplish from the secured environment of a safe house - at least, as pertains this mission. But Sherlock is a king, and I will not allow him to sacrifice himself like a pawn. If castling is the only way to protect him, then castling it shall be.

I bring the receiver back to my ear. “You said it yourself, Sherlock, you have no legal moves.”

Another long pause, this one tinged with the electrical hum of Sherlock’s undiluted focus. He’s thinking. Plotting. Planning.

Even half a world away, I can sense it, feel it - like the eerie calm before a hailing storm, or the tide pulling a mile out before an impending tsunami. Like the short breath he took between ‘check’ and ‘mate’ the first time he beat me, the day I realised that every bit of my pride and joy sat in the tiny palm of this waifish, flighty, hellion of a little boy.

He lets out a tiny huff, nearly a laugh, and I know he has me mated. “Then perhaps it’s time for an illegal move,” he says.

Ah, yes. This is why I missed him.

—

“Brought you that scone.”

I hate you. “I need the loo.”

He looks over his shoulder at me as he pulls the door down. “Ah, demanding this morning, are we? You didn’t even say ‘please’.”

I hate you. “Please,” I say flatly, and for the first time, it isn’t sincere. “I need the loo.” When I asked for the facilities last night, it had been a ploy to see if he’d uncuff me - failed, of course. But the past two hours - perhaps more, perhaps less, not as if I’ve any clue as to the time - have been almost excruciating. My thighs and abdomen ache from the constant tension of clenching to prevent wetting myself. About an hour ago, I thought I might just, well, go - figured he might let me out if I made a foul enough mess. Then it occurred to me that he might not let me out, might leave me here, locked in a tiny room with my own stink, or worse, get angry and try to kill m-

Something small and slightly sharp hits me in the chest and falls down to my lap. I flinch away for a second, then - upon realising I’m still thankfully alive - look down at the small shiny object.

It’s a keyring. There are two keys on it (one regular sized and one quite small), as well as a carabiner and a little laminated label. The label is handwritten - *1268242#, presumably the code to get into the facility - and the carabiner’s got a little inscription that reads simply, Big Yellow - Battersea.

Well. I’m certainly glad to know where I am, not that it does me any g-

“Uncuff yourself.”

I flinch at the gruff command and look up at the man. He looks much the same as he did yesterday - moderately well-dressed, furrow-browed, clenched jaw, and blank impassive eyes that I can’t get a read on. I swallow once, twice. “I-I can’t, I-” glance down at the keys in my lap, “my hands are behind my back, I can’t-”

He snorts and folds his arms over his chest, leaning his shoulder against the wall. “Oh, yes, of course,” he says, the sarky edge back full force. “You couldn’t possibly know how to get out of handcuffs. Come off it, Sherlock.”

For Christ’s sake- “I’m not-” God, what’s the point? I’ve already said it a hundred times, will he suddenly believe me if I say it once more? A hundred times more? I shake my head. “I don’t know how to unlock them.”

He stares blankly at me for a second, then shakes his head with an odd smile. “Well,” he says and reaches behind himself - back pocket, I think - pulling out a — Oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh Jesus fucking oh my g- “why don’t you figure it out?”

It’s a gun. A fucking gun. (Breathing too quickly, got to slow down) What- why- how does he have a gun? (Can feel my heart beating, too fast, too fast, like a hummingbird) Who on earth would give this man - this man - a bloody gun? I don’t- it doesn’t even-

(Odd sound, like a high-pitched whine - it’s coming from me, from me, from me) Oh, god. I… I’m going to die here. He’s going to kill me.

“Take. Off. The cuffs.”

My voice seems to be trapped somewhere in my throat, and I cough, gag a bit before choking out, “Oh god, please, please don’t, please, I can’t- I- I don’t know how!”

“Figure. It. Out,” he bites out, and his tone is menacing, terrifying, as he brings the gun closer to my face. I lean back as far as I can, want to turn my head away but I can’t. The metal is shiny, the hole, the- the barrel is pitch black inside, the whole thing looks heavy, but he’s holding it in one hand and it isn’t shaking. His finger rests on the trigger, his finger is on the trigger and-

My entire body flashes hot, then cold, then… nothing. I feel nothing. I feel… nothing.

It’s something that used to happen to me a lot, as a child: Depersonalisation, the doctor called it. I’d always had trouble sleeping, and if I went long enough without, I would suddenly find myself… separated. Floating above my own body, looking down at myself as I went about my chores on autopilot or answered questions in class by rote. I watch myself now. My eyes look odd - blank like a zombie or a- a husk. My shoulders shift awkwardly - what am I doing? Oh, I see. My cuffed hands pull to the side, my left shoulder lowering to an odd angle as my hands appear at the right side of my waist. I splay my fingers wide and move my thighs, jostling the keyring until it slides down into my open hands. I pull my hands back behind myself and watch as I fumble with the smaller key. I nearly drop it four different times before I feel slide into the lock, and then…

Click.

I as the cuffs unlock, and suddenly I am back inside my own body, my own head.

“There we are,” the man says. “That wasn’t so hard.” He’s got an odd sort of smile on his face, almost… fond. A wave of nausea hits me at the thought. “You can do your business now,” he says, and lowers the gun.

I go lightheaded as my lungs expand, and it occurs to me that I may have forgot to breathe for a moment there. I swallow and shake my head. “I-” my voice is raspy, like I haven’t spoken in days. I harrumph awkwardly and continue. “But I need-”

The man rolls his eyes and uses his gun to gesture vaguely at the wall behind me. “It’s a grimy storage unit, I doubt you’re the first bloke to have a slash in here. Go on. You can turn round, if you like.”

Oh god. I look up at him imploringly, but he only raises an expectant brow. I feel my posture slump, and I dip my head in a nod.

I attempt to stand up, fail. My legs feel odd - shaky and numb - and I place my hands on the seat of the chair on either side of my bum and leverage my way up. I sway a bit upon standing, my vision whiting out for a second and a loud buzzing sounding in my ears - head rush. Out the corner of my eye, I see the man take a tiny step forward and reach out a hand as if to steady me. I flinch back, and his wayward hand falls.

I stumble a few steps toward the back of the unit. Staring at the wall, I find that I’m glad not to look at the man, but also terrified by the vulnerability. It feels a bit like standing on the beach with my back to a riotous ocean.

I fiddle with my belt and flies, starting when I notice the reddish-brown residue on my hands. Blood. My hands are smeared with it, and it’s caked into the divots at my wrists.

Fishing myself out of my trousers and pants, I try not to hyperventilate as it takes an embarrassingly long time before I actually start to go. I can feel his eyes on my back.

I finish quickly, ignoring the light spatter of piss on my shoes and bottoms of my trousers, tuck myself back in, zip up, and slowly turn back round. I’m not sure what I’ll see when I do - will he have his gun trained on me again? Will he be amused at the mess I’ve made of myself? Angry?

Oh.

He’s turned to the side, his body in profile, and his head is tilted downward and turned even further away. I can’t see his expression, but his posture is a standard show of deference to my privacy. That’s… unexpected.

I swallow once, brow furrowed, and clear my throat to draw his attention. He looks up at me, and his cheeks and neck are ruddy. He harrumphs as well and tilts his chin toward the chair.

“Sit down,” he says, and his voice is gruff and a bit… awkward?

I approach the (hateful) chair, and seat myself. I watch warily as he reaches into his back pocket - the other one this time - and force myself not to flinch as he chucks something at my chest.

Glancing down at it, I see it’s a… scone?

“Eat,” he says, folding his arms over his chest, and he looks almost… nervous? No, eager. Like he’s dying to feed me up. God, that’s ridiculous, doesn’t even make any sense. What do you want from me? What am I doing here? He’s not mentioned calling my family for a ransom, not mentioned money at all, doesn’t even seem to know who I am, doesn’t seem to actually want to kill me - gun aside, that is - he’s bringing me bloody scones, for fuck’s sake!

“I-I don’t-” understand, why are you doing this? Who are you? What do you want? What do you want? “Please, I-”

He huffs out a long sigh, chin dropping to his chest, and shakes his head. “Bloody hell, do I seriously still have to do this?” he says and looks up at me. “Make you eat? Bandage you up? Take bloody care of you?”

Bandage me up? Take care of me? What is he even- “Wh-what? I- no, I-”

“Eat.”

“I-…” Fuck this. Fuck this. Is that what he thinks? That he’s taking care of me? That it - this - is all fine so long as he feeds me scones and lets me have a waz every few days? Fuck. This. “No.”

He makes an almost comical expression of surprise, then narrows his eyes at me. I feel a shiver start in my shoulders and viciously suppress it. “No?”

I swallow around the sudden dryness in my throat. “N-no. I won’t. I won’t-” Fuck, his hand is inching toward the gun in his back pocket. Fuck, fuck, fuck- “I won’t do as you say. You’ll…” Oh, god. This is it, then. Jesus, I’m gonna die in a storage unit in fucking Battersea, with piss all over myself. Of course, I am. Of fucking course, I- “You’ll have to- have to kill me.” Oh, god.

His hand freezes. Scratch that, actually. His whole body freezes. He’s stock still, preternaturally so. And then… his shoulders start to shake, slightly at first like a tremble, and then harder. Then his belly is shaking, too, and he’s- he’s laughing. He’s laughing. He’s bloody cackling.

Oh. My. God.

“You- you-” he stutters, interrupting himself with terrifying peals of laughter. “You’re already dead.”

… No. No, I’m not. Sherlock is dead. I’m alive. Unless… Unless he means… “Wh- no. Oh god no, please, please-”

“Suit yourself,” he says with a smile, then approaches me.

Oh, god. “No, no, please, no-” fuck it, “help!” I scream, “Someone help! Please!”

He rolls his eyes around a glare and wraps his arms around me, almost like an embrace. “Oi, shut it, you. I’m just putting the cuffs back on.”

I shudder against his chest, leaning back, turning my head away, trying to get as far from him as I can. His scent is filling my nose - he smells… clean. Oddly so. Too clean, really, like a hospital. “Please don’t, please,” I whisper, sucking up my courage to lean in close to his ear, my cheek pressed against his. “I told you, I won’t tell anyone,” my breath is humid in the sliver of space between my mouth and the crest of his ear, “I won’t, I swear it, I’ll never say a word, just-”

I feel the cuffs click into place, but he doesn’t move back. Instead, his fingers encircle my forearms, just above my wrists. I feel him sigh into my hair, and I shiver. “I won’t let you go, Sherlock.”

Oh, god, stop it, stop it! “I’m not-” There’s no point, no point at all. I pant for breath for a second, then lick my lips, my tongue bare millimeters from his face. “I’m not worth anything.”

I feel him tense with confusion before he leans back. “What?” he asks, looking bemusedly down into my face.

“I’m not worth anything,” I repeat, looking down at the scone on my lap. It’s blueberry, not cinnamon. “I don’t have money, none of my family has money, you won’t get anything for me-”

“I don’t want money.”

I can hear the irritation in his voice and keep my head down. “…Then what do you want?”

He doesn’t respond for a long moment, and I see him step back out of the corner of my eye. The metal door slides up again, and I don’t bother looking up as he steps outside. Does he even know what he wants? Does he even want anything at all? Perhaps he’s too far gone, too mad, to want for anything. Maybe… Well, maybe it’s hopeless.

“I’ll be back round six-ish,” he murmurs, and my shoulders slump. “I’ll bring something for your wrists.”

Darkness again.

—

END PT. 1

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