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[whatofthewarts]

Irene Adler had many homes, and many more hiding places, but months after her death Sherlock was certain he'd found at least half those in the country. She had her many stolen jewels tucked away all over the apartment, and it took him the better part of the afternoon to dig them all out of their hidey holes. When he had them in his pockets, he went searching for someone else entirely.

Although they had their obvious differences, given their different environments, Sherlock found it was remarkably easy to track himself down.

"Making headway, I presume?"

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[lostwithoutmyblogger]

Bad, bad bad, and he thrashes, wrenching one shoulder rather badly, legs fighting, scrabbling against the floor.

Whatever he's supposed to be guessing, he knows breaking away isn't going to happen. So he stills, and then moves again, a fresh wave of adrenaline propelling him into another massive jerk forwards, wrists grinding, protesting down to the bone.

[whatofthewarts]

"You can get out of this! Think!"

Holmes snarls, staying with him as stubbornly as a terrier. Panic can lend inhuman strength, and so he takes a quiet split second to calculate. To predict, to plan. He wants to push Sherlock, and he's not going to make it easy on him.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

He's still, but not for thought, yet, just gasping for a lungful of air, then another, waiting for Holmes to move, for a chance to break free.

[whatofthewarts]

Despite the advantage of knowing Sherlock's mind, Holmes can't actually tell if he is still panicking or beginning to work through it.

He wonders if he was ever really this young (he was worse, if Watson was to be believed).

"What is the one thing that will get you out of this?"

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

He doesn't hear a word of that. His whole body is starting to shake from the adrenaline hit, skin like ice where his wrists are being held. He's pliant, now, and still. Very nearly submissive.

[whatofthewarts]

He's decided how he'll proceed from here, and it gives Holmes a different sense of power. He relaxes his hold on Sherlock's wrists, just to see.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

The degree of freedom seems to worry him more, somehow, shifting uneasily against the space, clear that he oughtn't to bolt, but still shaken badly.

But still, for the moment.

[whatofthewarts]

"Is this how you would escape imprisonment? Through model behaviour?"

He chides him, not moving.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"You aren't a prison. You're a sadist."

Sherlock informs him, through chattering teeth.

[whatofthewarts]

"Then so are you."

Logically.

"The difference is that you don't know how to get to the position of power. You take what is done to you to save your life."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"No."

He informs him, simply, echoing with reason and belief, though the words of explanation aren't coming. He doesn't need them to. He doubts it's more than another of his cruel stabs.

Although he supposes John would disagree, after the Baskerville case. Without meaning to, the thought of John sends him thrashing again.

[whatofthewarts]

He's finally doing something, and so Sherlock allows him to break loose. Not that, with his loose grip and Sherlock's renewed energy, he could have done very much to prevent it.

He ends up sprawled back on one hand, so he kicks out, intending to knock Sherlock onto his side.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

He hits the ground hard, losing his breath with a sound like a scream, but twists, intuitively, to get his legs between them, even as his mind threatens with corners of black.

[whatofthewarts]

Part of Holmes is aware of how cruel he's being. But Holmes is often cruel for the sake of experiment, and he's certain Sherlock is, too.

He isn't injured, so he's up fast, and he opts to punch Sherlock across the cheek--not quite hard enough to fracture any bones, but enough he hopes to stun him out of the panic. It's hard to say for sure how far gone Sherlock's rational mind is.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

It sends him sprawling, wrenches a sound out of him, and there's the other problem. Masochist. He's all limp and good for him again, breathing stuttering, mind swinging wildly between roll over and run. He's still blindly terrified, wouldn't know his own name if asked.

[whatofthewarts]

"This isn't going to get you out of anything."

Holmes finally does straddle his stomach, to have better leverage as he digs his thumb into the hollow of Sherlock's shoulder, so deep he might be trying to put his finger through the floor.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

There's a moment of uncomprehending eyecontact, and then his eyes roll back and he's thrashing, pinned, battering himself between Holmes and the floor, pinned by the one shoulder.

/hastiest tag

[whatofthewarts]

"If I didn't know better, I would say you enjoy this. Perhaps that explains your choices, the very simple difference between us."

He digs his middle and forefingers under the dip at the center of Sherlock's clavicle. "What do you think?"

wooh

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

It sends lightning through him, but paralyzes him, because if he moves his heart and chest will unhinge, ribs peeling open under his fingertips. His heart is hammering, face going blank. Hurts.

[whatofthewarts]

"See...you are making expressions I am certain I have never made. And I have been suspended from a hook, through that very point on your shoulder I just released."

It's so terribly fascinating. And Holmes doesn't get any thrill from battering the helpless, but Sherlock is not helpless. He is no victim. So what that makes this, he oesnt know, except that yes: he is enjoying it.

Enough to hook one leg over Sherlock's shoulder while the other presses his ribs. By yanking the man's arm just so, he can flip them over into a classical Greco-Roman hold. It won't hurt nearly as much as the pressure points, and it's more easily fought.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

It's still worse, somehow, because now that he isn't paralyzed by agony he has to fight again, and the frustration is what really sends him over the edge. Weak and trying.

"Hooks-"

He has memories of those, or maybe something to say about them, but he can't get his breath, can't still his thoughts.

[whatofthewarts]

"You have some experience with them?"

How curious. He shoves Sherlock down and stands, allowing him room to speak because he does want an answer.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

His bruised cheek connects with the floor, and he stays down, dazed and crumpled.

[whatofthewarts]

Holmes takes a seat on a lone chair and leans forward, elbows on his knees, studying Sherlock.

"Tell me what you know about hooks."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"Irene."

Making it up a bit, managing to roll over.

"Hooks and needles."