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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?"

Comments

[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."

[whatofthewarts]

His Irene is not into that. And Holmes's primary experience was being tortured by Moriarty. So his mind goes directly to one possibility alone.

"What happened to her?"

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"She was going to be beheaded by a terrorist cell because of me. I relented and rescued her, and then we had a psuedo-spiritual experience in the sand where she hung me up by my skin."

[whatofthewarts]

"Pseudo-spiritual."

Explain that. He knows that he and Sherlock are at least of one mind on all things metaphysical.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"The endorphin high briefly gave me the sensation of being connected to the entire universe. I've had worse cocaine."

To contextualize it.

[whatofthewarts]

"Ah. A delusional experience brought about by an overtaxed neural network."

He nods. Makes sense. He's seen priests experience the same.

"Why did she want to do it?"

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"It's what she does. Hurts people for pleasure."

He tells him, withdrawing further. He doesn't know 'broken heart' reads as transparently on him as all the rest.

"Dominatrix and sadist. She liked to whip, drug, and choke me now and again, to get me tractable enough to work for her."

[whatofthewarts]

"Mine was more into humiliation than beatings."

He doesn't smile, but there is a distinct softness in his expression.

"She once drugged me and left me naked and handcuffed to a bed in an upscale hotel."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"That too."

He admits, with the strange, defensive stillness back in him again, looking at the ceiling.

"Only not strangers. John and Mycroft. And it was never really nudity, just the- care, I suppose, the narcissism of presumed mutual infatuation."