bakerstreet | The Captivity Meme

The Captivity Meme

THE CAPTIVITY MEME

You've been captured - or maybe you've been held captive for a while now. Whatever the case, you've lost your freedom, and there's a specific person responsible for that. You might be a prisoner, a mental patient, a kidnap victim, or someone's pet. Maybe you're there willingly, or maybe the choice has been taken away from you completely.

Both smut and non-smut scenarios are possible. If you don't want to play smut, please indicate so in the title line of your tag.

1. Leave a tag with your character. Be sure to include any limits on what you are willing to play, as this meme has the potential to be triggering.

2. Someone else tags in and uses RNG to generate a number between 1 and 9. The second character is holding the first character captive now.

3. ??

4. Profit!

CATEGORIES

1. For their own good.
Does this person really think they could make it on their own? It's a big, scary world out there, and you need to protect them from it, whether they like it or not.

2. For the good of society.
Forget protecting this person - it's your duty to protect the world from them! Maybe they committed a terrible crime, or maybe they were falsely condemned, but it's your job to keep them locked up where they can't do any more harm.

3. Because they're not well.
How's your bedside manner? Whether you're Florence Nightingale or Mildred Ratched, you're in the position of ministering to the mentally ill. Maybe this person genuinely needs your help, or maybe you're just turning a blind eye to their true sanity.

4. For the money.
Higher aims? What higher aims? This person is your meal ticket, and they're staying put until their loved ones pay up.

5. For their love.
It might be a case of yandere, or it might be a consenting BDSM relationship. Whether it's by mutual agreement or by force, you're keeping them simply because you love them.

6. Because they're cute and fluffy.
Who's a cutesy wutesy? They are! Yes, they are!
This person is your pet now. Maybe they're a different species from you, or maybe you just don't care that you're both people. Maybe you're even an alien zookeeper looking after a new acquisition.

7. Because they're your property.
Slave? Livestock? Who cares what they think - they're your property, and you decide their fate.

8. For the lulz.
Hey, what's a little bondage between friends? You'll let them go, once you're done laughing and snapping photos...maybe.

9. Choose a scenario, or combine several.

Taken from memebells.

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["Pissed" doesn't even begin to describe the situation.]

[He's riiiiiiiight in here with her. Picked up half an hour away from the border, after four damn days of so much dust. She's gone up, ratcheted tighter by her anger, Sherlock has gone down, sprawled on the narrow concrete bench, arm draped over his eyes to block out the light coming through the tiny window, spilling right onto him as luck would have it. Moving would be too much effort.]

Irene, what languages do you speak?

[She'd be pacing if she could. But after she'd broken one nose and rendered another of their captors permanently infertile (at least she hoped it was permanent), they'd decided maybe keeping her tethered to the wall of the cell was a better option. Which explained why she was sitting with her focus on said wall, trying to figure out how best to work the length of chain out of the wall.]

Enough Urdu to tell them their mothers fornicated with goats. My Arabic is marginally better.

[Doesn't actually answer the question, but old habits.]

French. German. Italian, perhaps?

[In French, he tries, because she's always struck him as sort of Parisian;]

We're being eavesdropped on by someone who speaks passable English. Anything in that language must be said for his benefit.

[All of the above, and enough Portuguese and Spanish to eavesdrop with. It did make for very handy information collecting before her untimely 'death'. But she doesn't say that, just in case she ever needs it, but a smile does tug at her lips at his choice and she responds in kind.]

If I'd known he spoke English, I would have used far better insults.

[She wraps her fingers around the chain and yanks hard, feeling the wood its sunk into give just the tiniest millimeter.]

The extra week was nice.

And made them angrier than they are? I'm not sure my ribs could take it.

[Another reason he's lying so very still. They'd set on him first, he'd gone down ferociously, but the butt of a rifle to the side will wind even the best of men. The few kicks thrown in for good measure once he was don only made matters worse.]

Though if we goad one of them into coming in here, we could disarm them and get the key.

They only got that angry because you were beating them so soundly. Consider it a compliment.

[Another tug doesn't get her the same result and Irene frowns as her fingers blindly probe at the bolt connecting the chain and the wall. If she can just start untwisting it...]

Optimistic, given how thoroughly they've disarmed US.

They got the knife out of my boot, but not the blade out of the sole. It's crude, but-

[But it's a start. He trusts, however, that they're being watched, so he doesn't reach for it. He switches back to English, before their conversation causes too much of a flurry.]

What do you think they're going to do with us?

[She really shouldn't have been surprised by that, but it does give her a little bit of hope, and Irene's fingers close on the bolt again. She tries to work it out of the wall, but maneuvers carefully, as if she's doing nothing more than testing her bonds.]

Kill us, I assume. Or ransom us. I expect that depends on how international relations are these days.

Ransom us? To who?

[Laughing. But really, that's an important message. If they don't get out of here before the ransom demands go out, Mycroft will learn she's alive.]

[She knows that they'll have to be quick, to escape before the ransom demands, but just in case their captors hadn't thought of it, she wanted to ensure that it became part of their strategy. It would give them that much more time if their captors realized there was an alternative to execution. Especially if they had to argue over whether to utilize that alternative or not.

Still, she laughs with him.]

I didn't say it was a good plan.

The blade in my shoe would make an excellent lock-pick, if I could give it to you without raising an instant alarm.

[He jokes, in his sweetest, most comforting french, like he's telling her everything is going to be all right, or perhaps flirting- inoffensive, certainly not worth investigating, the last tone you'd use to plan a prison break.]

[Her fingers probe the bolt again. She'd worked a few more threads of it out, and with that extra freedom came better leverage to get the rest out. But the moment she did, their eavesdropping captor would no doubt know. Her eyes flicker over the cell, over Sherlock lying in the middle of the floor, and over the small window set up high in the wall.

She shakes her head, as if unwilling to believe whatever innocent, comforting thing he'd said, and answers with a note of carefully feigned hysteria in her voice.]

Once we pick the shackles I can get these chains out of the wall. Could be useful. [A pause as she allows the beginning of a sob to creep into her voice] Playing the gallant, comforting hero might give you a chance to pass it over, if you can move.

Oh for the love of God.

[He swears, which he never does, but he's in pain and it tickles his sense of humour, to gripe in such a perfectly comforting, protective tone as he heaves himself upright. A minimum of two cracked ribs. He tucks a knee to his chest, leans over it to catch his breath, and works the blade out of his shoe discreetly with the other hand.]

Don't cry, Irene. Everything will be all right, I promise.

[She may apologize for it someday. Or maybe not. Because it amuses her to foist that role on him, and the fact that he does so without argument actually surprises her a little. Still, she plays her own part, sounding utterly inconsolable and hysterical and far too far gone in said hysteria to remember to speak in English.

And because she is not at all certain she wouldn't start laughing if she did speak in English.]

You can barely move and your plan was to goad one of them in here for a fight?

I'm not nearly as bad as I'm acting. It isn't pleasant, not by any stretch of the imagination, but better they think me crippled.

[Coming to take her hands, comfortingly- slipping the blade into her palm.]

It'll all be fine. We'll be back at the hotel in no time, I promise. We'll go somewhere nice on vacation next year. Back to Naples.

[The cool metal of the blade against her hand makes Irene smile and she hides the gesture with a feigned sob against his shoulder, careful to keep her hands firmly hidden between her back and the wall against which she was tethered as she begins fitting the thin blade to the shackles.

She keeps up the feigned sob for another moment, two, and lets it fade away into grudging calm. She even managed a few tears for full effect, though she couldn't remember the last time they'd even had water that didn't taste like sand.]

I'm impressed. You should have been an actor. [A pause, a gulp of air, and back to English, as if she's finally back in control of herself, and as if she's finally noticed how hurt he is.] Naples was lovel-- oh dear you are in terrible condition. Why did you move yourself at all?

Because you needed me.

[Pressing her backwards, putting his arms on either side of her against the wall- giving her space to work the shackles properly, sightline to the door blocked by his body against her, all protective and looming.]

Irene, there's something I must confess, in case we never leave this place. First one to make the man listening in gasp audibly wins the first shower when we get back.

[Despite the marks left by fast-drying false tears and the dark circles from too little sleep, Irene's eyes positively gleam at his words, and the quick smile she flashes is not at all tremulous, but sharp and challenging, hidden from view of the door.

She closes her eyes briefly, for a moment focusing on nothing but the shackles and the blade, giving herself a better mental picture of what needed to be done. The fact that it adds to her seeming uncertainty is a bonus.

Once she has the positions fixed in her mind, she looks up again at him, expression carefully composed to balance fear and expectation as her fingers work the blade into the lock.

Her mind considers briefly the likely personality listening to them sight unseen, gauging what might shock the eavesdropper.]

You cannot tell me this is about you and John. [A tremble sneaks into her voice.] Not here.

John? It has nothing to do with him. He doesn't know I'm here.

[Well played, Miss Adler. He takes a step back, still standing between her and the door.]

No one does. When I heard you'd left, I dropped everything and came. I knew I had to find you, that I had to make up for what happened.

[For a moment she just stares at him, her fingers stilling their work on the lock. Because as far as his little challenge went, that was a poor attempt (unless their unseen guard was some kind of closet romantic, which she doubted). But as far as things with relevance went...

Funny how often dealing with Sherlock Holmes blurred the lines of the game.

She kept her thoughts out of her expression, her fingers working the lock again as she stares at him.

The game, Irene. Focus on it, and on getting out. Her voice is steadier, if a little brittle around the edges, when she finds her voice again.]

You mean when you threw me to the wolves?

No. I had to do that- you gave me precious little option.

[Colder, now, with a breath that wheezes in his chest. He sits down hard on the edge of his little bench.]

If you blame me for that you're a hypocrite and a fool.

[The plan is simple, obvious, practically writing itself with the exchange, and Irene slides the blade around in the lock until she feels a click and the pressure around her wrists gives. She barely takes a moment to savor the sensation, instead glaring at him, heated anger to his cold words.

And as she does her freed hands close on the bolt again, working it out of the hole in the wall, prying it through the wood worn soft by fatigue.]

A hypocrite, a fool, and 'someone who takes her clothes off to make an impression'. Care to throw another insult into the mix while you're feeling confessional?

You deliberately broke my heart.

[There's that gasp. Sherlock gives her a brief, triumphant grin.]

It was my own mistake for ever succumbing to the desire to trust you in the first place, of course, but still, I think I'll insult you all I please.

[The words bring up up short, but the grin reminds her again that it's all part of the game. She could tell herself it was this week, the toll of their escape that blurred the line, but that was an excuse and she knew it, deep down.

Instead she focuses on what she does know. Their mysterious eavesdropper is shocked by the lovers quarrel, distracted. The question was whether he (or she) would be sympathetic. That couldn't be counted on, but curiosity could, the distraction of a nice ugly row could keep their captor interested, perhaps engaged enough to even act without thinking.

She gets her feet back under her, careful to keep the shackles and the end of the chain in hand without giving away the fact that they were no longer attached to her wrists. Or to the wall.]

It was easy. You're desperately obvious sometimes, Sherlock.

Irene Adler || BBC Sherlock

9

Oooooooo yessssssssss

it just fit so well

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