bakerstreet | bound and chained

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[warning] trigger warning

bound and chained

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!

Scenarios

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.

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[Sometimes people needed to be inconvenienced for their own good. Sherlock was one of them- he had to know that by now, but his willpower had always dominated everyone else's good sense. It wasn't a luxury Jane was going to afford him.

He was a master of ropes and knots, looping them with efficiency to take advantage of torque and pressure and yanking. No handcuffs- if he could pick them, Sherlock could too- so a thick sort of twine would have to do for now. Tied and looped enough not to snap after being pulled, and Sherlock's arms positioned in such a way as to be awkward and nearly impossible to use.

Jane would cut him out of it...eventually. Once the worst of it was over.]

Stop thrashing. You'll only give yourself rope burn.

[He'd been taking the pills for too long. Developed too much of a habit, too much of a dependance. The problem - the convenience - of pills was that one could so easily maintain a normal life with them, so easily appear to be just fine, for so long until things came to a head. But where he'd been, the next step had been either needles or a potentially lethal dose. Sherlock had known it. He knew.

But he's not about to thank Jane for what he's done. If he ever does, it won't be for a very long time.

He bristles at the order. Like it's just that easy. Already he's sick and sweating, and his joints ache. This is still far from the worst.]

You indescribable idiot, Patrick.

You can't ever have seen a person detox from opiates, cold turkey. You have no idea how bad this is going to get.

'No you', as the kids say these days.

[So stilted, like a dad telling his kids a joke.

Jane has cool cloths at the ready, bottles of water and vitamins and juice all lined up in a small portable refrigerator. He does not seem bothered in the slightest at all Sherlock's gloom-and-dooming.]

It's just pain, Sherlock. Pain can be managed; it's all in the mind. [He approaches, but doesn't get too near yet for fear of Sherlock's expertise with fighting- too close and those long legs could be vicious. He knows his own limits.] Lucky for you, that's my expertise. And I'm going to be here to teach you how to get through that. You're going to hate me at first. I can live with that. There are worse things in the world.

[He acts because he gives a damn. Sherlock is wasting himself away with these drugs, and somewhere along the way, Jane had come to see him as one of his colleagues, a peer. Maybe not carnival family, but adjacent enough. The world needs more bright people in it.]

Yes, it needs to be managed. I don't need bottled water -- [He gestures as well as he can toward the fridge, even if that means just with his head.] -- I need a gradual come-down. A lesser dose. Medication at least. You can get Naloxone from the hospital, I have a contact --

[A wave of nausea hits. Sherlock swallows, and something in his eyes changes. He looks frightened.]

Patrick, please.

[He can steel himself, block the natural tendency to be empathetic. It will be critical in the first stages, when all Sherlock wants is more drugs. Right now he still just sounds like a junkie. Jane knows that tenor of voice, the pleading look. No, he chose correctly. Sherlock is going to have to deal with having his sense of control taken away; if he steps down on his own, he'll think he can manage it, and he'll just relapse later. Jane's going to help him through his so that it's the last time, period.

If things go really south, he's got dearest Molly's number on his speed-dial. Basically, the worst thing that's going to happen is that Sherlock is going to get sick. But it won't kill him. He needs to be afraid, and he needs to be miserable. Jane's got remedies for both.

He produces a small can--where did he hide it?--and cracks it open.]

Drink this. [Ginger ale.]

[He needs to hold on. If he tries to get violent or flings around too many insults, he's lost. He won't give up until he's certain it's hopeless. His last chance is to convince Patrick he's all right, that he could be all right, that he could beat it on his own.

The wave hasn't passed yet. He's starting to shake. He may have to speak quickly.]

I've got work. I have clients. You know I can be disciplined. I need help, but I can do this.

[Jane ignores him. He knows this tactic...knows them all.]

Drink.

Or don't, but I'm moving out of the way before you throw up.

[Sherlock's face twists, frustration and pleading and panic and anger shifting through to various degrees before he finally leans forward and slurps a sip out of the can. It's hard to swallow, but he manages.]

For God's sakes. [Still shaking. It's a battle now; in a minute they'll know whether he drank too late.] At least bring that bucket closer; this can only last for so long.

[So he does, bringing the can with him to avoid any unpleasant spills.]

This isn't going to be pleasant. But I'll help talk you through the worst of it. [He resumes sitting by Sherlock's side, can in hand.] But when I do, you're going to have to listen to every word I say, or it's going to be even worse. Understand? I can't help you if you don't let me.

[That's going to mean letting go a little for when Jane does some of his guidance on pain management. Not an easy task for any strict self-disciplinarian.]

[Tied up, fed by someone else's hand and being spoken to like a child. Humiliation has to be a factor in Jane's plan; Sherlock can't see how it could be otherwise. He laughs, restrained and full of contempt, shaking his head. The laughter abates with one deep breath as the nausea finally passes.

A moment. Sherlock opens his mouth, prepared to speak, but it seems that was only a reprieve. This time he's hit with it full-force. He has enough time to fling himself to one side and aim for the bucket.]

[Jane placed it carefully, anticipating the trajectory, and he moves away as best he can. The principle of being puked on is nothing offensive in and of itself; he's had a child, after all.

He'll give Sherlock some space and wait for the fit to be over before returning with water. Vomiting dehydrates the body something awful.]

[So does sweating. He's drenched in it by the time he gives a final spit and sits up again -- with effort, but he'll be damned if he's going to collapse like a dead fish this early on -- looking only slightly less pale than a few minutes ago.]

Don't think I can't see exactly what you're doing. Negative reinforcement. Force me into a state of helplessness so I look pathetic, when you know it doesn't have to be this way.

[Jane wets a cloth and brings it over to help wipe Sherlock's face down.]

Transference is a normal part of the process. But if you want me to take a picture with my phone for later, I can.

[He's going to sit there and let Patrick wipe his forehead. Grudgingly.]

We could have talked about this.

[Jane doesn't pamper him like a kid -- that would just be insulting -- but he isn't rough about it either.]

And what do you normally do when people try to talk to you?

[All right. Fair point. Still.]

Don't act as though I'm the only one with a superiority complex. Between the two of us, which one tied the other up without his consent?

[He stands, going to get some water.]

You're mad about the knots. When this is over, I'll show you how to do them. Handy, in a pinch.

I can see how you did them.

[Doesn't mean he can escape. More's the pity.]

More carnival tricks?

Just boredom. I can tie all the naval knots plus a few fun ones.

[One of which he's employed.]

Nnng.

[He's hot and uncomfortable and any attempt at conversation is looking more and more pointless. Sod Patrick's offer to 'talk him through' this; if he's going to suffer through it he'd rather the man leave him alone to face the indignity without an audience.]

[Jane can handle Sherlock being angry at him. But he won't leave the boy in here to suffer alone.

He approaches the bed again, sitting next to Sherlock and reaching over to take hold of his chin. Firmly, to make sure he has Sherlock's attention.]

The next time you start having an episode, I want you to close your eyes -close them tight- and imagine all the pain inside of you evaporating to the surface of your skin and seeping out in the sweat that falls off your body. All of the discomfort, all of the hurting, all of the shooting and retching and aching and stabbing. All of that, rising to the surface and sliding off your body. Every droplet that comes up lessens the pain just a bit more. Okay? Close your eyes and think of that. And when you do, the pain won't be in you anymore, it will be around you on the bed and in your clothes. But it won't be in your body. All the pain will be outside of you, and you'll know this can be beaten. You can beat this, and you'll want to. Evaporating pain.

[He holds Sherlock's gaze just a moment longer, to make sure it went in. With people he's tried this on before--even the ones with low suggestion thresholds--he's gotten sideways looks and scornful comments. This is a situation where he expects the same. But the mind wants things, wants equilibrium, and the impulse will take hold and root itself once things ramp up enough. Sherlock will think of this stupid speech and not be able to help imagining it. If he fails, then Jane will go to plan B. But not before.]

Edited 2012-11-14 03:32 (UTC)

[Sherlock sits and listens - with his eyes locked on Jane's, but only so that Jane might feel the palpable sense of loathing that's coming through them. He's realized he's fighting a losing battle, and a cornered animal is the most desperate. Jane thinks he's seen hate so far, thinks he's seen anger? Hah.

The word retching comes up and Sherlock swallows reflexively. Oh, he knows exactly what Jane is trying to do. Word association; the mind absorbs the meaning of a phrase and can't help but react subconsciously. Under these circumstances, Sherlock has another word for it: attack. A mental invasion wrapped up in the misguided intent of The Greater Good.

Well, two can play at mental warfare. That moment passes, and then Sherlock's words come out low and fast, almost calm.]

You know, I never did ask which one you laid eyes on first. Was it the wife, or was it Charlotte?

[Jane expects worse barbs than even these. He prepares himself to deal with the most dark and cruel spittle upon his heart. After all this is over, he might leave permanently, see Europe and try to find his place there. For now, he must ignore the black hole in his gut that's trying to suck out every breath of life from his soul. Only one man has dared to tread this ground so irreverently, so haughtily...but Jane can't deal with that right now. Sherlock is trying to hit back, get out of this corner he feels backed into. He's using the sharpest blades he knows, and it wounds.

Jane stands, expression quietly neutral, and looks down at Sherlock stewing in his own cold rage. A beat passes.]

I'll check on you in a few hours.

[He turns to leave, knowing that the worst of it's going to start hitting within maybe forty-five minutes. The implication is that he's abandoning Sherlock to suffer on his own; the truth is, Jane would never be that pitiless. But if Sherlock wants to play the worst cards first, then Jane will see that with what was Sherlock's first request: specific drugs to lessen the agony of detoxification.]

[Sherlock doesn't say a word. Let Patrick go, let the suffering and humiliation go on without a witness. He got what he wanted. He's alone.

...fuck. He's alone. He looks with a hint of dismay at the lead ropes running from his wrists to the bed posts. How long is Patrick really going to be gone for? What if he needs to use the toilet?

He knows Jane well enough to know the man wouldn't allow him to literally wallow in his own filth, no matter what sort of barbs are thrown his way. But being reminded that Sherlock's choice come down between that and being led around like a dog on a leash only inspires a fresh surge of despisement for the person who put him here. Sherlock lets out a wordless shout of rage, thrashes against the ropes and kicks the footboard.

After that he's quiet for a long while, though not precisely still. It hurts to move, but staying in one position for too long makes him itch. The waiting is hell, especially when he can see exactly the sort of cliff he's about to fall over. Come on, just let it happen already.

Anxiety scrabbles and scratches at the inside of his skull, while boredom starts to press in from outside. There's nothing in this room to distract him. Sherlock starts pounding the sole of his foot against the bedframe in a slow, even rhythm. Thud. Thud. Thud. The rhythm stays constant while the force of his kicks get harder and the resultant sounds louder. THUD.]

[Jane has stepped out, trying to sort through having that door inside of him knocked right through with a hatchet. His phone chirps in the middle of that, and he opens it to read a text from Molly: How is he?

Right where expected, he replies, and receives back Do keep me informed. She must be worried sick right now. What a fool Sherlock Holmes is, to have people like this that care so deeply about him, yet are spurned and treated like useful ghosts. Jane lets her know that he won't be far off, and goes to make himself some tea to try and regroup a little.

He hears the thumping, but ignores it at first like he ignored Charlotte's temper tantrums of stomping around on the floor upstairs. Something threatens to drift out of the cracks in his door, but then he hears one loud thud. It would be incalculably dangerous for Sherlock to break free at this stage, after things have already started. Jane knows he wouldn't go first for medication, but more of the drug that got him in this, and that was asking for an overdose.

However, nothing sounds broken- no splintered wood, just thumping. He decides to settle in a chair and work some Sudoku puzzles in the meantime. When things start to escalate, he'll be ready to tackle all the other physical unpleasantness that rides in on vomiting's coattails.]

Edited (fricking html) 2012-12-07 20:14 (UTC)

aaaand detox - choose your own adventure!

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