bakerstreet | the captivity meme

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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!

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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[ You'd think he'd anticipate this by now, but he's really not in his right mind; it's hard enough to think straight, let alone remember the punishments he's received. The hard strike of leather across his cheek is effective in silencing him with a sharp intake of breath, his head snapping to the side. The sudden shock of water helps the sanity along with a noise of distressed surprise, his body going taunt but still.

Well. That felt distantly familiar.

After a moment of shuddering recovery slumped on the wall he finally looks back up to her, the pupils still dilated but at least seeming to have some semblance of control back. His hands give one final tug to the chain - a child kicking the dirt after the loss of an argument - before letting his arms slump into his lap. He wets his parched lips and says nothing to her, staring in silence. What is there to say? ]

That's better.

[Not that she sounds terribly pleased by his reaction, just... tired. The scene has played out too often, ended the same way, and repeated. She steps over to the sink again, fills the glass with water again, and presses it into his hands firmly.]

A week is customary, but something tells me you'll insist on being above average as always, Mr. Holmes.

[ While he may not be yet capable of begging, he's not so proud that he won't accept the kindness; the water is accepted without complaint and he drinks it down eagerly before setting the glass aside with trembling hands. Something akin to a laugh escapes him but it sounds too weak and broken to properly display the bitter sentiment he intends, his head falling back against the wall. ]

Matter of days and I'll be back in one piece, I'm certain... Though I can't say I exactly appreciate the rehabilitation process.

[ He rattles the chains tiredly for emphasis, closing his eyes. ]

How long has it been?

Since what, since you've been here in the city or since you've been chained to a bath tub? [She picks the glass back up and sets it out of his reach. She'd made that mistake once. And Irene settles back across the small bathroom where her book is. Also out of reach.]

And I know exactly how much you don't appreciate the rehabilitation process. [A smirk.] You were quite thorough on enumerating count. And creative. As well as casting aspersions on my parentage. And my profession.

[ One eye slides half-open to observe with vague disappointment as the glass is relocated before he allows it to close again, drawing a slow breath in through his nose. ]

Both.

[ Everything's a bit of a blur, frankly... especially whatever verbal abuse he's rained down on her, which earns a raise of the eyebrows. There's a thoughtful silence before he responds. ]

I'm sure you had it coming.

[ Finally he shifts forward again, bringing up his wrists to give them a once-over with an air of exhaustion about him. His throat is raw, his lips are parched, and his head is pounding to the point of it being difficult to think but at least he's somewhat in his right mind, at the moment. The anxiety and misery wait in the wings of his mind, a constant presence that plucks at the edges of his thoughts and waits for the chance to strike. He tries his best not to think about it. Has this happened before, this violence and misery after a long binge? It must have. It all seems rather familiar, except for the chains and the woman sitting across from him.

The woman.

The Woman.

His eyes snap up when he realizes he's said that aloud, looking startled and confused. For a moment there's something bordering on recognition in his gaze as he grasps for a memory that's just out of reach, his body going tense. Almost, almost- But no, nothing beyond that name. That title. a noise of frustration escapes him and he slams the side of his fist against the tub. ]

Six days on the latter. I suspect you've been in the city a few weeks before that, though not much longer. The idiots at the precinct would have been on much more familiar terms with you otherwise.

[She is unaware of exactly how much he does and does not remember, though the surprise on his face is a helpful clue.] The Woman is dead, Mr. Holmes. Not that I suppose you remember.

[ Six days? He looks at her incredulously, shaking out his hand somewhat from the painful strike against porcelain. Here for weeks, as well... Yes, that sounds right. Does it? Probably. Things are still in pieces, the battle to put them together only just begun. It would help if he could go home to London but he can't; he doesn't know why yet, just that he can't.

His fingers work through the wet gnarls of his hair as he draws his knees close to his chest, wet and confused and miserable and desperate. God, if she would just give him something he'd feel so much better. ]

...That's you, then. Dead like I am. You from before.

[She'd be sympathetic, perhaps, if she hadn't been watching over him for six days, if she were the type of person capable of sympathy. As things stand, as she is, she simply watches him curl up into himself. As if by doing so he can unlock all the memories behind the walls he doesn't yet have the key to.

She nods.]

'The dominatrix who brought a nation to its knees.' I quite liked that one. Never could have used it, but I liked it.

[A pause, and an arch look, one she is almost certain will make him bristle.] Consider that a reward for staying lucid.

[And incentive to stay that way.]

[ Dominatrix. He's never been so utterly unsurprised to hear something in his life -- at least, so far as he can remember. The title suits her far better than anything he's come to know about her so far and he feels a little more comfortable, knowing that. It's not his memory, but he has confidence in it.

It certainly explains the riding crop.

That pointed look she offers him does clearly irk judging by the look he gives her over his knees, shoulders shifting against the tiles behind him as he tries to get at least somewhat comfortable, though to no avail. Everything's starting to hurt and it's a struggle not to show it. ]

Last I checked I didn't need your approval nor the rewards that come with it, Miss Adler-

[ And then another pause as he blinks at her, the woman he knows as Angelica Norton. But no, that's not her name. He knew that wasn't her name, but now- ]

...Irene Adler.

[A flicker of surprise crosses her face at the name. She'd been careful not to tell him that. Careful to play the fiction of Angelica Norton, entertainment consultant to the far-too-wealthy denizens of the Eastern Seaboard, even if the little things gave her away as being something other than that which she appeared.

So he remembered. She wonders idly what it was that triggered the memory.]

Dead. Beheaded by a terrorist cell in Karachi three months after--

[She trails off. That failure, her exposure, that still rankles, even knowing he doesn't remember.] Well, a long time ago.

[ Oh, but this is exciting. This is progress. Already he appears more upbeat, leaning forward with interest even as his body shakes and trembles with the strain of sleeplessness and stress. ]

Yes, in Karachi, you'd angered a group of insurgents and- [ Yes, yes, it's unfolding a bit, just enough- ] -and you sent a text! Just before you were to be killed! All of the records were falsified along with your autopsy so there was not a chance you would have been sussed out after that!

[ He doesn't know why he'd stopped it or why he was involved, and right now he doesn't care; this just proves he was right. He's eagerly tugging at his restraints, pulling as far forward as they'll allow. ]

It's worked, can't you see? A bit more and I can bring it all back! Take these chains off and I can remember it all again, in less than a week, I'm certain! Take them off!

'Angered' sounds terribly unimpressive given the consequence. [Her brow furrows as she works through his excitement, to understand exactly what he was talking about.

Comprehension is immediately followed by disbelief followed by anger.]

You risked my exposure for an experiment in remembering?

[ While it is not a look Irene will be entirely familiar with, those who have handled one Sherlock Holmes before his unfortunate memory loss would know it very well: he appears genuinely confused at her outrage, as though he would have no idea why that would be a problem. ]

It's not as though I knew you were at risk for exposure seeing as I couldn't remember anything before this, hence the experiment!

[ Yes, he rather is addressing you as though you're an absolute moron, Ms. Adler, how kind of you to notice. Of course one gets the distinct feeling that even if he knew he would have done it all the same; in his mind he was in complete control of the situation, making it a calculated risk. He had it all in order and he didn't actually compromise anything, so why are you giving him that look? ]

Now let me loose so I can finish what I started!

[And the look she's giving him right back is one of pure, unadulterated you're-an-idiot. She ignores the demand and rises.]

Maybe when you're sober enough to get far away from here before you start experimenting, Mr. Holmes.

Sober? I'm clearly sober, hence the withdrawal sympt- Where are you going?

[ Wait, she's not leaving him in here, is she? Alone? His back straightens immediately as dread spikes through him with a wave of nausea. She can't leave him here by himself, not in a room so small. The walls feel crushingly close already. There's more panic in his voice than he would normally allow. ]

No, you can't-

[ But then he gets ahold of himself, struggling against the irrational fear creeping over him to press back into the wall with a choke of breath and a look that's likely an attempt at defiance that fails rather miserably given how pale and frightened he appears. Fine, let her go. He doesn't need her. He can deal with this. Hell, maybe it'll give him time to get out of these blasted chains. ]

[She does leave the formerly spacious bathroom, for long enough that it seems as if she's going to actually leave him to rot. It was surprising, how small and close the room could seem after six days.

She leaves long enough to let him stew, to takes a deep breath and steady herself again. Long enough to get a bottle of water and one of those electrolyte rich, fortified sports drinks out of the refrigerator.

The cook had left a week's worth of meals in the refrigerator, but only half of them had been touched.

But she returns, setting the sports drink down on the floor within arm's reach of him. Maybe it's the uncharacteristic, miserable fear she saw on his face, or something else, something deeper, but there's almost a gentleness to her words.

Almost.]

You're dehydrated. And you need food but I expect you'd try to use a fork to pick the lock.

[ It's all he can do not to have another episode while she's gone. Is she truly abandoning him? When will she come back? Will she come back? God, the room feels like it's choking him. Is there enough air? His logical mind says yes but that's scarcely in control now, leaving him at the mercy of his withdrawals. Somehow he'll get through this.

Please, just let him get through this.

By the time the door opens again Sherlock is pale and shaking, looking to be on the edge of another fit of absolute panic. His eyes snap up as she steps in and there's no hiding the total and all-consuming relief in his eyes as it washes over him at the sight of her. He gets himself reined in a moment later, schooling himself into a more stony expression fraught with suspicion. He's both happy to see her and desperate to get away from her at the same time.

Oh, but she's brought him something. That's won her some favor. He follows the bottle to the floor with his eyes as he suddenly becomes very aware of just how parched he is. There's no complaint from him now as he takes the bottle with trembling hands and tries his best to open it. He's too weak; the lid won't budge. ]

Can't say I've tried it with a fork before. That would be a nice change of pace.

[ It comes out sounding a lot weaker than he'd hoped for. Hhe just can't get it open. His hand starts to scrabble at it as desperation sets in. ]

[She watches him struggle with the bottle top for a moment, something like concern in her expression at how his hands tremble.

But she forces that expression off her face before she kneels, closing her hand over his and taking the bottle away just long enough to open it.]

I have. Miserable attempt.

[ All of his focus is on the bottle when she moves, enough so that he doesn't realize how close she is until her hand lays over his own and earns a small start before he simply stares at her with what appears to be confusion. The kindness is clearly unexpected and he feels as though he should balk at it... but he's just too thirsty to properly keep up a front. Once the cap is removed he lifts it to his lips and takes several eager swallows so quickly he nearly chokes, coughing heavily. A considering look is given to the bottle before he sets it down beside him with shaking hands while shifting to lean his forehead into the edge of the tub. ]

Here I'd thought you the type capable of worming out of anything.

[ The exhaustion rolls over him all at once, evident in the slump of his shoulders and the tremors in his breath. When was the last time he slept? It suddenly feels like an eternity ago. He scarcely remembers what it feels like. ]

[Irene is not good at concern. Terrible at it, even. It is part of what made her a spectacular dominatrix, one of the things that still makes her who she is. Cold, cunning, manipulative.

But she has her moments of sentiment, of weakness. And watching him nearly choke stirs some of that concern, behind exasperation. She reaches up to rest a cool hand against his cheek, checking temperature. Her voice is still calm, though it has lost some of its sharp edge.]

I didn't say I never got out of them. Just ended up using something other than a fork.

[ There's no denying how good the cool of her hand feels against his face, particularly in this state. He leans into the press of her skin with a shuddering exhale, his eyes now struggling to stay open as both mind and body find themselves in a sudden struggle to maintain consciousness. Where are they again? Bathroom? Where? It's a mess in here. An experiment gone south again? No matter. Mrs. Hudson will see to cleaning it up. The flat will be spit-spot again as much as it ever can be and he'll have just enough time to put the water on and set the tray before the spider lets himself right in- ]

Yes, well... You are rather good...

[ What were they talking about? Ugh, it doesn't matter. He curls in on himself slightly, chains dragging across the floor as he moves his hands to cradle his battered wrists against his lap. He could just rest for a little bit, right? Only a few minutes. Already his head begins to loll. ]

[She almost breathes a sigh of relief when he begins slipping into sleep, and Irene tries to nudge him into a more stable position despite the fact that he's got almost a foot on her. She tries, at least.

Only when she is convinced he won't spring awake immediately does she let the mask fall, and a hint of genuine worry appears in her expression. Her fingers check his pulse, and she counts time. A few hours. She'll let him sleep for a few hours before she tries to get more liquid into him.

And maybe get those chains off, if he'll actually be sane about things.

Because even she's getting tired of watching him like this.]

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the captivity meme

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BACK ON THE RP HORSE

YAY!

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