Someone wrote in [personal profile] sherlockbbc_fic 2014-06-12 10:29 am (UTC)

The Lockless Door (1a/?)

Note: Title is from a poem by Robert Frost. I was debating on calling it "Hell is an Open Door" (you know, like the Frozen song) - but then I decided that would be too weird.

* * *

The door is open. He could – he should (no, no. he shouldn’t shouldn’t, couldn’t, won’t) walk through it. It would defeat the purpose. The moment he steps beyond that door…others take his place.

Names. He needs names. The names are vital. Once he loses the names, he loses everything.

There’s John. Always John. Everlasting John.

He smiles at the name. How he imagines it sounds. Nothing else comes forth.

He knows there’s more. Others he’s forgetting. The strange inkling behind his brow tells him this should bother him. Shapes and letters swirl in his mind, but there’s nothing he can latch unto beyond the inexplicable, curved, rounded feeling of John.

For now, it’s enough.

* * *

Hallow sounds of footsteps echo off the walls. Each one leaves an imprint of his brain, springing up words with no meaning.

Leather.

John Lobb.

Size nine.





He feels a firm pressure on his side long before he registers that the footsteps have stopped.

The pressure slowly increases, shifting the sixth rib (the one that’s fractured, not broken) inward.

“My, my, haven’t you become ever so dull.”

The voice is familiar, lilting, and makes him cringe like nails on a chalkboard. There’s a sharp tug to his hair and suddenly he’s looking out at the wide open space beyond.

“Your freedom’s right there, dearie. All you have to do crawl through it.”

He can see what’s beyond. It doesn’t look too inviting. All stone and stairs. But he imagines (knows). He knows how it must feel. This was never his whole existence. He knows what it’s like to be beyond the oppressing chill and stench of his own waste. He can imagine abandoning the pain and humiliation of lying stripped bare in a cell.

He closes his eyes and for a brief moment recalls it. A life beyond. He opens his mouth to taste it and the smell of tea fills his senses.

When he opens his eyes, size nine is gone and all that’s left is a few more broken bones.

* * *

The light will be his undoing.

Sometimes he thinks it will be the sirens, or the beatings…or the touches. Luckily, those haven’t happened in a while.

He barely even notices the starvation. He takes comfort in that it doesn’t affect him in the way that the others clearly think it should. Eons ago they tried to wait him out. Withhold everything. It ended with him waking up to a feeding tube attached to his stomach.

This displeased them, but he relished in the control.

The light, however…the blaring light, that is impossible to avoid, burns his retinas and his thoughts into oblivion.

He squints through the doorway to the darkness beyond. The light has never lasted this long. Or it has. Time has little meaning anymore.

He blinks. Suddenly, he is kneeling at the open doorway, mere millimeters away from freedom.

Within seconds he is huddled against the furthest corner, sobs wracking his body.

* * *

There is a sharp repetitive thwack. He feels his body twitch as each one hits but nothing else follows.

This should concern him. He knows it should. He’s losing it. He’s not even sure what “it” is, which means it’s probably already gone.

He grasps on to an image. A shape. Tall and slightly rounded (but it should be shorter… definitely shorter than his mind is picturing it).

J… J …

He repeats it over and over in his head.

Soon it becomes enough to drown out the screams.

* * *

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