((Whoever gets the kneecaps reference is a legend ;P))
"After you Mr Holmes. Please watch your step, I'm afraid it's rather dark on the stairs, but you'll find the interior much nicer than the front door I promise." It was the first time he'd heard the blonde man speak, and he wasn't fooled by the false pleasantries. That one only saw profit when he looked at Sherlock. He heeded the warning though as he descended through the trap door his captor held open, and felt his way along the damp walls for balance as he descended. His captors weren't far behind, of course they knew it was safe to let him go on ahead now, this was their domain. No doubt more of their cronies guarded the route ahead.
The gravity of his situation hit fully when a door swung open at the end of a very dimly lit corridor to reveal what looked, for all intents and purposes, like a prison. Most of the cells were full too, sickly thin men and women staring out from the bars with vacant expressions, all high off their minds to keep them mild. Sherlock knew how this sort of thing went down. He also knew that in their eyes, his future was being reflected, plain as day and terrible beyond measure.
Sherlock planted his feet firmly and refused to budge, even when his followers walked into him thanks to the dimness of the room and cursed loudly. Someone smacked the back of his head while yelling for him to move, and he backed into them with all the strength he could muster, keening pitifully under his breath in an effort not to scream. It was a last ditch effort at freedom, hopeless though it might be, and he threw all his weight into it as he tried to shoulder aside the blockade of people separating him from the door.
"Nu-uh we won't have any of that.. come on Mr Holmes you were doing so well. It's really not all that bad, keep walking." He continued to struggle weakly against the multitude of hands dragging him towards an open cell, and every inch closer brought panic descending like a cloud over his mind. His efforts increased tenfold as though to spite the drugs still coursing through his system, and he flailed, bit and kicked for all he was worth. Teeth sank into the fleshy forearm of the man who's hand was shoving his left shoulder, and suddenly chaos broke loose in the hall. Echoed shouts reverberated painfully off the stone walls, and the inmates, excited by the struggle taking place, added their own voices to the din as they cheered Sherlock on in unison.
"Go on you poor fucker kick him in the nuts!" One shouted with enthusiasm, while another yelled. "Kneecaps go for the knees!" Sherlock, spurred on by the encouragement, was like a wild animal. He viciously tore at the face of his least favourite Russian, feeling his nails rake at the sallow skin and delighted at the hiss of pain it brought forth, and the faint coppery tang in the air which told that he'd drawn blood. Just to satisfy his crowd, he really did kick one where it hurt too, and almost felt elated when said guy crumpled in agony to the floor, clutching his poor bruised crotch as he rolled around whimpering.
Sadly it was a short lived victory. He knew it couldn't last.. and he saw the fist coming at his face as though in slow motion before it landed square on the jaw, and everything went dark.
Re: Complications Part 8
"After you Mr Holmes. Please watch your step, I'm afraid it's rather dark on the stairs, but you'll find the interior much nicer than the front door I promise." It was the first time he'd heard the blonde man speak, and he wasn't fooled by the false pleasantries. That one only saw profit when he looked at Sherlock. He heeded the warning though as he descended through the trap door his captor held open, and felt his way along the damp walls for balance as he descended. His captors weren't far behind, of course they knew it was safe to let him go on ahead now, this was their domain. No doubt more of their cronies guarded the route ahead.
The gravity of his situation hit fully when a door swung open at the end of a very dimly lit corridor to reveal what looked, for all intents and purposes, like a prison. Most of the cells were full too, sickly thin men and women staring out from the bars with vacant expressions, all high off their minds to keep them mild. Sherlock knew how this sort of thing went down. He also knew that in their eyes, his future was being reflected, plain as day and terrible beyond measure.
Sherlock planted his feet firmly and refused to budge, even when his followers walked into him thanks to the dimness of the room and cursed loudly. Someone smacked the back of his head while yelling for him to move, and he backed into them with all the strength he could muster, keening pitifully under his breath in an effort not to scream. It was a last ditch effort at freedom, hopeless though it might be, and he threw all his weight into it as he tried to shoulder aside the blockade of people separating him from the door.
"Nu-uh we won't have any of that.. come on Mr Holmes you were doing so well. It's really not all that bad, keep walking." He continued to struggle weakly against the multitude of hands dragging him towards an open cell, and every inch closer brought panic descending like a cloud over his mind. His efforts increased tenfold as though to spite the drugs still coursing through his system, and he flailed, bit and kicked for all he was worth. Teeth sank into the fleshy forearm of the man who's hand was shoving his left shoulder, and suddenly chaos broke loose in the hall. Echoed shouts reverberated painfully off the stone walls, and the inmates, excited by the struggle taking place, added their own voices to the din as they cheered Sherlock on in unison.
"Go on you poor fucker kick him in the nuts!" One shouted with enthusiasm, while another yelled. "Kneecaps go for the knees!" Sherlock, spurred on by the encouragement, was like a wild animal. He viciously tore at the face of his least favourite Russian, feeling his nails rake at the sallow skin and delighted at the hiss of pain it brought forth, and the faint coppery tang in the air which told that he'd drawn blood. Just to satisfy his crowd, he really did kick one where it hurt too, and almost felt elated when said guy crumpled in agony to the floor, clutching his poor bruised crotch as he rolled around whimpering.
Sadly it was a short lived victory. He knew it couldn't last.. and he saw the fist coming at his face as though in slow motion before it landed square on the jaw, and everything went dark.