Sherlock stood by the wall, arms stretched out sideways, wrists bound to heavy chains dangling from the ceiling. He didn't know how long he'd been standing there like that, but given that he wasn't in any pain anymore, the entire night must have passed.

Sherlock stood by the wall, arms stretched out sideways, wrists bound to heavy chains dangling from the ceiling. He didn't know how long he'd been standing there like that, but given that he wasn't in any pain anymore, the entire night must have passed.

He dreaded the moment he would have to lower them, assuming he didn't transform into a rigid, immobile Ken doll by tomorrow.

The massive door opened, unveiling a ponderous man. What was his... oh, yeah... Rodger, as Sherlock remembered him, might not have been one of the smartest, but whatever wasn't in his head had jammed in his muscles, judging by the muscles bulging beneath his t-shirt. Sherlock almost dared say that one of this hulk's arms was nearly as wide as his own thigh.

"I brought you medicine to help you digest," the hulk said as he strode inside.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disgust. "My digestion is fine, thanks..."

He wouldn't take a drug for which he didn't know what it was intended. Nevertheless, the idea of eating whatever the "gorilla" held in his hand made his stomach churn.

Rodger grinned, revealing his yellow, crooked teeth. "Exactly... I won't tell you more because you wouldn't accept it otherwise..."

"Don't worry, I won't accept it anyway..." the detective retorted sarcastically.

Suddenly, a large hand grabbed his hair and jerked his head back. "Your confidence and absolute lack of self-preservation will never cease to amaze me. You'll swallow that damned pill whether you want to or not!" Rodger grunted rudely, pressing the tablet into Sherlock's bloodless, chapped lips.

Sherlock was determined not to give up without a fight. Instead of the proffered medicine, he squeezed Rodger's fat finger between his teeth with such force that he bit through the tough skin.

"If you had been treating your wife this gently, then I'm not surprised she ran away from you..." Sherlock remarked, spitting out the saliva gathered in his oral cavity to eliminate the aftertaste of sweat and blood.

His chances of getting away with it were all but nonexistent; provocation usually only escalated the whole situation, but Sherlock couldn't help himself. He let them treat him like dirt.

"You bastard!"

Something hit him hard in the stomach; Rodger's enormous knee.

Sherlock yelped, his face turning white as chalk. He felt as if his insides were on fire as pain exploded in his gut, blasting through every nerve ending in his body.

Sherlock's vision dimmed, and hot tears sprang to his eyes. He thought he heard the man's laughter. Still, he wasn't entirely certain—the painful throbbing in his lower abdomen had drowned out all other sensations. Paralyzed by a kick to the groin, the detective could do nothing but cry quietly and swallow the oval, a bitter pill that had wedged in his mouth.

"You'll take it voluntarily next time, won't you?"

»»──────　★　──────««

The detective curled up in a ball on a dirty, thin blanket, trying not to think about how sick he was. His belly felt heavy and tight from all the sugar, salt, and ointment they had forced him to devour, but the worst pain had subsided.

Without windows, Sherlock couldn't determine what time it was, but he guessed it could be early morning. He hadn't closed his eyes all night. As if it had been possible with such a full stomach...

The temptation to throw up resurfaced every now and then, and Sherlock would have given in if he hadn't had to lie in his own vomit afterwards, as he had just a month before. Only the mere thought of that night made his gut churn.

The heavy cell door opened, and the detective's heart sank on the stone floor. Oh no, another breakfast was waiting for him. There will be a table set with an abominably large portion of eggs and bacon, two pieces (or more like two-thirds) of cake, a butter croissant with peanut butter, and a creamy cocktail!

And Magnussen expected him to eat it all!

Sherlock groaned, but there was nothing he could do. He had no chance of escaping them, not when being supervised like a cornered prey. And even if, by some miracle, he had managed to flee, he wouldn't have run far.

Raising his head in resignation, he -

For a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

That was simply not possible! How? HOW?

He was standing in the doorframe. Although Sherlock could only see a dark silhouette, he recognised him immediately.

Rather small in stature but well built, with broad shoulders and muscular thighs. He was dressed up in casual jeans and his favourite beige sweater, which Sherlock seemed to criticise but actually liked. His sandy blonde hair glowed like a golden halo in the hallway light.

He looked like an angel.

And it definitely seemed that way to Sherlock.

"John..." he breathed out in surprise and an undescribable amount of relief.

John Watson stepped in and looked around the darkened room, running his hand along the damp wall.

"Sherlock? Is that you?"

Obviously, Sherlock wanted to comment, but he was so overcome with emotion that he couldn't utter a single sound. He felt like he was about to burst with delight at any moment.

John's fingers must have finally found the switch because the room lit up, and Sherlock had to squint at the sudden onslaught of light.

"I've come to save—" the doctor halted in surprise as he stared at him for the first time. He remained silent for a long moment, taken aback, apparently trying to process what he had just seen. "... you," he said with a hollow undertone, blinking a few times and widening his eyes.

"W-what happened to you?"

Sherlock shook his head, and he'd wave it off if it weren't for his handcuffed hands.

"It's nothing, just today's punishment. I dodged the belt at the wrong time, and the metal buckle hit me in the face, " he explained nonchalantly as if everything was perfectly fine.

His answer was met with an unreadable face, and Sherlock froze.

Oh, John didn't mean the gash on his forehead, then.

"Oh, well, that's... Ummm... the result of the interrogation here, I'd say... It's a way to get information out of me and also some sort of safeguard that I won't be able to escape," he said, ducking John's glare, feeling... exposed. Vulnerable. Something in those dark blue eyes made him feel uncomfortable as if he should cower in shame and apologise for the way he was.

"But I didn't tell him anything. All the names of Moriarty's criminal network are safely stored in my Mind Palace..." he added quickly. "John, you don't even know how good it feels to see you again. Let's get out of this place; let's go home. And then, we can tear Moriarty's network apart and destroy his impact on society. Just the two of us against the rest of the world. How does that sound to you?" he suggested, smiling for the first time in months. God, how he was looking forward to being himself again, useful and wanted, with John by his side...

He shrugged and scowled at his tummy, which was spilling over the waistline of his trousers like a vanilla pudding. "I admit those few pounds will slow me down a little, but then again, they might also serve as a nice disguise. I'm not going to draw that much attention in my coat and..."

The weird expression on John's face, however, remained, and Sherlock's confidence wavered once again. John's following statements confirmed his concerns that something was terribly wrong.

"Not going to draw attention? Have you seen yourself in a mirror?" he asked, and Sherlock nearly cringed at the sudden malice in John's voice.

"John?"

But John went on with a mocking irony Sherlock had never heard from him. "Yeah, sure... A bloke as large as a house surely won't catch the eye..."

"Alright, as you wish, no mission then..." Sherlock said, taking back his previous words. "I'll give Mycroft the names of Moriarty's criminal network, and he'll take care of it. Then I can start working on my physical condition, and with your help, I could drop it fairly quickly, and then-"

"Don't you get it?" John raised his voice. "I want nothing to do with you! As if it wasn't enough that people assume we were lovers... Do you think I want them to think that you're the only one the poor crippled Watson can get off with?"

Sherlock gasped, his heart aching as if a sharp knife had sliced it in half.

He couldn't believe words could be so harsh. John's words, of all people. Did John mind how he looked now? So much so that he would writhe in shame if anyone saw them together, even if they were only a metre apart?

He would have never taken John for someone who would judge people because of their appearance.

Maybe he was just angry and wanted to retaliate against his "suicide fraud"?

"John, you have every right to be mad at me. I'm sorry. Sincerely. What I've done to you cannot be excused. Perhaps this is some punishment for how much I've hurt you. It has never been my intention to cause you any pain. Trust me. Everything I've done was for—John? Where are you going?" Sherlock cried out as John retreated to the illuminated corridor, leaving Sherlock in the dark.

John can't just walk away!

"Er... he can. You're the one who can't leave," said a malicious voice in his head.

Was John so repulsed by him he couldn't even stand being in his presence? Or so obnoxious? What had he done that was so terrible? After all, he had apologised. He hadn't insulted John, not even once. He had even committed to losing weight.

What else was he supposed to do to make John stay?

"John, wait! Don't leave, please! I'll get out of your way. I won't set a foot out of the flat. I'll even move out of Baker Street if that's what you wish. You will never see me again! I'll do anything you want. Just please, don't leave me here!"

Sherlock gave up all his attempts to conceal his despair and surrendered to the stinging tears. Soon, transparent, salty beads were rolling down his cheeks, gradually dripping to the ground, one by one.

»»──────　★　──────««

"John, please!"

The detective woke up with a wet face that smelt like sweat and salt.

He was lying on his side so as not to crush his hands, which they had bound behind his back.

The hard floor was no longer pressing into his hips the way it had been in the first two weeks of his captivity, and Sherlock realised, to his great dismay, that Magnussen's methods were taking their toll.

He was far from the image of himself in his dream today, but he was heading that way.

And if someone doesn't come for him soon or if he doesn't come up with an escape plan, he will reach it eventually.

Pounds clung to him like resin to a finger. After fattening sessions, the detective's formerly concave stomach would soften, sag, and poke out from beneath his top, no longer returning to its regular flat form.

His garments appeared to be shrinking; the seat of his trousers hugged his expanding hips tighter and tighter, and his shirt's buttons were straining and threatening to snap, not to mention the poor, faithful seams.

Unused muscles became weak and sore.

He also kept getting hungry more often. What had seemed unimaginable to him at first—that he might experience pangs of hunger within hours of the meals they served him about seven times a day—was becoming a reality. Those horrible tiny pills that Sherlock was forced to take every day were the primary cause of that.

But now he was most troubled by thirst. Unsparing, terrible thirst.

His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth as if his salivary glands were secreting liquid glue instead of saliva.

Then, as if on cue, the door swung open, revealing a ripped guy with tattooed, muscular arms and pronounced ginger sideburns. He approached Sherlock, knelt in front of him, and sneered.

"You must be sooo thirsty after going all day without drinking... Tell me, aren't you drooling? Just look at that bottle. The water looks good, doesn't it? Clean, cold, refreshing..." the guy muttered with a sly grimace, waving the drink in Sherlock's face.

"Here's how it works: for every name in Moriarty's criminal network, you can have a sip. That's a good deal, innit?"

Sherlock had to admit that the sight of the dewy bottle was indeed making his mouth water. If only he could take a gulp! Even a modest sip would be enough!

Every swallow felt as though Sherlock was swallowing a jumble of nails and bolts. He wondered if he'd soon be able to spit flames; if so, he wouldn't be surprised.

"It's just a transport, transport, transport!" he kept repeating in his head as he tried to resist the urge to give them a couple of names to quench his thirst.

"You won't break me this easily," Sherlock rasped, and it was only thanks to his rock-solid will that he hadn't lunged forward and knocked the drink out of the man's hands.

The real challenge happened when the hulk shrugged and turned the bottle upside down with a sly smirk.

"As you wish... No answers, no water!"

Sherlock maintained a controlled facade as he observed the increasing puddle on the stone floor. Still, inside, he was shivering with wrath and persistent frustration. If only he could crawl beneath the stream of water and flip over on his back to capture a few droplets to wet his mouth. To dilute the sticky saliva. To wash away the lingering flavour of heavy, overly salty, and spicy meals from his tongue.

"Your mistake... Think twice the next time... And don't expect to get a drink in the morning! Perhaps around lunch, but more likely in the evening..."

The giant chuckled, turned on his heel, and marched out of the prison, leaving Sherlock with his burning thirst and the improbable possibility of relieving it.

Sherlock's false mask shattered, and he bowed his head, his face contorting in unconcealed despair. A reflection was watching him from the puddle of water, and Sherlock almost recoiled from the half-mad expression in his bloodshot, puffy eyes.

What was he going to do? He'll lose his mind by lunch, let alone by dinner!

The human body can last two to three days without water. Nevertheless, even relatively mild dehydration causes extreme fatigue, malaise, and a rapid heart rate. A more severe water deficit is characterised by high fevers, delirium, loss of consciousness, and, in the worst cases, death.

But that wasn't their intention; they only wanted to psych him out. To make him ask. Plead. Beg.

No way! He'll rather drink it off the floor than sink so low as to beg!

With that decision, he lowered his head and began sipping at the spilt liquid before it spread across the floor or dried up.