Magnussen slammed his palm down on the oak table, causing all the dishes to shake, but Sherlock didn't flinch. On the contrary, he maintained eye contact, his stare challenging the man to act.

"For the last time, Mr Holmes. Will you finally tell me what I want to know? Or do you still feel hungry?"

Sherlock let out a bitter snort. Still hungry? He has eaten as much in one morning as an average person would in a whole day; how could he possibly be hungry?

Sherlock grimaced at the meticulously scraped plates and bowls, the contents of which had slowly accumulated in his miserable stomach during the evening. Had he truly eaten everything? He remembered the first evening when such a thing sounded absolutely unthinkable to him, and he felt ashamed of himself. Sure, he hadn't asked for any of this, yet he still felt somewhat guilty.

But, no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn't afford to back down. Giving up would only appease the tyrant and reveal his weakness, not to mention the fact that his actions would bring immense harm to the world's population.

"I'm beginning to doubt your intellect when I have to repeat it a thousand times daily. You must be going senile... Or are you deaf? How often do you have to hear that I won't tell you anything before you finally get it?"

Yes, teasing a man in front of him was worse than stirring up a hornet's nest, but the two of them could play this "game," and Sherlock didn't intend to participate in it without a fight...

Magnussen leaned out and caressed Sherlock's cheekbone with the back of his hand. "A simple 'I haven't had enough' would suffice..."

Sherlock shuddered this time, and if his arms weren't firmly restrained behind the chair, he would have smacked him across the fingers. "Get that hand off me," he snarled, shifting on the chair in an attempt to shake off the unwanted and unpleasant contact.

Unfortunately, his comments had the opposite effect. A groan of pain escaped his mouth as wrinkled fingers drove their nails into his face and pinched his cheek.

"Being bossy is not something I would recommend. You don't have the right to impose conditions..."

Only then did he let go of his hand, just to grab the last plate on the wooden table.

Sherlock's stomach rebelled at the sight of the meal he had despised since his very childhood, and the mere idea of eating it made the hairs on his arms bristle. Unfortunately, all he could do was open his mouth and wait for the spoon to approach his lips.

The cold metal wedged itself between his lips, leaving behind a slimy, greasy mixture of mushrooms in his mouth.

He prayed that the previous courses had numbed his receptors enough that he wouldn't notice the oily mushroom puree Magnussen had forced upon him.

Nonetheless, his tastebuds responded almost immediately and tried to induce the gag reflex.

Sherlock's face contorted in sheer revulsion, and it was only by force of will that he suppressed the urge to spit out the mouthful of scrambled mushrooms.

He swallowed.

The mouthful immediately returned to his throat, and he couldn't keep it in his mouth anymore. A slimy piece of a mushroom slipped out of his lips, smearing his T-shirt and leaving a greasy trace on the worn, ratty fabric.

Sherlock blanched.

"Is there a problem? Don't tell me you don't like it?"

"I don't eat mushrooms," Sherlock blurted.

Interesting how a relatively innocent comment could get on the tyrant's nerves.

A pale hand gripped Sherlock's cheeks between its thumb and index finger and brutally squeezed his face.

"You'll start to! Just to be clear, Mr Holmes, I will not tolerate any backtalk! Do you think you're any threat to me? You can't defeat me; you can't even run away from me! You're no stronger than a kitten! You belong to me, and I can do whatever I want to you! So, if you don't want to tell me what we're here for, then you should shut up and be grateful that I'm in a good mood today!" the man roared through clenched teeth until the saliva flew out of his mouth.

Sherlock could only nod as he realised he couldn't avoid today's final course.

"I see we understand each other... But enough of that; now eat up, my naughty detective! It's not like you'd have a choice... That is unless you want to suffocate!"

Another spoonful wedged itself into his mouth. And then another and another...

And Sherlock ate as he was told. Being fed like a small kid made his skin crawl in embarrassment, but he couldn't afford to cause another conflict. He'd already gotten two warnings today, and he wasn't about to get a third.

His face was gradually changing colour, his brow gleaming with beads of sweat. The thick mixture clung to the detective's upper palate and teeth, effectively supporting his urge to vomit.

He swallowed whole chunks of mushrooms with aversion, which seemed to gather in his oesophagus and creep back up his throat.

Suffocated by mushrooms... He didn't want to die in such a way.

In the end, he stopped counting the mouthfuls he had consumed and only prayed that it would all be over.

And after an endless ten minutes, it was over, thank God!

They untied his limbs, implying that he might now return to his cell.

Sherlock stretched and rubbed his irritated, rope-chafed wrists; his back was already sore from sitting at the table all night. He brushed away a solitary piece of mushroom sitting on his T-shirt before rising to his feet. Unsuccessfully. His full belly, stuffed with heavy, badly digestible food, didn't allow him to bend his torso muscles. He slumped back into his chair, groaning.

A chorus of sneers boomed around him, and Sherlock felt himself blush. How could he possibly escape if he couldn't even get out of the chair?

He kneaded a roll of fat poking out from beneath his t-shirt around his lower belly. He pressed his palms against the hot, taut skin, hoping to soothe his exhausted stomach. He could feel it working under his palms as it fought to digest today's tremendous calorie intake.

Nature has endowed Sherlock with a quick and efficient metabolism. He could eat whatever and whenever he wanted and never gain a pound, much to Mycroft's grumpiness and jealousy.

It was only that even the fastest metabolism in the world couldn't burn the quantities they were feeding him. His body was unable to handle the excess energy and stored it for later use, successfully cushioning his waist, thighs, and buttocks with a thickening layer of fat.

But when it comes to Sherlock Holmes, he never gives up! He was determined to finish his task no matter what; that monster would never win!

Sherlock managed to climb out of the chair for the second time, although he should have stayed seated for a little longer. And he figured it out right away...

His eyes welled up with tears, and before he could compose himself, he was leaning forward, choking loudly, and regurgitating everything he had so patiently consumed. Sherlock braced his palms on his thighs, his fists clenching the fabric of his pants. Gasping for air, he stayed in this position for a while to make sure he had gotten rid of everything his stomach didn't approve of.

Just then, an old hand grabbed his hair, yanked his head up, and hauled him back to an upright position.

Sherlock was met with pale, ominously sparkling eyes. He swallowed, and the last bit of colour drained from his cheeks.

"Shall we start again?"

»»──────　★　──────««

After Sherlock wolfed down the second portion of mushrooms, a young, tall brunet appeared and escorted him back to the dungeon. However, once they arrived in this hostile environment, he did not start tying him up as was the local custom.

"You can take a shower today... You know the rules: cold water, no soap or towel, with a guard... Take it or leave it," he said instead.

Sherlock, who didn't need any further convincing, nodded and followed him. He needed to get rid of all the blood, stains, and puke remnants.

They walked inside a little bathroom with a broken porcelain sink, a toilet (that couldn't be locked, of course...), and a shower. The shower head was hung on the wall behind the toilet cubicle, so Sherlock could have some privacy.

Goosebumps sprouted on Sherlock's arms every time he stepped into this inhospitable, sterile room because he linked it with the icy, rusty water he was allowed to shower with once a week. On the other hand, it was nice to be alone for a while and know that no one was watching him, unless you included the guard sitting at the door and some of the spiders that had descended from the cobwebs in the ceiling. Otherwise, cameras were carefully placed throughout the property to keep an eye on him.

The man—Jones, Sherlock remembered—sat on a chair by the door, crossed his legs casually, and pulled out his phone.

Sherlock made his way to the shower, stripped down, and stepped under the metal showerhead. He turned the tap and gritted his teeth, preparing himself for the cold shower. The first chilly drops struck his skin, and he swallowed a hiss.

The first half minute was always the most challenging, and it took every ounce of control Sherlock possessed not to bolt out of the shower.

But then he realised that this was his only chance to wash this week, and the next one would come after seven long days, assuming Magnussen was in a "good" mood.

And given that two days was enough for Sherlock to look like he hadn't had a shower in at least a month, with all that blood, sweat, and dirt gathering on him as a result of their disrespectful treatment, he instantly changed his mind.

After the initial shock, he eventually became accustomed to the low temperature. Quickly, yet effectively, he began to scrub all the filth that had gathered on him throughout the week so he could get out as soon as possible.

Aside from the pain, he had other reasons not to remain in the shower any longer than was absolutely necessary.

Exaggerated portions, aided by pills that slowed his metabolism and accelerated weight gain, were starting to show on his physique. It was startling to take off his clothing, gaze down at himself, and realise he looked different than a week before. That he was bigger. Softer. Weaker... Just as Magnussen had intended.

Well, it was time to disrupt his plans a little...

"He's not such a great boss... He'll sacrifice you in the end, all of you... But you know that, don't you?" Sherlock spoke up into the splashing sounds of the water. However, he was just pretending to be casual about it; he was genuinely curious about the reaction his comment would elicit.

"You don't know what you're talking about, Holmes! Keep your mouth shut instead, okay?"

"I don't think you know..." Sherlock carried on as though Jones had said nothing. "But allow me to explain. Do you think you'll get anything in return for this? Or that you're doing something meaningful? No, you're just doing pathetic menial work because Magnussen doesn't want to get his hands dirty. And because he's too old for it," he added.

Sherlock was surprised by the confidence and strength of his voice, given that he was trembling like a leaf from both the cold and the adrenaline surge. Well, who wouldn't be if they were attempting to persuade their tyrant's sidekick? He'd be a fool not to feel an ounce of fear.

He was well aware that he was taking an enormous risk. Jones might be carrying a bug or other surveillance device, carefully concealed even from Sherlock's observant eyes. He didn't have many options, though, so he had to hope and trust his intuition.

"And if you think he'll take you all under his wing, you're also mistaken. He'll only use your services, and once you're no longer useful to him, he will sacrifice you to save his own neck."

Sherlock paused, allowing his words to sink in completely. Meanwhile, he ran his hands over his body in an attempt to scrape off all the filth that had settled on him during the rough week. Grey and crimson trickles ran down his legs, but their hues faded gradually until the water flowed almost pure when he disregarded the rust of the pipes.

"You'll get at least four years in prison for kidnapping, you know. And when you combine blackmail, physical means of coercion, and bodily harm, you won't see freedom for a long time..." Sherlock added.

Jones was married and a father of two, so it might be worth a try. His lips curled into a melancholy smile. If John were here, he'd be wondering how Sherlock knew. And Sherlock would smirk and remark that John sees but doesn't observe. Had he been paying closer attention, he would have spotted a tiny girl and a slightly older boy on Jones' lock screen of his phone, which he had taken out of his pocket a moment ago.

Jones remained silent, leaving Sherlock wondering if he was on the right track or asking for trouble. It didn't matter; he eventually decided. After all, he couldn't take his words back...

The water flow ceased, signalling that Sherlock's shower time had come to an end. The last puddle spilt into the sewer, and Sherlock glanced about for his old abandoned clothing.

Yes, taking a shower and then putting on those filthy clothes again was counterproductive, but whatever. If anything, this stay has taught him how to cherish even the most minor aspects of life he used to take for granted.

Even such a brief cleanse worked miracles, awakening Sherlock from the lethargy he had fallen into after a rich dinner and washing away all the sweat and nausea.

Sherlock put on the grey t-shirt and shuddered with cold as the cotton fabric absorbed droplets of water running down his skin and clung to his torso.

On the other hand, getting into his trousers was a different story. Not only could he hardly get them on, let alone fasten them, but the denim fabric refused to go up his damp legs, creasing and collecting on his calf or knee. Sherlock grunted and tugged at the belt loops. And finally, after some sniffling, puffing, and a few unspoken curses, the trousers fit the way they were supposed to, more or less...

A grumpy "Shake a leg, Holmes!" came from the door, and Sherlock did as he was instructed. He strode around the corner, his head held high, and made his way to the guard, who was waiting for him with handcuffs.

"Think about it... You can go and whine to your master, but believe me, one day, you'll look back and wonder, 'Why didn't I listen to him back then?'

Jones didn't respond. He just trapped Sherlock's wrists with the steel bands, this time facing forward rather than behind his back.

"I could sleep better tonight," Sherlock thought as they made their way to the old, familiar cell.

He couldn't have been further from the truth...

A sharp prick woke him up in the middle of the night.

He decided to ignore it and tried to fall asleep again, hoping to sleep it off. For a moment, it seemed promising; Sherlock was slowly drifting off when—

Suddenly, he felt as if he had been kicked in the solar plexus. He curled into a ball, gasping sharply. What the hell...

Oh, of course...

An intense stomach ache begins below the sternum. Pain gripping his back and shoulder blades, shooting up to his shoulder. Nausea. Sour taste in his mouth.

A textbook case of a gallbladder attack.

Bloody, gross, heavy mushrooms!

Tears welled up in his eyes and streamed down his cheeks. Sherlock let out a quiet sigh as he prepared himself to roll onto his back.

"I wouldn't do that, Sherlock... Stay as you are. You'll feel better in a forward bend," John countered. His Mind Palace John Watson, of course.

Sherlock lay back on his side, and a pained moan escaped his lips. "What do you suggest then?" he thought, shutting his eyelids. Another dose of salty liquid gushed from his tear ducts.

John—or rather, his imagination of him—sat down next to him. "I know it's easy for me to say, but try to stay calm. Stress only makes it worse. Warm your palms by rubbing them together, and press them against your stomach. The heat should calm the spasms and release the accumulated bile. That's all I can advise now." John said sadly.

Sherlock did as his mind told him. Closing his eyes, he imagined John taking his head in his hands, resting it gently in his lap, and toying with his greasy, unkempt curls.

"I've got you, Sherlock... It will be okay... I promise..."

Sherlock desperately wanted to believe what John was whispering in his ear. He was getting sentimental, but he couldn't care less.

After all, he had a long night ahead of him, and if this was to help him rest, didn't he deserve this guilty pleasure?

»»──────　★　──────««

In the morning, they found him curled up in a ball, utterly exhausted. He hadn't shut his eyes all night because he spent it with his head resting on his best friend John Watson's lap in his Mind Palace, which somewhat alleviated his suffering, but spending the whole night awake and engaging in such demanding mental activity still left him thoroughly drained. Fortunately, the pain had subsided, leaving only the unpleasant feeling that another gallbladder attack could easily strike him again if they didn't stop loading him up with all those heavy, greasy foods. Which they apparently had no intention of stopping.

"Get up!" barked one of the two brutes who had come for him today. Sherlock complied; he felt it was more dignified to stand up on his own than to be dragged to his feet by them. The sound of the lock on the handcuffs being released suggested that they had removed the steel bracelets, only to bind his wrists behind his back again.

Then both men grabbed him by the elbows and roughly began to drag him up the stairs. Instead of heading to the dining room, where their path usually led, they led him down the corridor, where they opened the third door on the left and shoved him inside.

Sherlock, who had been gaining not only weight but also clumsiness under Magnussen's watchful eye, stumbled and barely managed to avoid falling to the ground. At least they left his hands free.

It was an entirely empty room, which in size and austerity resembled a padded cell, except that there was no padding here. Instead, each wall was made up of one giant mirror.

It occurred to him that they might want to crush him with the confined space, leaving him alone here with his thoughts and vain hopes of escaping. Or perhaps by making him look at himself in the mirror. Well, this method so far belonged to the more merciful ones... He began to pace around the room, grateful that he could finally move a little. He missed movement terribly! He, as an almost hyperactive and perpetually restless person, literally suffered from being forced to linger here and do nothing, except for reluctantly obeying orders and constantly stuffing himself. And it showed. He had barely taken a few steps, and he already began to pant and feel the muscles in his legs pulling. Each step was sluggish and echoed off the glass, and Sherlock had no doubt that even here he was being closely watched as if under a microscope. Surely, this room also boasted a camera system that recorded him and transmitted him to Magnussen's computer screen like a laboratory rat.

He frowned. This analogy reminded him of the case with HOUND. Was this how John felt in that lab back then? He felt ashamed of his past behaviour. If Magnussen found it despicable and disgusting, how must John have felt when he realized that he was being used like this by a man he considered a friend?

He reached one of the mirrors, and what he saw in it startled him for a moment, causing his mouth to twist in disagreement with himself. From the opposite side, a person approached him, whom he barely recognized. Disheveled, with giant circles under tired eyes protruding from the chalky pale face like purple monocles. Limp, greasy hair curled around his cheeks, which used to be sharply cut, almost sunken. Now they were round, and the same fate was beginning to befall his jaw, which no longer looked chiselled. Instead, it began to disappear into an indefinite lump of skin that would soon grow into a double chin.

The clothing he wore looked as though a herd of buffaloes had trampled through a muddy riverbed. It was beginning to be too short to cover what was outlined beneath it. Horizontal folds on the stretched fabric of the worn-out shirt revealed how much its wearer was stuffed into it. It clung to his body so tightly that it left no room for the observer's imagination about what lay beneath; every hollow, every bulge was outlined on it...

His trousers sat low on his hips, not only to avoid pinching at the waist but primarily to be able to fasten them at all. Despite this, they uncomfortably pressed against him, and Sherlock was aware of every spot where they hugged him so tightly that he could almost hear the seams groaning.

Surprisingly, they still left him his shoes, but they brought him no comfort whatsoever. Although his feet weren't cold from the floor, they swelled like two balloons from all the salt and unhealthy food, and with each step, he felt them pulsating and unable to bend his toes.

No, he couldn't let himself be thrown off...

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something flashing from the side. He turned and looked at the wall, made entirely of mirrors. For a while, nothing happened, and then again...

With forced calmness, he waited to see what would happen next. Another flash, and then the entire wall lit up with such intensity that he flinched and closed his eyes. Even behind closed lids, the onslaught of light still burned him.

This is the story of Detective Roly-Poly...

Sherlock's eyes widened, and in that instant, he realized that it wasn't the light that had almost blinded him just now. It was a screen. A huge screen, stretching from corner to corner, as big as a movie screen in a cinema. And there...

His stomach lurched.

Sherlock Holmes used to be the best and smartest detective in all of England. And also the most conceited. He always thought he was perfect, that others couldn't hold a candle to him...

But that was about to change soon...

And here he is...

The screen captured a scene that sent shivers down his spine. He saw himself, with a black band over his eyes, facing Magnussen on that first day when he was summoned to him.

That day, when Sherlock's cruel, fattening torture began.

It pierced his heart to see himself, and he saw the Sherlock he knew. Himself, with his cheekbones, elongated chin, and slender, agile body, exuding confidence and strength. At that moment, he still didn't fully realize what awaited him here and how much his life would be turned upside down.

Cut.

Another clip.

Still from that day, but now Sherlock was sitting at the table, and Magnussen was stuffing his mouth with greasy fries. The expression of absolute disgust and horror staring back at him from his own eyes on the screen told him that by then, he already knew very well what Magnussen had in store for him.

And from this shot, the true hell began.

Instead of hearty soups, greasy main courses, or towers of sweet desserts, today he was fed a series of edited clips capturing the worst moments of Sherlock's life, and in the most humiliating way possible. Obviously, the cameras were positioned to capture Sherlock in the worst light and from the least flattering angle.

In the subsequent shots, the first signs of Magnussen's plan becoming reality are visible. After just a week, it's evident that those extravagant feasts, supplemented by some metabolism-slowing pills, are starting to work. After another seven days, his pale face doesn't look as defined, and his shirt gradually struggles more and more to contain the growing belly underneath.

Well, well... In the end, he's not as immune as he thought he would be...

Further flashes document how Sherlock's graceful movements become more uncertain and clumsy as he tries to get used to his increasing bulk. Even such banalities as getting up from a chair prove challenging, usually requiring a second or even third attempt to extricate himself from it. Stairs are even worse, with each step reminding him of the burden his knees must bear, how his entire body bounces and trembles like a jelly cake.

There are even shots from the dungeon, where Sherlock futilely tries to adjust his clothes that are miserably small, choking him and reminding him that his days of fitness and once well-defined muscles are definitively over.

Sweat beads appeared on Sherlock's forehead and on the back of his neck. Apart from the sound from the video and Magnussen's perverted comments, Sherlock's laboured breath filled the space. He felt stomach acids rushing into his throat and saliva flooding his mouth, a harbinger of imminent vomiting. He tore his gaze away from the illuminated screen and looked aside. But it was to no avail; another screen lit up on the adjacent wall, offering him more, no less humiliating scenes.

No, no, no... I want you to see and hear every second...

Goosebumps rose on Sherlock's arms. He was trapped. Wherever he turned, he would see it. That disgusting recording would stare back at him from every angle. He could close his eyes, but that would go against his self-preservation instinct—he didn't want to risk missing any potential danger.

And so Sherlock could only helplessly watch as his body on the screen rounded and slackened from shot to shot.

In the next scene, Magnussen hands him a pile of new clothes, on the condition that he can change out of the ones that no longer conceal much, if he changes here and now.

Sherlock felt like he was frying in his own body. Like he was bathing in his own sweat. But he had to keep watching, watching as he peeled off his old trousers, which had long since stopped fitting him, and shrugged off the shirt from his shoulders, without a single button. The camera angles were uncompromising, cruelly capturing every fold, every crease, every inch of skin.

He pressed his lips into a firm line and tried to think of anything else, but in vain. Magnussen was determined to show him his humiliating downfall, from beginning to end. And unfortunately, not just once.

Twice, thrice, five times, ten times...

He had stopped counting how many times he had watched the entire video in a row. Naively, he thought he would get used to those shots, that after seeing them several times, he would be so numb that he wouldn't even notice them anymore.

How wrong he was.

It didn't matter how many times he saw it; every time, he was wracked with stomach-turning shame, just the same, if not more.

AN:

Good afternoon!

How are you doing? I hope you're having a great day. I also hope you still like the story, despite the dark theme. Thank you so much for you reactions!

Yours,
PaulineHolmes02🖤