"It's been a few days since I've seen John..." the old man announced in a conversational tone as he scooped a piece of overly sweet cake onto the spoon.

Hearing his best friend's name, Sherlock stiffened and dug his nails into his palms, carving deep crescents into them.

Just ignore it; Magnussen is just trying to wind you up, to provoke you into doing something stupid; he admonished himself and opened his lips for the incoming bite, despite his distaste.

"I heard he has moved out of Baker Street..."

Another spoon.

"And he likes to visit the pub these days..."

And another.

"Well, 'visit' is a strong word. Perhaps I should say he shuffles to the pub..."

Another one.

The detective kept chewing and swallowing, but his blood was starting to boil. He'd kept his mouth shut the majority of the time, and many insults had left him unaffected. Not to mention that the remarks about his appearance were not totally baseless.

Two months without his active lifestyle had taken their toll on him, as he had to stuff his face with whatever they put in front of him, sleep, and suppress an ever-increasing temptation to tell them everything in order to protect the vital information from the maniacal businessman.

But when it came to John... The bastard was laughing at him! He was making fun of his despair!

"I really don't know what you see in him. He's as shrivelled and skinny as a dried prune. In no time, he'll be an old grey fart!"

Sherlock's rage had reached a boiling point, and he couldn't control himself any longer. With surprising precision, he spat out the chewed-up bit onto the man's expensive suit. A sensation of pure satisfaction settled in his chest at the shock on Magnussen's face. That was what he deserved! No one will speak ill of John Hamish Watson in Sherlock's presence!

The old man's astonishment had disappeared, substituted by a menacing glint in the shark's eyes hidden behind the metal frames. The wrinkled lips twisted into a wicked smirk. "Fine, you had it coming..."

They chained Sherlock's hands behind the armrest and shackled his ankles to the front wooden legs of a chair. His satisfaction vanished as he sat there in perfect stillness, awaiting their verdict. His heart fluttered in his chest like a restless hummingbird. If he said he wasn't terrified, he'd be lying. For sure, they won't kill him because he was far too precious to them to be eliminated in this manner. They could, however, torture him in very creative ways.

Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap against the stone floor. They were coming back.

Sherlock's mouth went dry.

They were carrying a plastic canister filled with an unappealing tan substance and a rubber tube with a funnel at the end.

Sherlock's stomach performed a couple of stunt-like somersaults. He began to wiggle, naively hoping to free himself from the restraints. He'd heard of this torture procedure before, but nothing could have prepared him for what would happen.

Before he could recover from his initial shock, they yanked his mouth open and forced that horrible thing down his throat. A glass of water pressed against his lips, and Sherlock had no choice but to swallow. Little by little, it travelled down his oesophagus. Still, it was a challenging process due to its slightly wider diameter than the traditional feeding tubes had. His captor, though, wasn't a patient man and inserted the tube deeper into his body.

Sherlock was overcome with such a powerful wave of horror that the hairs on his arms rose on edge, and tears welled up in his eyes. A scream tried but failed to find its way out of his vocal cords. He couldn't even breathe properly; his lungs were burning, and each seemed to weigh at least a tonne.

It wasn't until the tube was in place that Sherlock could catch his breath again. Not for long, unfortunately. In his peripheral vision, he noticed a man stepping out of the crowd and scooping up the canister. He closed his eyes so he wouldn't see the contents of the vessel and tried not to think about what the liquid might contain.

Something splashed in the plastic container, and soon a chilly, high-calorie substance began to stream down the tube.

Sherlock gasped, goosebumps spreading across his body. Hot sweat trickled down his neck, soaking the collar of his shirt. The blood pounding in his temples was so loud it nearly drowned out their harsh laughter and sneers.

It flew by, yet it felt like an eternity to Sherlock.

He sat motionless, paralysed by agony, humiliation, and his miserable stomach, which growled grumpily as it filled with nutritious fluids and continued to expand as far as it could.

Sherlock clenched his eyes even tighter, not wanting to see their unpleasant, mocking expressions, and attempted to stay calm. 'I can do it; it'll be over soon," he kept telling himself, desperate to believe it. But he knew better than to sugarcoat the reality since the minutes passed, and his captor showed no signs of giving up.

On the contrary, a perverse glee had filled those sharks in his eyes as he watched his prisoner, ever so above everyone else, begin to panic, slowly but surely.

"You can still change your mind, you know..." Magnussen tempted him, his voice sounding almost... compassionate.

Sherlock's filthy black locks tickled his plump cheeks as he shook his head. "N-no!" he whimpered stubbornly, despite his growing anxiety.

The maximum volume of an adult's stomach ranges between two and four litres. He suspected that he was approaching this limit.

The filthy shirt clung to the ballooning, pale flesh, miraculously without bursting at the seams, attempting to conceal the last remnants of Sherlock's dignity.

Only the black buttons managed to hold it together, despite the fact that they were on the verge of snapping. His jeans felt uncomfortably snug around his waist, and the coarse denim was carving red lines across his throbbing stomach.

He began to wriggle and tried, again and again, to extricate himself from the ropes, but it was no use. The viscous liquid swirled around in his gut, and the tube chafed against his mucous membranes like a sharp claw.

Sherlock sobbed, and more tears spilt from his eyes, but they never made it down his chin.

Instead, something hot and sticky touched his face. Sherlock shuddered as he noticed the man's tongue licking the salty droplets off his cheek, from the corner of his lips to the delicate skin under his eye. The slimy muscle then traced the detective's practically non-existent cheekbone till it came to a halt by his ear.

"Is it really such a problem, Sherlock? After all, it's only a couple of names... Just tell me what they are, and you're free. All of this misery will be over. You'll get into my car, and my driver will take you home in no time... To John... That's what you want, isn't it?" he whispered so close that his wrinkled lips brushed against Sherlock's earlobe.

Sherlock shivered and twisted his mouth in disgust. The disgusting, wet trail of saliva reminded him what a weakling he had become when he had to endure such things. He felt like the most pathetic wretch under the sun, incapable of defending himself! What could he possibly do? He might just sit on his bum and wait for someone to look for him, assuming they had noticed his absence, of course.

Or...

For a split second, he allowed himself to imagine what would happen if he gave up. It would be simple to reveal the few dozen names that this heartless businessman desired!

But what would happen then? What if Magnussen kept him as a toy for fun even after Sherlock had fulfilled his part of the bargain? Or would he follow his promise and let Sherlock go? He'd do anything to get back to Baker Street, to his old life, to the cases, to his lovely landlady, to John...

Once his thoughts wandered back to his home, he couldn't contain them again. God knew how much he wanted to get out of this abominable place and erase it from his mind forever!

Sherlock's shoulders sagged in defeat. He couldn't take it; he couldn't go on like this anymore! He took a deep breath and prepared to bow to the will of the vile, manipulative bastard. Resigned to the fact he would loathe himself for the rest of his life, he opened his quivering lips and—

Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping.

The worn-out buttons had given way to the strain of the fabric and clinked against the stone floor, one by one. The subtle echo of their tinkling, along with the thunderous burst of laughter and the sudden chilly breath of air against his hot, taut skin, was enough to jolt Sherlock out of his stupor.

Sherlock made a muffled sound and began to tremble all over his body.

How glad he was that John wasn't here with him! He'd be so mortified if John saw him like this. And he wasn't referring to the fact that he had just outgrown his third set of clothes. John would have never mocked him for that; Sherlock would wager his life on it.

He had almost caused something far worse just because he was thinking of himself and his comfort! His loyal friend would never forgive him! Frankly speaking, he wouldn't even blame John if, after such an experience, he lost all of his respect for him and regarded him as a whiny sissy instead of a brilliant detective. And not just him, but also Lestrade or Mycroft.

Sherlock could envision Mycroft's disappointment if he found out that his confident and adrenaline-hungry little brother had failed terribly in his mission and that instead of him, a disgraced, obese, and depressed wreck was returning to London.

No, he won't let that happen! He has to put up with this mess for the sake of John, Mycroft, and the few people who actually care about him!

"Take it out of him!"

Eventually, much to Sherlock's relief, it turned out that the tube's removal was nowhere near as unpleasant as its application. Suddenly, a bony finger poked into his swollen tummy, which was sitting heavy in his lap. The relief subsided, replaced by nausea, pain, and shame.

As if it wasn't enough that every time he drew a breath, he felt a searing sting in his stomach as though he'd swallowed a dozen razor blades...

"I think that's enough for today. We wouldn't want our Greedy Guts to burst like his shirt, would we? I'd say he's getting close..." the tyrant remarked, his finger tracing the lines of blue veins shining beneath the detective's white skin and red stretch marks sprouting on his sides.

"Mycroft will kill you!" Sherlock rasped through an angry throat, trying hard not to think about the intrusive and very intimate touch of a man he despised with all his heart.

However, he didn't bat an eyelid at Sherlock's threat. On the contrary, he only smirked at him.

"Indeed? Then why hasn't he come for you yet? I've heard that Mycroft Holmes knows almost everything. As it seems, he probably doesn't care much about you when you're still here... But keep dreaming when you think it helps..." he grinned, baring his yellow teeth, and only then did he withdraw his disgusting, wet hand from Sherlock's torso.

Sherlock suppressed the urge to grind his teeth and had to bite his tongue to keep his chatty mouth from blurting out more nonsense. He's had a lot on his plate already...

Magnussen snapped his fingers, summoning a minion who was on duty today, ordering him to join them and take care of their prisoner, which meant ensuring he had everything but comfort.

"Take him down to his cell..." he barked at Jack Jones. The businessman turned on his heel and marched out of the dining room as if he couldn't bear Sherlock's presence. Not that Sherlock would have missed him...

Sherlock wondered if Jack had considered what he had told him the last time. He most likely had because he didn't appear to have reported him to his boss. Magnussen would never have left them together in his absence if he suspected Sherlock was trying to break through his web.

"Stand up, fat arse!" Jones yelled at Sherlock and punched him in the shoulder. "I hope you don't expect me to carry you... Or should I kick you all the way downstairs like a ball?"

Sherlock struggled to his feet, knowing that the majority of what was said here wasn't just hollow promises and threats. Jones hadn't reported him, but that didn't necessarily imply he had won. After today, he wasn't going to mess up with anybody here, because he did not doubt that they would kick him all the way to the dungeon if he didn't obey their orders...

»»──────　★　──────««

The massive cell door banged shut behind them as they stepped in.

Despite his full, growling stomach, Sherlock staggered in front of Magnussen's servant, attempting to keep up the pace. His huge tummy was dragging him down, throwing him off balance, and he felt like he would throw up at any minute. He slowed down, hoping the man in front of him wouldn't notice. He needed a minute to persuade his stomach contents to stay in their proper place instead of creeping up his throat.

"Get moving, your sauntering will get you nowhere!" Jones remarked in a deep, irritated tone, shoving him farther into the cell.

Sherlock gasped and stumbled over his leg due to the harsh, unexpected gesture. Fortunately, he regained his balance instead of collapsing like a sack of potatoes. As he straightened his back, he realised Jones' palm was still pressing into his shoulder blades. He was about to shake off the unwanted touch when suddenly –

- --- .. .-.. . -

Sherlock blinked in surprise as nimble fingers tapped a message into his back. Had Jones just given him a cypher? Wasn't it just a figment of his fantasy? Sherlock's senses and hopeful brain were grasping at every straw by this point; it wouldn't be the first time his head had played tricks on him.

What, on the other hand, could he possibly lose?

"I need to use the restroom," Sherlock spoke up.

"Fine..." the man grunted, and Sherlock could have sworn he felt a small pat on his back.

The lavatory door closed with a pronounced click. Sherlock turned to Jones, but before he could demand an explanation, he heard the sound of wooden legs grazing against the floor.

"Here, have a seat," Jones said, offering him the chair.

Sherlock stared at him in astonishment. "Why?" he asked, glancing between the chair and the man's face in suspicion.

He estimated that Jones was roughly 35, give or take a year or two. Unlike the other "gorillas," he seemed—dare he say it—almost friendly. He sported light brown hair, combed up and slicked to the side, and a thick, well-kept beard. Sherlock believed he had spotted something similar to sympathy in the bright green eyes that stared up at him from a naturally swarthy face.

"'Cause it's a wonder that you're standing," Jones pointed out, gesturing to the detective's shaky legs.

"I'll manage," Sherlock refused, despite being this far from collapse. He couldn't afford to rely on anyone now that anyone could pose a threat to him.

Jones shrugged. "Whatever; I didn't bring you here to argue. I want to help you, Holmes."

Sherlock blinked several times.

Was Jones making fun of him? Or was it just a trick? That must be it. It wasn't that long ago that he was defending Magnussen; why would he suddenly change his mind? Yes, Sherlock had intended to win Jones over eventually, but the man had latched on alarmingly soon.

He raised his eyebrows in suspicion. "Why would you do that?"

Jones leaned against the wall and lowered his voice. "Because you were right when you said that he's a liar," he admitted, cautiously looking around to see if anyone was eavesdropping.

"So you finally got it; congratulations...." Sherlock let out a bitter chuckle and rolled his eyes.

The bearded brunet sighed and flailed his hands in frustration. He was fidgeting restlessly, with beads of sweat breaking out around his temples. "Look, I didn't want to work for him, do you understand?"

The detective tilted his head and measured him from head to toe. "I do... You need funds to support your ill wife and two children. I'm assuming you haven't been out of work for long. The firm you worked for went bankrupt, and you couldn't get another job. Your wife's therapy is exceptionally pricey, and your family has gotten into debt. You were desperate enough to take any job, not just the legal one. That's why you accepted his offer...

At first, you had no idea what you had gotten yourself into. He promised you the moon, but none of it is true. You can only contact your family via letters and see them once every few months. Otherwise, you can't set foot out of this place. He's just taking advantage of you. You're no less a prisoner than I am, except for those violent interrogations... And you won't get a penny for it, anyway...."

"Like hell, I will, damn it, when our entire salary goes on food and those expensive pills he's feeding you!" Jones flared up, gradually becoming angrier and redder in his face during the enumeration of Sherlock's deductions.

Sherlock blanched. In all honesty, he wished he had been hit rather than reprimanded this way. How can Jones blame him for such a thing? How can he be held responsible for being fattened like a pig for slaughter? That he is under the influence of drugs that cause him to put on weight uncontrollably until he is unable to move, think, or reason, until all Sherlock can do, is eat and sleep? That his former life and his sense of "self" are slipping through his fingers?

"Do you think I'm asking for that? That I'm thrilled to be the toy you can humiliate and torture on a daily basis?!" he hissed through gritted teeth, flopping down on the chair so violently that it nearly moaned beneath him.

"This is some kind of trick, isn't it? Just another one of his nasty tactics to get information...."

Jones took a breath, opening his mouth to object, but Sherlock didn't let him say a word. His features contorted into a frown as he imitated Magnussen's husky voice. "Sherlock is now a perfectly harmless idiot who will fall for everyone's bait. All you have to do is kiss his boo-boo better, and he'll fall at your feet and spill the beans!' If that's what the old lunatic thinks, he's even more senile than I thou—mmph—"

He had a lot more on his mind and would have continued his rage-filled rant if a warm hand hadn't covered his lips and hushed him in the middle of his sentence. Flinching so wildly that he nearly fell from the chair, he watched with bated breath to see what would happen next.

"Whoa, whoa... Wait a second, listen to me for a moment! I didn't mean to phrase it that way, much less yell at you. I'm sorry, I lost my temper," the guard apologised, withdrawing his hand from Sherlock's face and resting softly on his shoulder.

"When did you change your mind?" Sherlock wanted to know.

A soft sigh escaped Jones' mouth. "I'm not gonna lie. What you said during your weekly shower that night... scared me. I've been thinking about it ever since. I can't afford to go to jail, not for such a long time. I'd deserve it, of course, for the things we're doing to you. But if I go to prison for a few years, I might never see my wife again. And..." he paused and considered whether he should say the thing that was on his heart out loud.

Sherlock motioned for him to continue.

He despised when people prolonged talks that would have been half as long if it hadn't been for their reluctance to finish what they had broached. Jones would have to overcome his shyness if he wanted to persuade him. If he was reluctant to say it just because he didn't want to humiliate Sherlock, he shouldn't worry; Sherlock could handle the truth, no matter how unpleasant it might be.

Jones ruffled his hair. "I heard you that night. You tried to stay silent, but I heard your wails. Your groans and sobs. Christ, what agonising pain it must have been to drive Sherlock Holmes to tears! And still, you did your best not to show it. I've never felt more humiliated in my life. I'm a coward. Here I am, wallowing in self-pity because I'm separated from my family, yet you're in an incomparably worse position..."

Jones looked Sherlock straight in the eye. "Look, I understand that it will be difficult to reconsider all of this. You don't have to believe me; you don't even know me, although you can probably deduce a lot from one look... But on the other hand, what have you got to lose? Doesn't having an ally seem better than going through this all alone?"

Sherlock scrutinised his face for any signs of insincerity, yet deduction and instinct were convincing him otherwise. To his surprise, he found himself leaning in closer to the soothing touch, and he knew that Jack had him at his mercy.

"What do you expect in return? Surely, you're not doing this just out of compassion," he asked, his tone still doubtful. After all, Sherlock's life was at stake, as well as vital information in his brilliant Mind Palace.

But that didn't mean he wasn't praying for this cooperation to work. He didn't want to eat himself to death, which was becoming a genuine concern because Magnussen didn't seem to be easing up on his fattening sessions—quite the contrary. He was already experiencing some reserves in moves that had not caused him any trouble before. What will happen next month? Or three? Or half a year?!

Coming home, on the other hand, terrified him almost as much as being here.

Don't get him wrong; he didn't want to stay here, of course!

He would give anything to be allowed to go home and have everything return to normal! Well, almost anything—there were certain things he wouldn't agree to.

He wouldn't reveal to Magnussen the identities of Moriarty's criminal network, of course, since it would be a threat to the entire globe, not to mention that all of his misery and suffering would have been in vain. He'd never let that monster take John, and he'd go to any extent to prevent it from happening, even if it meant remaining here forever in exchange. He was willing to make such a sacrifice for John.

However, nothing will be the same as before. At least not at first, and who knows if his life will ever go back on track, his looks being one of his most minor concerns. The psychological and self-esteem damage caused by this imprisonment was a far more serious problem than his swelling bottom and climbing number on the scale.

He thought he would go nuts soon; the ideas that occurred to him here made him question his sanity at times. At one point, he even wondered whether Mycroft was actually aware of what was going on. After all, it was extremely uncommon for Mycroft Holmes to miss something. Perhaps he was punishing him for how Sherlock had previously treated him, giving him a taste of his own medicine.

The detective was immediately ashamed of such a thought. Sure, his brother might be a jerk at times, but Sherlock knew he cared about him. If their roles had been reversed, Sherlock would not have mocked Mycroft either and would have done anything to help him.

He never told Mycroft how much he valued him or how much he admired him. Sherlock used to take his older sibling for granted. Now that he understood what it was like to lose everything—family, friends, John, his career, and little by little even his pride—he realised that their quarrel was indeed very childish.

Jones smiled and gently touched Sherlock's shoulder.

"We'll figure it out... If your brother helps me stay out of jail, I'll help you get out of here... But first, we need a plan..."

AN:

Jones was a lot of fun to write since I enjoy story twists and intriguing characters. Despite his brutal treatment of Sherlock, I've grown to like him. What are your feelings towards him? Would you have the guts to do the same if you were in his shoes—to offer your help to someone you barely know with the risk of being discovered looming above?
I know I'm probably getting annoying, but please, share your opinions with me:) I find them very valuable🖤

Yours,
Pauline