anomoly_fetish: (Default)
A/N: this twoshot is locked to only my access list.
And this is about as graphic as I get when I write. 

 “Sherrrrrrrly. Sherrrrrrrrly.”
A voice sounded out of the darkness, echoing in his cell. 
Strange that his name should be called, this was quite rare. Usually His Majesty just sauntered in and commanded attention.  
The tug on the chains pulled him to his feet, not that he went willingly, but the grunt he uttered almost caused him to lose what little food he had in his system.
The tiny light from the hallway behind his captor made him want to shiver. 
“You know, we found John. Do you want to see him?”
He nearly choked on a firm no but he kept his mouth shut. It was better if he didn’t protest. It only made things worse. 
“I know you do.”

He winced at the bright halogens that flashed on, his eyes adjusted to complete darkness. 
“Of course, he is a little unrecognizable because of his rather unfortunate head wound and the fight he put up. He was brave, you should be proud of your little pet.” 
A body was carelessly tossed on the floor and Sherlock made a move for it, but he was yanked back. 
“Ah, ah, not til I say you can touch it.”
Him. John. Would he know for sure if John was dead? 
The body was facedown, there was a bloody mass for the back of his head. The back was littered with cigarette burns and signs of other abuse. 
He was going to be sick, but he swallowed it down, not wanting to make the situation any worse than it was. His throat was burning with the acid. His body protested for water, but he didn't bother asking, knowing quite well the answer. 
There was no reason to bother to. 
“A little different when it’s your pet isn’t it?” 
The body was rolled over and he winced. 
His brain told him in rapid fire what had been done, but tried not to let it process. 
Pretend he knew it was John, when he really didn’t know - the face
The face was an unrecognizable mass, the nose was broken, the mouth with broken teeth, the lips curled back. 
The pain was sharp, his emotions surely betrayed him, and the response from Moriarity confirmed that. 
“Oh. Oh.“ He breathed in delight. “You finally feel something, don’t you, pretty-boy with the ugly name?”
His eye twitched as he fought to restrain the emotion that welled up. He hadn’t been injected … this wasn’t the fear toxin…
Moriarty displeased was painful. 
Moriarty pleased in this way was dangerous. 
And his moods were so unpredictable; Sherlock had nothing to go on. 
A click. Screaming in pain, though what from he didn't discern. 
“No! Stop!”
“He died because he hated you, John. He couldn’t stand to be around you with your tidy little ways, and…”
Sobbing. “Please. You didn’t - you didn’t know, you didn’t…”
“What? Did you think you were special? Should have seen his last experiment. There wasn’t anything left when he was finished with her. Except for the skull, of course.” 
“You’re lying!” 
A sickening smack against tender flesh. “Don’t. Shut. Up. Just shut up. Don’t you know that’s what annoyed him? You babbling about this, you babbling about that, you going on about your girlfriend.” The voice dropped to a low, imitation, mocking. “Soo. Borinng.” Then laughter, horrible laughter - and there were more people in the room….not just Moriarty and John. The henchmen. And the woman. 
Sherlock didn’t need to hear the rest of the tape to know what happened next, the body had told him that wretched story,  but it continued anyway, and his heart wrenched at the terrible sounds that emaniated from Moriarty's hand. 
Sobbing, gasping for a shred of humanity when there was none left. 
“It’s all up to you, John - is it  really worth living, pretending he’ll come back, when he’s DEAD?” The word echoed in the room. 
A click. The safety was off. 
No John… please. I - 
A bang. 
Then silence.
The tape clicks off, and he didn’t realize that his eyes were too bright, watery even. 
“Did you like that, hmm?”
He swallowed, the words caught. 
“N-no. Y-your Highness.” It was all he could do to attempt to not spit the word in revulsion. 
“And now you’re just what you always wanted, aren’t you Sherly? Friendless.” 
“Yes, your Highness. Exactly as it should be.” His voice was flat, the emotion gone, even though every fibre of him wrenched in protest. 
“Thank me for my kindness, for showing you the proper way.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.” 
They left so quickly he didn’t realize he was alone.  With the body. 
He couldn’t believe that was John, how could he go -…
He could go back to 221B. Where he had been safe in the first place. 
The door unlocked, and the horrible little man in the lab coat glinted at him, with his needle dripping. 
He cringed, knowing what came next as he seized his still-throbbing elbow and injected the poison. 
The drug coursed strongly through his bloodstream, made rapid by his starved system. 
He convulsed from the agony that ripped through his brain, unsure of reality. When he woke up on the floor, covered in his own sick, he dimly noted that his head hurt and his wrists stung at the touch. 
He must have tried to pull loose during the ordeal, likely had inflicted pain on himself. 
Fear tugged at him.
He hadn’t asked permission. 

anomoly_fetish: (case)

Title: Remember When It Rained
Characters: Sherlock, John, friendship, hurt/comfort fic
Original Prompt: Sherlock is broken and traumatised on his return and doesn't want to leave 221B.
Author’s Note: The fact it’s raining in buckets and it’s dark inspired this. Somewhat.
Part of this is Sherlock watching John deduce what’s going - so it’s not exactly reading his mind, it’s just that they both have medical knowledge, and he comes to some of the same conclusions Mycroft’s doctors did anyway - only it’s a far less helpless situation, because John knows he can help. It’s just going to be a lot of trial and error. And this is NOT meant to be slash, so you are one sorry shipper if you do. 

John eventually nodded off from his position on the floor, one that he would be quite uncomfortable in the morning. If he stayed there.
The rain began as the clock chimed one.
He heard it - coming down in sheets, beating against the roof, threating to drown everyone its path, were they not on high ground.
He had been accustomed to liking the rain, before his absence - the shower made good accompaniment for his violin, which he strangely has no desire to touch now.
He remembered hearing the doctors talking when they thought he could not hear - one that does not speak or respond to stimuli, tends to also be assumed deaf. Idiots.
If Mycroft knew he’d likely have their licenses revoked, but that hardly proved useful to anyone.
Post-traumatic stress. Extreme, non-responsive.

Unless someone can break through the walls he’s put up he’ll likely not speak again.

It’s not PVS. If he wants to move, he can. He just has no desire to.

It doesn’t pain him to do so.

The voices echoed as the rain beat in sheets against the pain.
I will burn you, Sherlock. I will burn. The heart. Out of you.

I’ve been reliably informed I don’t have one.

We both know that’s not quite true.

What had John meant to him? Had he taken the time to consider it?
Had he forgotten? Accidentally deleted it as a safety attempt to protect his mind when the pentothal coursed through his bloodstream, burning fire throughout his veins?
It made them angry he’d never begged for mercy. Perhaps only once, when his brain had cried for relief.
Area relating to Yemen Trip and all relevant files. Command: Delete.

Command Not Valid.

Control - Alt - DELETE.

Operation Not Valid. Please try again.

A tear of frustration slipped down his cheek.
He knew what made him forget before - he just didn’t want it enough to leave 221B Baker Street yet.
John stirred in his sleep, and he stiffened a little straighter.
He was not a weak man - but he felt broken.
“Talk about Afghanistan,” he says aloud, his brain needing to compare if John’s war experiences are anything like his.
John stirs and mumbles, “Hell,”
For a moment his brain processes it as a curse that Sherlock awoke him out a sleep - how could he have forgotten that John didn’t like getting up before four AM? Then he realized John meant the war, he’d just shortened his response.
John opens his eyes, sleepily. “Afghanistan was hell,” he repeats.
Sherlock had garnered that, but he doesn’t say so. “You didn’t doze off.” John observes, sounding more concerned than peeved. “Sherlock. I need you to talk. Say something.”
No response. In fact if he hadn’t seen that his sunken eyes were still staring at the wall, he would have thought the man asleep. John pulls out his phone. Meaning to call Mycroft. Which means he has to force himself to talk, even if half of it might not make sense.
“There is nothing worthy of saying, John. Not anymore.”
John’s making mental notes in his head, not as judgmental or helpless as Mycroft’s “doctors” - strangely that one he can attach to ‘comforting’. John’s deductions.
Nearly catatonic - likely related to severe trauma.

Finds activities formerly enjoyed either boring or non-enjoyable - depression, likely related to the same trauma or a combination of both.
Sherlock - typically gloomy, however normally displays no prior symptoms of depression or catonia.

Appearance seems to indicate starvation and sleep deprivation, though Sherlock never has been one to eat or sleep unless absolutely necessary.

Diagnosis: Trauma was likely torture though a physical examination would be needed to confirm. Likely for a period of at least a month, if not longer.

The visible emotion that crosses his face confirms Sherlock’s belief that John is making his determinations, and he’s only really observed him, but John’s clarity and quickness of the diagnosis, though done with understanding is slightly scary. As though John had hardened since his death. 
The John before the Fall would likely be crying by now.
Treatment: due to the fact that Sherlock is one who processes information and events differently than the typical patient, much patience and understanding must be exercised, however one might have to ask him how things happened, internalizing the experienced trauma will only worsen his condition.

John nods, tersely. “Come, on - I’ll help you to bed. Your bed, Sherlock - in your room, in our flat. You seem quite beyond exhaustion.” John tries to speak logically, but the sympathy edges through.
That’s the last thing the young man wants - and yet craves at the same time. He didn’t want pity - the sense that they knew things were awfully wrong with him, even though they didn’t understand.
Empathy perhaps? John may not know exactly what he’s gone through unless he chooses to tell, but he can see that it’s a battle-weary flatmate that’s returned.
He tugs on Sherlock’s hand gently - at least there’s nothing visible below his shirtsleeves.
Somehow the contact propels his muscles to slight action, though their stiffness from sitting in one position without moving when he stands is somewhat crippling.
He lets John lead him to bed, only because he’d rather not sleep in the stiff chair - and there is no hospital bed or cold floor …

Why won’t his brain just work? Apparently it can’t consider the past events irrelevant - in fact it stubbornly refuses.
He sits on the bed, and John gently coaxes him to lying down.
He faces the wall, curling his knees up to his chest. He moves as close to the wall as possible.
“Don’t - what Sherlock?”
“Don’t leave.”
“I’m not going anywhere. I'll be - ”
“No. Don’t. Leave.” He wasn't sure if John intended to go to to his own room, but he doesn't want the empty room to himself. 
John catches the meaning and there is pressure on the bed as he sits. Sherlock locks his jaw. His head aches, and throbs, and races against the beating rain, and he only wants to cry - but he doesn’t know - or care - why.
He’d never liked to be touched by anyone, and now he’s too tired to care if he wants the contact or not.
But this time when John puts his hand on his shoulder, he does not flinch or back away.
John fingers the phone in his pocket.
Sherlock doesn’t want him to call, he doesn’t want to go back to his brother’s.
If John hadn’t known better, he would have assumed Mycroft’s people had done this.
Whoever had was skilled in the forms of torture. Because he can't see physical wounds, he has to assume it's psychological. 
Sherlock barely responded to any stimuli, he’d not even looked at his violin, which still stood, polished on its stand near the window.
He’d need some form of help, and he really wasn’t sure who he could call on.
Molly? She wasn’t exactly trained in these forms, but she knew some clinical.
His partner at the clinic? Just for consultation. Hypothetical perhaps. Claim he was writing an essay and incorporate his own war experiences perhaps. 
He’d have to call off tomorrow, there was no way he was leaving Sherlock in the flat by himself.
Though the young man’s breathing had slowed, John really didn’t believe Sherlock had gone to sleep.
He adjusted his position, still watching the back of Sherlock’s head.
What the hell did they do to you, Sherlock? Moriarity’s people? Why did you pretend you were dead for a year and a half?

He expected a “Shut up, you’re thinking,” from Sherlock but he was met by silence. Occasionally it seemed cold, but it wasn’t. It was one of those silences that you might break yourself if you broke it.
The rain continued outside, and Sherlock’s breathing slowed, until he was finally asleep.
John considered going to his own room - but Sherlock had insisted he not be left.
He took the other corner of the bed, but he didn’t take his hand away from Sherlock’s shoulder.
anomoly_fetish: (sherlock)
Title: Remember When It Rained
Fandom: Sherlock, BBC
Characters:Sherlock, John, perhaps other characters in later chapters. Friendship fic.

Part One

He watched as John lit the fire absently, lighting the match, watching as it caught the flint. Sparking into the dry logs. Though the flickering glow seemed warm, he still felt cold - as though there were a chill he couldn’t quite shake. But he still didn't move or give any indicate to his temperature. It didn’t matter either way, but the warmth from the hearth seemed … warm? Like a blanket or the stuffed black turtle he'd had till he was five and took it apart and accidently burned it and never got another ... comforting was the only word that came to mind.

Familiar perhaps? As though it were something he knew before. 
Continue here ...  )
anomoly_fetish: (sherlock)

Title:Remember When It Rained
Fandom: Sherlock, BBC
Characters: Sherlock, John hurt/comfort, friendship fic
Original Prompt:Sherlock is broken and traumatised on his return and doesn't want to leave 221B.
A/N: I really don't think this is how it's going to be played in the series so consider it AU, to a degree. Someone already filled this in the comm, and I took it as a personal challenge to do it from a different perspective. Apparently most fills are considered easier when you add John's POV. Not for me, really.

He entered the flat, blinking at the dim light.

He was hoping John would be here, but - he likely wouldn’t get in otherwise.

The eighteen months he’d been gone had shattered him, more than he dared to admit.

He locks the door behind him, noting the strange silence. It was neither soothing nor unnerving … it was just…


He sits in his chair, staring at the floorboards. The room's been dusted, clearly Mrs. Hudson or perhaps John takes to regularly cleaning. He barely bothers to observe this, it was only noted because there wasn't a puff of dust when he sat down.

There had been many times during his tenure abroad he had thought of this moment.

Perhaps the only thing that kept him alive and fighting when they tortured him in Yemen - but now he was here, he felt blank.

He didn’t want to move, he only wanted to stay here in his flat.

Never leave 221B Baker Street ever again as long as he lived.

It wasn’t really because he was afraid something would happen if he left. Or perhaps it was.
He couldn’t make himself care about the answer.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting there, in the silence, but it was getting dark and there was no lamp, but he couldn’t make himself move. The darkness again.

Neither comforting nor unnerving. Only nothingness.

There were lights of a taxi outside the door. He suspected who it was, but he didn’t turn to look. In fact, he barely moved any muscle, other than occasionally blinking his eyes. But that was involuntary, if he could have remained utterly still, he likely would have.

A key fitted into the lock, and it turned slowly with a click, nearly too loud for the quiet room. He likely would have jumped if he weren't expecting the noise, and didn’t leap up as he had expected. John would just throw him out in the streets - probably what he deserved. Even though that's not what he wanted.

There were footsteps. Slow. He wasn’t really paying attention to the scraping on the each step - indicative that John had kept their - it was really his flat now, considering the will. And the awful limp had returned.

Was he supposed to feel anything about that? Had he before? Couldn't really recall, it was somewhat of a haze. He had a little feeling as though someone had their fist around his beating heart, which was surely too loud for the quiet room.

The lights had turned on in the hallway. Now the kitchen. The kettle took sometime to boil, as though it were stubborn.

When John walked into the sitting room there was a crash that indicated he’d dropped his mug, and it was quite nearly in about 50 pieces. Or more. He didn’t bother to count them.

“Where the bloody hell have you been?”


No. he wasn't missing his tongue or ability to speak; it was just like he was eight years old again and he didn’t want to talk. Or when they'd tried to "cure" something that was ingrained in his psyche. 

He’d had a response planned - before they’d injected the sodium pentathol and forced electrodes through his bloodstream.

He couldn’t quite recall what it was now. The only response he could manage was a brief nod.

"Answer me, Sherlock. Where the bloody hell have you been?"

"Everywhere you can imagine," was the reply. A direct, simple answer. As few words as possible. Not because it still hurt to talk, because it hadn't been that way for a long while. Out of pure force of habit. His voice was gruff, slightly hoarse from disuse, the baritone dull. He looked up briefly and from the way John drew back, he knew the doctor had seen the too-prominent cheekbones, and the darkness around his eyes, the hollowness that he felt so keenly. He had been everywhere in hell John could possibly imagine. 

He'd thought returning here to the flat would be rid of that, but it was quite clear that that would not be the case.

John took two strides until he stood in front of him.

"Why, Sherlock?"

Was there a reason? Did he remember that reason or not? He wasn't supposed to be here. Mycroft would have cardiac arrest if he knew, but even that did not entice any expression. From his tone, it was clear the doctor was still unsure of weather to hug him or punch him, and frankly he didn't care which.

John was waiting for his answer. "You would be dead if I hadn't. Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson."

He expected a punch, a slap in the face, in fact he imagined it so vividly, he wasn't sure if John hadn't hit him at all.


He would have smiled, but somehow the emotion didn't seem quite enough there to show up on his face. John never had been dull or stupid.

"I'm not a hero," this time he looked up though it took quite a bit of effort to force himself to move when he really didn't want to. John stepped back, and he turned to gazing at the empty fireplace, the ashes gray and black.


anomoly_fetish: (TimeLord Victorious)
Title: Dream
Fandom: Awake
Author: anomoly_fetish
Author's Note: If you haven't seen anything with Jason Isaac's in it, especially Awake this will not make a whole lot of sense. As a prior warning. So far the only thing I find wrong with this series, is his missing accent :P

If either shrink knew about his dreams he would be locked up and drugged.
They assume his sleeping state is dreamless and he lets them think that.

There is on occasions faint beeping and whooshing - is it his breathing?

Other times he can be rather good with a sword - apparently the person he is in dreams is rather fond of red.
Red fancy clothes with ruffles.

Or with gold trim and buttons.

Neither of those he likes much. He's a cop - not someone that enjoys taunting children or beggars.

He always knows when he’s asleep because in his dreams he is almost always the one that ends up dead.
anomoly_fetish: (viva la vida)
Title: The Call of War
Author: [personal profile] anomoly_fetish 
Inspired bythis piece  of artwork via deviantart first thing this morning.
Characters: Theta, Koschei - though it's mainly Ten and Simm that I'm picturing here, probably due to the picture corruption.
Pairing: that's really up to you if they decided to snog after such a traumatic event, 
Summary: Is strongly AU, it's basically an analysis of their relationship outside of the Sci-Fi nature of it, though it still should include those basic elements that make one properly recognize the characters. I would like alot of proper con-crit on this before I post it anywhere further, mostly due to the fact I don't know everything about war situations, and writing their characters in a completely different setting is complicated...I also am unsure about the abrupt ending, however I do want a bit of a 'does the story continue?' effect. 
He was running from the scene, breathless...  )
anomoly_fetish: (viva la vida)
Title: Viva La Vida
Fandom: Doctor Who
TimeFrame: Acadamy Years
Characters: Theta, Koschei, possibly Borusa.
A/N: A bit of a tribute/parady to the particular references in Nu!Who making The Doctor to be a godlike, or religious figure. Do note that in this version the portrayal of Koschei is a bit less RTD-verse than the last version. :)

The boy enters the portal, not knowing what challenge he will face. He brushes a lock of blonde hair out of his eyes, trying to appear ready, even though he knows he probably won't be - he never does that well on tests anyway....

"Initiates, you have the honor of playing the part of an important figure from the history of the universe. You do not know who it is you will become. The challenge is, no matter where in history you find yourself, no matter what happens, no matter who you find yourself to be... this must happen. You cannot simply try to prevent certain catastrophes, no matter how terrible."

He senses the students around him. He knows they are nodding, though they are individually excluded in a virtual reality. Koschei...he senses, is anticipating this, seeing how far he can push the program to bend his will.

Theta knows this all to well, especially since the things around Kos that bend to his will, one of the easiest is him.

The switch flicks, and he feels suddenly cut off, from everything...there is only the silence of his own heartbeat inside his head. Nothing else. The lull of the TimeLords is so muffled its barely there.

For a second, he's afraid...until he remembers, its only a test.

The first thing he remembered is the jeering as he slumped to the floor. Why did everything hurt? He didn't understand...except one thing.

He couldn't run.

He wasn't supposed to run.

The hero of this story didn't.

Which meant, the TimeLords meant to torture him.

He sensed Time, and how central the person he was supposed to be playing the part of was, only this didn't involve the luxury of makeup, of the usual humanlike reinactment. This was far too real. His mind was screaming for help, of any kind - but there was only a muffled silence.

He glanced up - briefly, a blow from a fist landed squarely on his jaw and he reeled from the impact, but not before he saw the reddish robes...

Earth. Around 30 AD. By his judgement, by the human's tone and their way of dress.

The first Roman Empire. A bit primitive, considering their second and third, yet considered glorious just the same. A start of their industry, a beginning of what some called their imperialism.

The TimeLords - they had to make it him didn't they?

He had done his research for this -- well, Koschei had rather liked this period and had helped him study...
or more accurately, demonstrated a few aspects of this period of human lifestyle. He couldn't say weather or not he passed the test on it or not...

They've torn at his initiates' robes until one of the sleeves hangs uselessly ripped over a bare shoulder. He's crying, and he doesn't - no he does know why.

He hears cruel laughter - and he's half unsure if he's hearing who's voice he imagines, even though Kos' has never laughed like that before - and not at him.

He shivers, just slightly as he dares to look up, and he reels back as he is hit in the face again.

Humans are cruel, Theta. Throughout their long history, they've been cruel. Wanting to rule the universe. Torturing their innocent -- and even those who are not their own... He's quite sure that's Borusa's voice... a memory from an old lesson, something he's heard repeatedly, and never liked to believe.


He's eventually pulled, gasping and shuddering from the machine. However he sees the professor's nod. He didn't alter history.

He didn't cause the universe to collapse on itself.

Kos' ... he realizes the silence was torture of itself.

I - I'm here, The response is distant, as though he's been a bit shocked himself. Theta's taken to his quarters by a Higher Learning student, and told sternly to go to bed.

Koschei is just staring at the door when he enters, his ginger hair mussed, his forehead creased in concentration. He doesn't see Theta's in the room, as he doesn't exactly look at him, but he gives one of those nods - a brush against Theta's mind in recognition.

What period did they place you? Theta's question indicates what just occured he doesn't want to talk about, but Koschei knows, and a brief look of anger crosses his face.

They tried to teach you a lesson. Something you don't want to talk about. Koschei's statement is matter-of-fact, not to be questioned or bothed to be denied. Planet Victory. And I tricked the machine... but the universe didn't collapse. Koschei's eyes were dark. They're wrong. About everything. I'm better than they are - smarter Theta. They don't understand there needs to be order in the universe - otherwise it will collapse on itself. I - I was supposed to die, Theta, y'know how I fear that.

And you know I don't like being left alone.

Someday we'll escape our mad professors and conquer the universe.

I don't want to rule it. I want to see it.

You'll see it, I'll rule it, how's that?
Kos' flashed him a mischevious grin, then turned serious. Y' want to talk about it, or not? I won't make you, y'know. Or you could just practice and show me.

Y'know that's risky. We might not know who's memory is who's.

I'll know. Don't worry.
Koschei pulled Theta by the hand so they were sitting cross-legged on Koschei's bed across from each other. Just relax, huh? It won't hurt. I've learned from last time, and you - you taught me it helps to talk about it at least - so...

Theta didn't exactly know what Koschei did to make him feel better about The Simulation, but afterwards he did - and fortunatly was able to sleep without nightmares.


Oct. 13th, 2010 10:55 am
anomoly_fetish: (Eight and TARDIS)
Title: Running...
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Eight and TARDIS
TimeFrame: sometime during the events of TVM
Rating: PG, if you overanalyze everything you're reading.

I know who I am...I know who I am...I know who I am...

The loneliness stings him like a slap in the face ... and even the correlation of that felt familiar somehow...

Slap in the face. "But Kos' ! I can help you! I know I can."
"No, you can't -- Doctor - and you know.
Don't. Call. Me. That."

And running - always the running... running away blindly from the scene to the comfort of his broken TARDIS, a TARDIS which is almost as broken as he is, something that someone cast away and didn't like her eccentrics or sentimentality... or appreciated her sentience.

She still liked moving the rooms on him...which perhaps frustrated him at times, but he did understand.
Sometimes he liked the fact as a simple nod she even cared at all..


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