The Plan

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[Sheriarty fluff. Enjoy, invisible readers. I apologize for the wait.]

Everything is more regular now then when he first arrived. The electroshocks and the beatings.

Everyday he is brought before that Marks woman. Asked to kneel and worship her feet. He does, but only because she knows his secret. He prays to a God who he is certain does not exist that she will not reveal it.

He and Sherlock haven't exchanged a word since they first laid eyes on each other in this despicable place. They don't need to. James supposes that Sherlock already knows that there is no escape. That they may die here. He smiles at how dramatic it sounds. He has no hope of ever escaping even though he knows that there is one way. One awful way to leave and never worry about coming back. This is why he doesn't eat. Every meal he is handed gets flushed down the metal toilet that resides in one corner of their small grey cell. He has enough foreknowledge about the experiments performed here to know that the chemicals will eat him from the inside if he becomes malnourished. Already, nearly every inch of fat that had previously been on his body has disappeared and he can count his ribs and vertebrae easily. His face has grown incredibly thin so that he has to puff out his cheeks a bit when he is in Colleen's presence. Otherwise he doesn't care. He can see it happening to Sherlock as well. Cheekbones as defined as ever.

It is while James is kneeling when it happens. Suddenly Sherlock is there kneeling beside him and is being ordered to pray. What James soon realizes is that they are hurting Sherlock more than him. More than he ever was hurt. He feels the sharp pain of realization when he begins to think about why. The shame of it, of being controllable, is disgusting. Three times has he been controlled by these people. Three times has he been disgraced.

The defenses on the prison are meager. Only two guard towers positioned one hundred and eighty degrees from each other around the building, which is not very large itself. The only trick to getting out is timing, and it has to be perfect. Absolutely, positively, unrealistically perfect. The marching guard positions switch sporadically and all at once and are never out of sync. James thinks that he may have noticed a pattern in their movements and he already knows that they only walk. Never run.

The guards are the only barrier between them and life and it drives James crazy. He remembers that he was released last time at the end of his sentence, but how long is this one? The last one was two whole years, but James knows that this time it could be much longer.

Then comes the day when one guard is late. Sherlock is off screaming somewhere and James is just about to dump his lunch when he notices that a guard is jogging to his post. Late. James knows that a late guard is the closest thing to a break in the pattern that there will ever be in his lifetime, so he makes note of it. Everyday he watches that guard as he marches steadily down the hall of empty cells, all except one.

Then it happens again and James smiles when he sees the faint pink mark just where the uniform of the man hits the body. A love bite?

"Excuse me!" Says James in a hushed undertone, realizing that there is another guard around either corner of the block middle of the building. The guard looks at him, his mustache with a few grey hairs is lopsided in an expression that James can only describe as amusement. He is sure it won't be in a moment.

'Sir, I would like to speak with you." The guard rolls his eyes and takes the few steps needed to reach James' cell. "I know your secret." Says the prisoner, his tone dead serious. The guard looks at him, smirking, but the smile in his eyes has disappeared. When James' face stays serious, the smile disappears completely.

"What are you going to do about it?" His voice is rough like someone who has swallowed sand.

"I could tell your boss. Be bad to end up in my position, wouldn't it."

The man looked down at him grimly. "What do you want me to do?"

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