"Bye!" calls Shell Bell, and she heads for the transit station.

She realizes when she steps out of her destination that she must have mistyped something. Oops. She turns around to go back to the correct neighborhood.

No she doesn't.

Shit.

Shitshitshitshitshitshit.

Can she move her eyes - can she talk - Strat didn't mention -

Shell Bell has nothing clever to say.

So on the off-chance that obedience will invite lenience -

she shushes.

(She cannot, quite, quiet the sobbing.)

They walk together like that for a long time - at least an hour.

And then Shell Bell finds herself walking up the front step of a cozy little house, and opening the door, and closing her eyes, and stepping inside. The door shuts behind her, and she keeps walking—around a corner, through another door, down some stairs.

She raises a heavy stone lid, and climbs into a narrow stone box, and lies down in it, and the lid closes over her with a thunk and her body is her own again.

Shell Bell assesses the situation.

Someone malicious - who she cannot identify, so maybe it matters if she can identify them, maybe there is someone who'd take exception to this treatment of her? Probably not for her sake, but perhaps this torturer is trespassing on another's turf in some way - has her.

She knows she can lift the lid, but she can hear clicking noises that sound like a lock being fiddled into place. And she'd just have the torturer's attention again if she forces the lid up. If she holds still, she's got time to think, though she doesn't know how much.

The box is rapidly stuffy, but it's not airtight - she can see thin lines of light around the edges where the lid is uneven. She will probably not torch repeatedly from oxygen deprivation. (Although if she ever decides torching would be a good idea, she could try holding her breath and seeing if the box is stuffy enough that she can't reoxygenate.)

What does she want?

(Besides for everything since teleporting to the ruins of Europe to turn out to have been a dream, besides to wake up in Sherlock's arms safe and sound and bedecked with coins, besides that.)

She wants out. She wants this torturer to lose interest, or - riskier - find her annoying. Rescue or release.

(She wants Sherlock to have killed herself in a fit of despair after all, because Sherlock would look her up, Sherlock would find her place and find that she was not there, Sherlock would not stop looking until she found her Bell.)

(Okay. What does she want that she can influence from here?)

(Possibly nothing. What does she want within the context of Downside, then...)

She listens. She has to know what's going on.

The torturer's soft voice, now slightly muffled, says: "Don't make a mess."

And the light turns off, and music starts playing, something stately and orchestral.

Don't make a mess? Shell Bell has no idea what that's supposed to mean. It's not like she can get to a bathroom from here. Whether she makes a mess is up to the torturer and how long she leaves her alone. (Bell summarily excises all applicable shame on that subject. It will not serve her. It is not appropriate. If she is in here for the next twenty-four hours, the tea she had at Strat's is going to exit her; this is just a fact of nature unless the bathroom in her apartment was intended to be decorative.) She supposes she could make a mess in a more avoidable way if she injured herself and bled in the box. She doesn't plan to do that; if she wants to torch - which right now she doesn't; she doesn't think it'd help - she'll attempt suffocation first.

What does she have?

She can move, a little. She can roll over; she can get her arms up by her head with some uncomfortable maneuvering. She pushes experimentally on the lid. It's very heavy and her leverage isn't good, but she gets it to move - a fraction of an inch. It's definitely locked, and it's so heavy to begin with that she definitely can't push it off of the box.

She has her clothes, her shoes. If she really needed to, she thinks she could probably work her way out of them given this much space to move in, although there's no purpose she can think of that would be served except, again, that they'd potentially be handy in case of torching.

She doesn't have her sentence papers anymore; she was made to set them down once she got into the house. She's got her own body - she could deprive herself of some hair or fingernails if she thought of a use for those. She doesn't think she's constitutionally capable of biting off her tongue or a digit and can't think of a reason to anyway. She's just taking inventory. Think. Think. What does she have?

Nothing.

She has nothing.

Everything that could influence this situation is out of her control.

She revisits her wants.

She wants to spend this ordeal as dissociated and comfortable as possible.

She rolls onto her stomach and puts her arm under her cheek and imagines herself in bed, with Sherlock curled around her. Murmuring you are a continual epiphany. Thinking white-bordered thoughts. Loving her.

She imagines herself to sleep.

Some time later, the music turns off.

Shell Bell is made to close her eyes, but not otherwise controlled.

The lid opens.

"You didn't make a mess," the soft voice says approvingly. "Good. It's time for your bath."

And Shell Bell gets out of the box.

Shell Bell can't see. She can't control how she's moving.

There's really very little reason for her mind to be involved here.

She drifts away as best she can.

She walks into another room, takes off her clothes, and folds them neatly on top of something that might be a chair. There is a brief pause.

The door closes behind her without her intervention.

Her eyes open, and she regains control of her body, although she will find she cannot use it to leave the bathroom.

Extras of things like shampoo and toilet paper and toothpaste and soap. Nothing especially weaponlike.

The mysterious torturer leaves her alone for an hour.