Warnings: Non-con, asexual!Sherlock, traumatized!Sherlock, dare I say.... panicked!Sherlock?
Disclaimers: BBC Sherlock is owned by its various creators.
Summary: OC POV. One of Moriarty's new employees is more than a little annoyed/intrigued by his current assignment...
He fucking hated England.
But a job was a job and his latest boss didn’t seem as startled by his sadistic resume like most of the others. A decade in the military gave him his skills and another decade as a mercenary got rid of what little conscience he’d ever had. You’d think he’d be in more demand than he was. But you know, recession and all.
He glanced out at the grey rain falling outside the window. What he really wanted was to be back in New Jersey. Real clubs. Real girls. Some poker games. Some blow. Maybe some meth.
The job so far was somewhat disappointing despite the pay. Compounded by the fact that he had to share his duty with some Russian who had been as mysteriously hired as he was. He sighed at the large man seated across the room reading some commie rag that looked like it was covered in hieroglyphics. God sure didn’t make them any uglier.
Their duty finally arrived just an hour ago.
The big super-secret job turned out to be just some… guy.
The room was a long, cinderblock-walled, linoleum-floored space. One of many cold empty rooms of the abandoned school they were holed up in. This particular room had been provided with two metal folding chairs and an old bed with a thin mattress on rusty springs. The guy was sitting on it with his elbows on his knees and staring at the opposite wall. In fact that was all he’d done since he’d been brought here and honestly it was starting to get all sorts of weird.
“Most kidnapped people like to know where they are,” he tried talking to the prisoner again. “Demand it even.”
The guy must be someone important, obviously, but he had the feeling that the man came from money. The tailored suit looked like it was worth obnoxious loads of cash. Maybe it was because his skin was the actual color white. But then again he was having trouble figuring out what was fancy around here and what was just stupidly British. Even the name of the shitty gas station down the road had the freaking word ‘Royal’ in it.
Oh well, time to do the search. He had been informed there was supposed to be a phone; maybe a weapon of some kind.
The pale stare that suddenly flashed in his direction made him pause as he reached for his wrist. With a frown, he lunged for the wrist but it was snatched away before he could get a hold of it.
“No.” the guy said, holding up his hand in a halting gesture. “No, thank you very much.”
He grabbed his prisoner's forearm firmly on the second try, and wondered at the pure disbelief on the man’s face as he blinked down at the offensive grip.
“What’s your name buddy?”
Sherlock? Okay. Whatever. Fucking England.
“Look Sherlock, I’ve got a little job to do.”
Sherlock Holmes didn’t respond to that, so he took the opportunity to grab the other wrist and yanked the guy to his feet. Sherlock was pretty tall, but was still half a head shorter and maybe a whole body width less wide than he was. Therefore he was extremely surprised when Mr. Holmes swung a savage left hook that took him squarely in the jaw. Staggering backwards, he laughed a little. That was cute.
He grabbed Sherlock by his starched collar and dropped an open-handed punch to the side of his face; then switched hands and did it again for the sake of symmetry and that kind of stuff. The only reason the bastard was still standing was the hold he had on the pretty purple shirt, so he let go. Sherlock groaned as he slumped to the ground, rolling his head back and forth on the floor and trying without success to sit up on his elbows.
With a grin, he knelt down and got ready to continue the search unhindered. He quickly lost his grin when the heel of Sherlock’s shoe came in sudden contact with his forehead. In a flash of bright white pain he crashed backwards so hard that he slid across the slick floor.
The Russian looked up from his magazine for a moment before settling back with a sigh into his chair to flip another page.
“Son of a bitch-” Humor gone, he was on top of Sherlock in a second, a fist coming down right below the sternum. With the satisfying sound of all air leaving Sherlock’s body, he slammed Sherlock onto his face and wrenched his right wrist up between his shoulder blades, twisting to the verge of snapping every bone up to the shoulder.
Sherlock panted sharply under him, his free hand working on the floor.
“I like you,” he grimaced at the bruise he was sure was rising on his forehead. “Strong for a skinny dude. And surprises are real fun… sometimes.” He applied the smallest bit of pressure on Sherlock’s trapped wrist and the man growled and choked in what sounded more like frustration than pain. But he was absolutely still. Finally.
This was a lot better.
He was strong enough to slightly lift and search Sherlock with one hand. The guy really was pretty thin for packing that much of a punch. Kind of. Sherlock’s chest and arms were more muscle than just bone. Slipping into each of the front jack pockets, he immediately found one of those one million dollar phones. Out of curiosity, he flicked it on and scrolled down the recent messages.
“Damn,” he found his laugh again. “Someone named JW texted you 52 times since this morning.” He dropped the phone on Sherlock’s back. “You should probably call back when you get the chance.” Sliding his hands down Sherlock’s thighs came up with nothing, then between his legs and back to make sure nothing was stowed away. When Sherlock jerked violently at the touch, he paused to watch with interest at what stupid thing his charge may attempt next. He let the hand between Sherlock’s legs give a firm squeeze, and observed the panting turn into something that sounded more desperate. Despite his substantial weight on top Sherlock, the man was still weakly trying to get to his knees. Trying to get away.
The right front pocket of his trousers produced some little plastic thing that slid out into a magnifying glass. Confused, he tossed it next to the phone and checked the other pocket where his hand closed around something small, metal and hot with body heat. He squinted at it and couldn’t figure what it could possibly be used for. A quick check down each leg revealed nothing else. Shoving Sherlock’s belongings into his jean pocket, he reconsidered the warm heaving body under his own. His prisoner sure did smell a lot better than the Russian. Soap. Clean clothes. Some faded cologne that mixed with heat and sweat of the struggle.
It sure had been awhile. And his secretive boss hadn’t even left a pack of cards to pass the time.
Sherlock cried out when he hauled him to his feet by mostly just his trapped wrist. Making sure his prisoner was steady, he felt the lean body against his chest shaking uncontrollably. At first he was happy to believe it was fear, but he frowned just a little when he turned Sherlock around and realized it was actually pure rage. Sherlock’s colorless eyes were fixed up at him, burning a hate he’d seen often enough in people put under his watch. The man’s swollen lower lip was bleeding, along with his nose and all that perfect white skin was starting to darken from the violence of his hands.
This was going to be great.
But no way in hell was he going to play right in front of the damn Russian. He had his limits. There were a few seconds to catch the confusion (and maybe finally some panic?) on Sherlock’s face as he leant down to pick the man up and heft him over one shoulder. Sherlock stilled for a moment before really having at it, his outrage doubling at either the indignity of it all, or the knowledge that they were headed for somewhere a bit more private. Pinning one of Sherlock’s legs to his chest and securing one arm, his charge was now uncomfortably straddling his shoulder. With a nod to his yawning comrade, he made his way out the door which Sherlock helpfully, if not accidentally, kicked shut behind them.
The room he had been assigned as sleeping quarters didn’t have any lights in the fixtures but a dull red exit sign over the opposite door lit it up good enough. The muted reflection shone off of the beige paint on the cinderblocks and across the floor. There was nothing in there but his duffel and a bed in the corner which he unceremoniously dumped Sherlock on. He was almost to his feet before being shoved back down. Hard.
“You look tired Sherlock,” he patted his head. “Just try to relax.”
There was enough light to watch Sherlock tense when he pulled out the length of plastic from his bag. Some people called them zip-ties. Some people called them flex cuffs. He just called them convenient to get through airport security. Sherlock hissed when the cord tightened around his bruised wrists behind his back, then tried to twist away when his jacket was pulled down to his waist to tangle his bound hands.
“Don’t,” Sherlock breathed. “Just don’t.”
Men felt so different. Nothing soft and yielding like a woman. The scent. The feel of their skin. The effect of fear. Nervousness. Anger. Adrenaline. Women didn’t get stimulated when their body was in some form of acute distress. He had found it was mostly the opposite whenever he was in a situation that had ended up into something less than willing. But men had that strange physiological failing happily enough. And Sherlock would be an extra special challenge for him because of the fascinating way he reacted to any kind of touch. Especially skin on skin. Sitting behind Sherlock, he pulled the man’s trembling body up onto his knees so he could eagerly unzip the expensive trousers.
A shrill noise startled them both.
With a half smile he dug it out of his pocket, semi-amazed that the thing got a signal out here. The blinking caller ID said ‘Mycroft’. What the hell was a Mycroft? For kicks he decided to hit the speaker function and dropped the phone on the bed in front of Sherlock. At the same moment, he put his hand down the front of the smooth feel of the trousers and slid the other over Sherlock’s mouth.
Sherlock? Where on earth have you been? John has rang me twice on my private line.
Sherlock moaned behind his palm, blinking down in horror at the glowing display between his spread knees.
I shudder to think what else you have John privy to. My very own address?
Sherlock’s moan stuttered into a muffled cry that edged close to the sound of a sob.
Nervousness. Anger. Adrenaline. Working his hand harder, grabbing and exploring Sherlock roughly, he guessed he had to add humiliation to that list. And besides, he hadn’t had another cock in his fist other than his own for a long time and it was making him breathe harder. Made beads of sweat form on his brow. His upper lip. His entire body.
Would you please say something or at least have to decency to hang up?
The not so gentle administrations made Sherlock a lot more noisy too, writhing on his firm grip and struggling and actually managing to get one foot underneath himself. With a strained frantic noise, he used all his strength to lurch forward and up. But the hand between his legs and another around his waist brought him back firmly into place.
With a hand no longer over Sherlock’s mouth, his strangled gasps were all that filled the room.
The voice on the phone abruptly stopped its chatter.
“Find me.” Sherlock whispered hoarsely. “Please… find me.”
Another pause on the line.
You are asking for help.
It wasn’t a question, but more of a bewildered statement. And then the Mycroft neatly cleared his throat.
I would very much like to speak to the gentleman currently in possession of my brother’s phone.
Damn it. It was all getting so good too. But this new development was almost as interesting as seeing what he could do to his charge. Or more to the fact, what he could get the prisoner to do. And did that guy just say brother? Sherlock. Mycroft. Probably had a little sis named Apollonia.
Excuse me, anyone there?
Impatiently fumbling for the phone he shoved Sherlock sideways by a shoulder to get him out of his way. Unfortunately he completely forgot about the cinderblock wall on which Sherlock cracked his head on. The prisoner wavered for a moment before crumpling unconscious onto his side, his legs folded underneath him.
“Hi.” he said affably. “What can I do you for?”
I see. Marine. Well, ex-marine of course. Born in New York city but raised in New Jersey. On the shore.
His eyes narrowed slightly in the soft red light.
And what would your name be?
“Tom.” he replied with a shrug. “But my friends call me Tommy.” He rubbed the ache at the front of his jeans wishing he hadn’t shoved Sherlock quite so hard.
Well Tommy, I really must say I cannot wait to meet you face to face.
“Track the phone,” he suggested. “But we’ll be gone by the time you figure how to get all the way out here.”
Thumbing off the device, he tossed it over his shoulder where it clattered loudly on the tile floor. He rolled Sherlock over to make sure he was still breathing. More like wheezing but at least he was good and alive. Pushing Sherlock back against the wall, he let out a loud yawn and realized that the jet lag was really starting to get to him. He’d just whack off and sleep a couple hours until morning. Maybe load up the gang and head to the next rendezvous.
Maybe even meet his annoyingly furtive boss.