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...
The next dump they ended up in wasn't a lot better than the school.
Granted the condemned motel had no electricity or running water, but he managed to find a few rooms with musty sheets still on the beds and even a nice view onto the weed choked parking lot. After he'd set up his rifle, he had caught up on his sleep and eaten some soup cold from the can.
“Okay,” he stretched. “Guess you can come out now.”
The closet wasn’t very big, but enough for one man to seat himself and not much else. Almost folded in half, but seated. Sherlock looked up warily, blinking and blind in the sudden light. Jesus was his face a fucking mess. Even in the scant daylight that came through the curtains, he could see the sunset of bruising along the sharpness of his cheekbones (fists), the dark hair matted at his temple (cinder blocks), and the dried crust of blood where he’d bitten down (and been struck) on his lower lip.
“I gotta take a leak,“ he announced. “How ‘bout you, Sherlock?”
It had been quite a few hours since he had closed the closet door to get some shut eye. So it was fair to assume that there would be as many problems getting Sherlock out as it was getting him in. With the fancy jacket still down around his waist, the guy sure didn’t look too comfortable crammed in there. His thoughts were confirmed when Sherlock attempted but wasn’t able to stand on his own, his long legs too numb to keep him on his feet after he was pulled to a stand. Groaning in pain as the blood rushed back into his limbs, Sherlock’s knees buckled and he nearly pitched forward.
“You must be dizzy. Sorry about that wall.” He grabbed Sherlock under the arm and tried to ignore the stifled groans that followed. Sherlock glanced back up at him with an unreadable look, gingerly working his tied hands pinned against his lower back. "Yeah, I bet the rest of you don’t feel too great either.”
Sherlock gave him a weak and pained smile of total infuriated agreement.
Then, to his interest rather than his chagrin, it seemed the tall, gangly mass of his prisoner had decided to give him a hard time on the walking issue. There was little to be gained from negotiating with his charges though sometimes it could break up the tedium. In any case, he always won so what was the point? He opted for a good old fashioned slap. It was at times as effective as a punch and with a messed up face like that? It certainly didn’t take much to make Sherlock see stars. Shaking out his stinging hand, he stifled a yawn and his thoughts wandered back to coffee.
But then the problem named Sherlock chose to slump down boneless, using his weight to anchor himself. Undeterred, the fist in the smaller man’s collar twisted and winded tightly to choke Sherlock as he was forcibly dragged down the small corridor. The prisoner flailed at the entrance of the moldy bathroom, still struggling as he was hauled from worn carpet onto cold cracked tile.
“See? Not so bad, right?”
“L-Lovely.” Sherlock breathed.
Propping Sherlock against the wall, he tended his own business first, sighing in relief as he filled up the empty toilet bowl. It reminded him to drink lots more water then he had been. Wouldn’t want to get too dehydrated. Sherlock leaned his head back and stared intently in the opposite direction which happened to be the rust stained bathtub.
“Your turn,” he grinned as he zipped up. “Don’t be shy.”
Sherlock let out a short exhale.
“It’s been way over 24 hours,” he turned Sherlock's face to his. “Must have to go pretty bad.”
“No.” Sherlock said quickly. “I’m fine.”
Touching the plastic cinch around his trapped wrists, he positioned Sherlock in front of the toilet and waited a few minutes to enjoy the man’s mounting frustration.
It really was lovely, as Sherlock had said. It was lovely how all that fight just vanished when he slid his hand down over the tops of Sherlock’s trousers and slowly pulled down his pants just enough. Going that far he figured the man probably needed some further assistance right? Sherlock’s entire body tensed in his arms and suddenly there was nothing to do but think about the night before and all that dull red light on white skin.
“Please,” Sherlock’s voice strained around the word. “I told you- I told I was- ugh!”
“Shhh,” he squeezed harder until he was sure Sherlock was done talking. “That’s good.”
Holding Sherlock closer, he let go a sigh mixed with a soft laugh into the hot damp skin of Sherlock‘s neck. He needed to breathe him in. All he had done the night before was touch him, feel him, make him, and all Sherlock had done was helplessly react despite that every cell of his body was struggling and screaming not to.
Letting his hand wander over Sherlock’s heaving chest, he studied the fine line of his clenched jaw down to the thin purple shirt falling off to expose his white shoulder.
He wasn’t really a kisser by any means but he felt a sudden need to be. Holding Sherlock by the chin, he forced the man’s head back against his shoulder. He took a moment to look at the confused gray eyes before crushing his mouth against lips that were already parted in surprise. It was more like a smothering than kissing, with Sherlock making small muffled sounds of distress as he tried to jerk away. This was what he wanted. Sherlock was so vulnerable, shifting and writhing on the grip between his thighs. Again. But what he really liked was all this man’s perfect elegance unmade by his hands and into something he could control. What he really fucking couldn't believe was that he hadn't even gotten close to the best part yet…
Sherlock suddenly and desperately twisted from side to side in a failed attempt to escape asphyxiation. But the kiss was broken off soon enough, both of them breathless for what he knew were very different reasons. He shook his head to clear his mind and slowly licked his lips. This man got him so easily distracted. Had to stay on track. Must finish the job.
Back to business.
“This is your chance,” he pressed hard on Sherlock’s lower stomach until he flinched between gasps. “Do it now or piss yourself later.”
Sherlock made a sound of disgust.
“You think I’m kidding around?” He was getting that queasy angry feeling again. The one that told him he was getting impatient. He had to get to his e-mail for his boss man and the coffee that would disappear if the Russian was left alone with it for too long. “I said do it.”
Most men, he had learned, were compliant very quickly with a razor edge switchblade held beneath their balls. With one arm in an iron grip around Sherlock’s skinny chest, he could feel the man’s heart thudding, the breath freezing in his lungs as the touch of cold metal pressed against sensitive flesh.
“Do your business," he whispered next to his ear. “Pretty please?”
Sagging in his hold, Sherlock bowed his head almost to his chest and after a few moments, he obeyed.
Loosening his grip slightly, he shook Sherlock clean into the bowl before tucking him back in and redoing his trousers. Slipping the blade away, he rinsed his hands off in the liquid ice trickling from one of the sinks. Sherlock was breathing very slowly when he was lead back to the bedroom and seated by the yellowed window. Somehow his face had gone a remarkable shade lighter making his bruises look even more like paint.
“Hang tight,” he pulled out a phone from his duffel. “This will just take a sec.”
After a few minutes he got a signal and quickly checked his e-mail against the time on his watch.
Nothing there but some porn spam.
There was a forgotten pack of smokes sitting on top of his bag and so he lit one up before slamming the phone down in frustration. He didn’t like this cryptic, know as you go kind of bullshit. He liked a little bit more of a plan than this. Exhaling a long drag, he noticed Sherlock watching him and offered the box. Sherlock shook his head and turned away, his face flushing red.
He watched the flush as it crept down Sherlock’s neck and then his chest. His own chest hitched in a laugh with sudden understanding. This was new. Well, maybe. In all fairness they spent a lot of time in the dark.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” he chided. He glanced back at the bathroom, knowing the gesture would make it all worse. “I won’t tell nobody. About anything. It‘ll be our secret.”
Sherlock swallowed and shut his eyes.
“Time to take a walk." he ground out his smoke on the table. "I’ll kill someone pretty soon if I don’t get some coffee.”
Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at him. Empty. Daring. Dead. Everything he could imagine. He didn’t pay it much attention. Let the guy growl a little. Let him show his teeth. If it made him feel better then everybody was better off. He followed Sherlock out into the motel's musty hall, and down past the endless paintings of identical beige sea sides and mediocre mountain vistas. But the soft sound of Sherlock’s voice distracted him from the graffiti interspersed between the artwork.
“What’s in there?”
Sherlock had swayed unsteadily to a stop and was looking at a shut door to their left. “It’s the only one,” he said in distraction. “It’s the only one closed.”
Looking up and down the long hall, it was in fact the only one that was shut instead of ajar or just plain missing. And in fact he knew exactly what was in there and exactly why the door was not only closed but locked. He looked Sherlock up and down suspiciously. It sure was a weird thing for the guy to notice considering the place still smelled like the dead dog he’d discovered upon yesterday's arrival. Not to mention it having been used as a communal toilet by thoughtful heroin addicts. One of which he also found rotting next to the dog.
But then he was struck with a feeling of graciousness. Why the hell not? It’d be quick. “You wanna take a look?” he asked.
Sherlock’s hands made and unmade fists behind him, his sudden hesitance to get what he wanted perfectly clear in the unsure flicker of his gaze from the floor and to the soldier behind him.
“Yes,” he said after a short silence. “I would.”
Even using the key, he still had to give the door a hard shove, the cheap plywood swollen and wedged into the frame from the damp. It was hard to see with the curtains completely drawn but not dark. He watched Sherlock limp in, his pale eyes going hectic, looking all over the place as if he expected to find something. The strange thing was that the biggest ‘something’ in the room wasn’t all that hard to see. With no beds or furniture of any kind it was actually impossible to miss.
Sherlock’s search finally settled on the body laying underneath a water stained sheet. “He’s alive.”
“Could be,” he conceded. “Maybe not.”
“No one locks up a corpse.” Sherlock said quietly. “Even from a man like you.”
“Fair enough,” he cleared his throat and looked back towards the hall. “Happy now?”
Instead of answering, Sherlock stepped closer to the body. “How long has he been here?”
“Since last night,” he said. “As long as we have.” There it was again, that was the second time Sherlock used 'he' as if he could possibly know anything. “Look pal, I wouldn’t waste time worrying about him. I’d worry about yourself.”
Maybe he shouldn’t have said it the way he had said it. With a promise. A threat. And a surge of want so strong he had to swallow it back. He had to focus. There was time for what he needed. Later. Save it all for later. Sherlock turned to look at him, eyes narrowing as his anger started to boil up, his useless, futile rage that showed his hand every time, and made everything he did so stupidly easy to predict. But then, just as quickly, the fury began to break apart, his features delicately collapsing. Dazzling uncertainty played in his blinking and glittering eyes as he turned back to the body.
“This… this is…,” Sherlock carefully folded to his knees and bent low over the sheet because he couldn’t use his hands. “I hadn't thought it could get..."
Rubbing the front of his jeans he felt slightly offended. Until he realized Sherlock was talking to himself, and the subject was not him. Shifting in his boots, he realized that this was the most he’d ever heard his charge say at one time. However he couldn’t find it in himself to keep quiet and see if there would be more.
“That’s enough.” he tried to get Sherlock’s shoulder but the man flung himself away and stumbled ungracefully onto the covered body. Patience. Patience. That was all he required right now. “I said enough...and when I say enough I mean-”
“Tell me.” Sherlock demanded as fiercely as he could with his wasted voice. “Tell me what drugs you’ve used!”
His patience was swiftly disappearing. “I don’t use drugs.” Going. Going. Almost gone. A light sweat was forming on the palms of his hands. "None."
"Not on you."
“On John.” Sherlock growled, his face flushing with nothing but wrath this time. “You moronic clod!”
It was then that his vision suddenly went dim.
Hazy and red like that exit light that lit up his head.
He didn’t remember getting down on the floor but when he finally stood back up, he felt dazed and too hot, his heart pounding and unable to catch his breath. There was an odd tingling in his fingers, from the squeezing and steady pressure he’d locked around the flesh of Sherlock’s throat. However, he began to feel a soothing calm gradually settle over him. Calm enough to center his attention down at the man now laying sprawled and immobile on the floor.
With a deep breath, he reveled in the silence. Sweet and perfect silence.
All that was required was a swift check of Sherlock’s frantic pulse. That granted him a momentarily glad feeling that once again he hadn’t accidentally killed him. Just a few new bruises.
Picking up his charge from the floor, he didn’t bother locking the door behind them. This other prisoner was the Russian's problem. Let him deal with it.
When he eventually arrived at the lobby, Sherlock felt too heavy on his shoulder. The Russian was bent over some Sudoku, blue smoke from his rolled cigarette like a fog drifting under the ceiling. He looked up with interest when his fellow solider placed Sherlock down face first onto the floor, a quick slice with a knife to free the prisoner’s hands. Dismissing the Russian's smirk, he briefly rubbed at Sherlock's palms and shoulder's before rolling him limply to his side. It wouldn’t do if the man lost limbs due to his inattention to the need of proper blood circulation.
Steaming coffee finally in hand, he rested one foot on Sherlock’s back and the other up on the sagging sofa.
He was ready to wait until made to do otherwise.