FIC: SELLING WATSON, IN FOUR PARTS (PART III)
Title: Selling Watson, in Four Parts
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Length: 13,000 words (Overall)
Summary: In order to solve a case, Holmes must temporarily sell Watson into slavery.
Originally posted for the Sherlockkink Meme
Links to Other Parts: PART I PART II PART III PART IV
III. Night
Holmes is unrecognizable. He made such minute alterations - a different part to his hair, a touch of kohl beneath his eyes, a finer cut of clothes, a foreign lilt to his speech; he tilts his head just so to one side, and curls his lips in a sneer unlike the one to which I've grown accustomed over the years. He has even given himself a speech tic, adding “of course” to every sentence like a necessary breath. Any one of these and I would still know him, but altogether he has made himself into an unscrupulous-looking character entirely unfamiliar to me and entirely believable as an aficionado of pleasure slaves. I had comforted myself all during the train ride with the knowledge that Holmes would be beside me, no matter how I would be exposed and humiliated. But, as I stand beside and a step behind Holmes, when I drift - or, more accurately, when I attempt to distance myself from the current proceedings - I find myself forgetting Holmes is here and thinking his alias, the alarming Mr. Harrison Day, is holding my leash instead.
I wonder if Holmes is not having the same issue as me - though, perhaps, for him it would be a boon? He has to me come across as most ... uncomfortably comfortable in his guise, and has not forgotten himself once; I could as well be wallpaper for the attention he'd spared me as soon as we'd entered here. So perhaps his disguise of me has been so thorough that he is able to think I am not John Watson at all? I wouldn't blame him, for I know how I must look; naked, save for a black, leather collar of which I'm achingly aware every time I swallow, my skin smooth and shiny from the oil he'd applied, and my face heavy for the make-up he'd slowly traced upon my features.
The final detail, which I would just as soon as forget, nevertheless is the one of which I'm most aware. During the application of oil, in which Holmes was his usual thorough self, I found myself becoming helplessly aroused once more from the feel of those gentle, long-fingered hands. I had sworn he was lingering around my more sensitive areas purposefully as he moved to kneel beside my standing figure, and found that I was not wrong as, when I was at my most distracted, he wrapped my cock tightly in a thick, leather ring. The movement followed so abruptly upon the kind caresses only moments prior my confused lust had catapulted upward just at the second when I was denied any outlet, and I had been left holding Holmes's shoulders tightly and gasping.
“Please forgive me, my dearest Watson,” Holmes had said softly, an unfamiliar strain to his voice. “By next morning this whole affair will be behind us.”
I cling to that promise as I remind myself forcibly that Harrison Day does not actually exist. Already Holmes has been engaged in casual conversation with our assailant, Marcellus Shaw, for what seems an hour. Shaw, I think, is completely convinced of Holmes's character. They already speak as if they've known each other for years. It took barely ten minutes for Shaw to offer Holmes a cigar from his private collection. I am just beginning to feel relief that standing here silently - and wretchedly aware of my persistent and inappropriate arousal - is all that will be required of me when Shaw announces that he is ready to commence with “business.”
“Of course,” Day - that is, Holmes, I remind myself - says. “As you can see, I did not arrive empty-handed.” He tugs lightly on the leash that trails down from the tight, sable collar around my neck. I obligingly move forward so I stand beside him, though I would like nothing more than to run from the room and wrap myself in the first piece of cloth I find. I forcibly hold back a shiver that threatens to extend from my toes up to my neck.
“Hmmm,” Shaw says, eying me intently. “What are his qualities?”
“He's handsome and fit, of course,” Holmes says. “Defined muscles, if you'll see. A flat stomach. Lean calves.”
“Yes, yes,” Shaw agrees. The vile man stands up and crosses over to where I stand, and without compunction feels along my shoulders and chest. I stiffen when he has the audacity to finger and squeeze a nipple, but a slight tug reminds me to relax myself. It is ... difficult. “Thick head of hair,” the man says, and then takes my chin in his hand, turning my face to one side and then the other. I keep my eyes downcast. “Pleasing features. Good lips. I can see them around a cock.” I cannot listen to this! His very touch is foul against my skin. I want to tell him, 'I would sooner die.' “Turn around.”
I am trying so strongly to not listen carefully that I do not immediately realize he is speaking to me. “Boy,” Holmes says, and tugs against on the leash. How can he be so calm? How can he sit there, coolly puffing on a cigar, while this disgusting man molests me? He's doing so because this is not about your convenience, I tell myself harshly, and turn around. I cannot help flushing despite my resolve.
Shaw continues his unwelcome perusal of my person. He grasps my ass in both hands, and I seek desperately for objectivity. Thinking of poor Bowen is not alleviating my nausea, so I instead try a different approach. This is no different from any other case, I reason; there is always physical danger involved when chasing criminals. This is no worse than a gun to my side, or a fist to my jaw. “Sensitive,” Shaw murmurs, when I startle at his increasingly intimate probe. Damnation, of course this is worse! A million times over!
Just when I believe I am about to be violated by the man's sweaty, stout fingers, Holmes says, “I don't allow free trials, of course.”
Shaw pauses, and I wonder if he'll take offense. But no; he is a business man, and merely chuckles and echoes, “Of course,” in a good-natured tone. He then withdraws his hands - thank the Lord! - and moves back a step. “Turn around again, boy,” he says. I am more prepared for the command, and I do as I'm asked, praying Holmes puts an end to this soon. “About average, but a good width. Pleasing to look at, I'd say.” While I am still trying to comprehend the statement, Shaw grabs my member in his hand and carelessly feels me. I can taste bile in the back of my throat from his impersonal touch and at how my body thrums suddenly for release, even at this man's hand. Holmes, end this!
“You were told, of course, my wares are of the highest quality,” Day says.
Shaw still holds my cock in his foul, sweaty hand. The taste of bile is stronger, and I fear that I may actually be ill. I swallow determinedly, and feel the leather push against the skin of my neck. “He's scarred. That's going to lower the price.”
“He's experienced,” Holmes counters instantly. “Which raises it, of course. Your clientele does not value naive virgins.”
“So he's skilled?”
The feel of the collar and the turn of the discussion reminds me of another route - I cannot separate myself from this situation; I haven't the imagination nor the strength. Perhaps if I ... embrace it? As distasteful as the notion is, the concept seems to be working well enough for Holmes. I force myself to relax, become more fluid in my stance, and despite my misgivings, try to adopt a slightly more ... sultry expression.
“Very much so, of course,” Holmes says. He tugs almost imperceptibly on the leash, but I'm unsure to what purpose. He keeps his attention on Shaw. “His previous owner was thorough. And his pain threshold is delightfully high.” When I ignore the tug, Holmes repeats the gesture with more force, but I am no more enlightened than I was the first time.
“The usual? Anything specialized?”
“He's used to being bent over, of course,” Day says. “And he is superb with his mouth, as you've already noticed. His previous owner was something of a ... disciplinarian. The boy was taught thoroughly to be ready at all hours and to not question commands. Knife-play was favored, I believe, hence the scars, of course, and endurance.”
That sounds like the army, I think dimly. Everything Holmes is saying is true, to an extremely narrow and specific extent. I do not know whether the knowledge lessens or increases my disgust.
“Where did you find him? I'm sure you understand the importance of ... discretion,” Shaw says. There is a darkness to his eyes that I will remember in my nightmares for some time to come, I'm sure.
“Of course. And since you, of course, also understand discretion, you will allow me to say only that he will not be missed?”
Shaw takes this answer in stride. “What happened to the previous owner?”
“Engaged to another,” Day says. “Had to let go of his little secret.”
“And there are more?”
I see, from the corner of my still downcast eyes, Harrison Day smile. I could have happily lived my entire life not knowing that Holmes is capable of such a depraved expression. “There are more,” he agrees. “If we can arrive at a mutually satisfactory accord, of course.”
Shaw considers me for a long moment, and then says, “One hundred pounds.”
“Three hundred,” Holmes says. “And he's worth more.” There is a tug on my collar at this, and amidst the grotesque cold that has encased me I feel the slightest touch of warmth.
“He's scarred,” Shaw says. “I've bought prettier boys for a good deal less. One hundred and ten.”
“You said yourself what pleasing features he has, of course,” Holmes says. “And what's a few scars here and there? There are none on his face. None where it matters. And he's an exceptionally fine figure of a man. Two-seventy-five.”
“I'd fuck him, no question,” Shaw says. “But that doesn't mean I'd pay more than he's worth. He's old."
“Old?”
“Looks a bit older than I generally deal in, in any case. He won't be so pretty for much longer.”
“Do your boys last so long they have time to age?” Day asks.
Shaw laughs. It is a terrible noise, and deep. “Good man. I'm going to enjoy dealing with you again, I can tell. Your boy is rather tan, isn't here?”
“Appealingly so, of course.”
“My clients like them pale. One fifty.”
“Brand him as exotic, of course,” Day says. “Two fifty.”
The bargaining continues for an unbearable length of time. I realize, as the two men come ever closer to consensus, that while Holmes took great pains to explain to me how I should act, he neglected to inform me exactly how far along this farce would extend. Surely Holmes has gathered enough information by now? They hardly needed to go this far at all! By the time we'd entered this room Holmes already knew more than he had; Shaw's name, confirmation of this location, the name of several of Shaw's associates. In their discussion before beginning to bargain, Holmes had learned even more, I'm certain. If I thought to this point at all, I imagined Holmes would refuse to come to immediate agreement with Shaw so that we could have an excuse to leave. Why is Holmes still bargaining? This room is suffocating me.
“Without a demonstration? Forgive me if I'm not willing to take your word only on our first dealing. Two-hundred,” Shaw says.
Every piece of me is urging me to turn to Holmes and demand we leave. I lose track of time as I continue to be dissected in the most humiliating fashion.
Finally Shaw says, “Two-ten,” and Day agrees, “Two-ten. You will not regret working with me.”
As if in a dream, I see the two men shake hands. What is Holmes doing?! Surely he cannot mean to keep up this act. But there is so little of Holmes in the man next to me and so much of the detestable Harrison Day.
Shaw calls for one of his men and, after a brief discussion, the man leaves, only to return moments later with a large container. When the man exits, Shaw opens the container and meticulously counts out the appropriate sum. Perhaps this is what Holmes was waiting for? It's difficult to know Holmes's mind at the most ideal of times; when I am forced to stare at the floor and see only peripherally, it is near impossible.
Holmes takes the sum in his hand and recounts. My heart beats with each number, despairing. It is an act, I remind myself, no matter that Holmes's cold calculations of my worth left me in despair. He does not truly mean it. He cannot. But then why is he still counting?
“Excellent,” Holmes says. “I believe you will hear from me again quite shortly, of course.”
I can barely comprehend this last exchange of pleasantries. Dazed, I watch as Holmes hands the leash to Shaw, who despite his denigrations of my worth is looking at me with a dark lust.
Holmes!
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Length: 13,000 words (Overall)
Summary: In order to solve a case, Holmes must temporarily sell Watson into slavery.
Originally posted for the Sherlockkink Meme
Links to Other Parts: PART I PART II PART III PART IV
III. Night
Holmes is unrecognizable. He made such minute alterations - a different part to his hair, a touch of kohl beneath his eyes, a finer cut of clothes, a foreign lilt to his speech; he tilts his head just so to one side, and curls his lips in a sneer unlike the one to which I've grown accustomed over the years. He has even given himself a speech tic, adding “of course” to every sentence like a necessary breath. Any one of these and I would still know him, but altogether he has made himself into an unscrupulous-looking character entirely unfamiliar to me and entirely believable as an aficionado of pleasure slaves. I had comforted myself all during the train ride with the knowledge that Holmes would be beside me, no matter how I would be exposed and humiliated. But, as I stand beside and a step behind Holmes, when I drift - or, more accurately, when I attempt to distance myself from the current proceedings - I find myself forgetting Holmes is here and thinking his alias, the alarming Mr. Harrison Day, is holding my leash instead.
I wonder if Holmes is not having the same issue as me - though, perhaps, for him it would be a boon? He has to me come across as most ... uncomfortably comfortable in his guise, and has not forgotten himself once; I could as well be wallpaper for the attention he'd spared me as soon as we'd entered here. So perhaps his disguise of me has been so thorough that he is able to think I am not John Watson at all? I wouldn't blame him, for I know how I must look; naked, save for a black, leather collar of which I'm achingly aware every time I swallow, my skin smooth and shiny from the oil he'd applied, and my face heavy for the make-up he'd slowly traced upon my features.
The final detail, which I would just as soon as forget, nevertheless is the one of which I'm most aware. During the application of oil, in which Holmes was his usual thorough self, I found myself becoming helplessly aroused once more from the feel of those gentle, long-fingered hands. I had sworn he was lingering around my more sensitive areas purposefully as he moved to kneel beside my standing figure, and found that I was not wrong as, when I was at my most distracted, he wrapped my cock tightly in a thick, leather ring. The movement followed so abruptly upon the kind caresses only moments prior my confused lust had catapulted upward just at the second when I was denied any outlet, and I had been left holding Holmes's shoulders tightly and gasping.
“Please forgive me, my dearest Watson,” Holmes had said softly, an unfamiliar strain to his voice. “By next morning this whole affair will be behind us.”
I cling to that promise as I remind myself forcibly that Harrison Day does not actually exist. Already Holmes has been engaged in casual conversation with our assailant, Marcellus Shaw, for what seems an hour. Shaw, I think, is completely convinced of Holmes's character. They already speak as if they've known each other for years. It took barely ten minutes for Shaw to offer Holmes a cigar from his private collection. I am just beginning to feel relief that standing here silently - and wretchedly aware of my persistent and inappropriate arousal - is all that will be required of me when Shaw announces that he is ready to commence with “business.”
“Of course,” Day - that is, Holmes, I remind myself - says. “As you can see, I did not arrive empty-handed.” He tugs lightly on the leash that trails down from the tight, sable collar around my neck. I obligingly move forward so I stand beside him, though I would like nothing more than to run from the room and wrap myself in the first piece of cloth I find. I forcibly hold back a shiver that threatens to extend from my toes up to my neck.
“Hmmm,” Shaw says, eying me intently. “What are his qualities?”
“He's handsome and fit, of course,” Holmes says. “Defined muscles, if you'll see. A flat stomach. Lean calves.”
“Yes, yes,” Shaw agrees. The vile man stands up and crosses over to where I stand, and without compunction feels along my shoulders and chest. I stiffen when he has the audacity to finger and squeeze a nipple, but a slight tug reminds me to relax myself. It is ... difficult. “Thick head of hair,” the man says, and then takes my chin in his hand, turning my face to one side and then the other. I keep my eyes downcast. “Pleasing features. Good lips. I can see them around a cock.” I cannot listen to this! His very touch is foul against my skin. I want to tell him, 'I would sooner die.' “Turn around.”
I am trying so strongly to not listen carefully that I do not immediately realize he is speaking to me. “Boy,” Holmes says, and tugs against on the leash. How can he be so calm? How can he sit there, coolly puffing on a cigar, while this disgusting man molests me? He's doing so because this is not about your convenience, I tell myself harshly, and turn around. I cannot help flushing despite my resolve.
Shaw continues his unwelcome perusal of my person. He grasps my ass in both hands, and I seek desperately for objectivity. Thinking of poor Bowen is not alleviating my nausea, so I instead try a different approach. This is no different from any other case, I reason; there is always physical danger involved when chasing criminals. This is no worse than a gun to my side, or a fist to my jaw. “Sensitive,” Shaw murmurs, when I startle at his increasingly intimate probe. Damnation, of course this is worse! A million times over!
Just when I believe I am about to be violated by the man's sweaty, stout fingers, Holmes says, “I don't allow free trials, of course.”
Shaw pauses, and I wonder if he'll take offense. But no; he is a business man, and merely chuckles and echoes, “Of course,” in a good-natured tone. He then withdraws his hands - thank the Lord! - and moves back a step. “Turn around again, boy,” he says. I am more prepared for the command, and I do as I'm asked, praying Holmes puts an end to this soon. “About average, but a good width. Pleasing to look at, I'd say.” While I am still trying to comprehend the statement, Shaw grabs my member in his hand and carelessly feels me. I can taste bile in the back of my throat from his impersonal touch and at how my body thrums suddenly for release, even at this man's hand. Holmes, end this!
“You were told, of course, my wares are of the highest quality,” Day says.
Shaw still holds my cock in his foul, sweaty hand. The taste of bile is stronger, and I fear that I may actually be ill. I swallow determinedly, and feel the leather push against the skin of my neck. “He's scarred. That's going to lower the price.”
“He's experienced,” Holmes counters instantly. “Which raises it, of course. Your clientele does not value naive virgins.”
“So he's skilled?”
The feel of the collar and the turn of the discussion reminds me of another route - I cannot separate myself from this situation; I haven't the imagination nor the strength. Perhaps if I ... embrace it? As distasteful as the notion is, the concept seems to be working well enough for Holmes. I force myself to relax, become more fluid in my stance, and despite my misgivings, try to adopt a slightly more ... sultry expression.
“Very much so, of course,” Holmes says. He tugs almost imperceptibly on the leash, but I'm unsure to what purpose. He keeps his attention on Shaw. “His previous owner was thorough. And his pain threshold is delightfully high.” When I ignore the tug, Holmes repeats the gesture with more force, but I am no more enlightened than I was the first time.
“The usual? Anything specialized?”
“He's used to being bent over, of course,” Day says. “And he is superb with his mouth, as you've already noticed. His previous owner was something of a ... disciplinarian. The boy was taught thoroughly to be ready at all hours and to not question commands. Knife-play was favored, I believe, hence the scars, of course, and endurance.”
That sounds like the army, I think dimly. Everything Holmes is saying is true, to an extremely narrow and specific extent. I do not know whether the knowledge lessens or increases my disgust.
“Where did you find him? I'm sure you understand the importance of ... discretion,” Shaw says. There is a darkness to his eyes that I will remember in my nightmares for some time to come, I'm sure.
“Of course. And since you, of course, also understand discretion, you will allow me to say only that he will not be missed?”
Shaw takes this answer in stride. “What happened to the previous owner?”
“Engaged to another,” Day says. “Had to let go of his little secret.”
“And there are more?”
I see, from the corner of my still downcast eyes, Harrison Day smile. I could have happily lived my entire life not knowing that Holmes is capable of such a depraved expression. “There are more,” he agrees. “If we can arrive at a mutually satisfactory accord, of course.”
Shaw considers me for a long moment, and then says, “One hundred pounds.”
“Three hundred,” Holmes says. “And he's worth more.” There is a tug on my collar at this, and amidst the grotesque cold that has encased me I feel the slightest touch of warmth.
“He's scarred,” Shaw says. “I've bought prettier boys for a good deal less. One hundred and ten.”
“You said yourself what pleasing features he has, of course,” Holmes says. “And what's a few scars here and there? There are none on his face. None where it matters. And he's an exceptionally fine figure of a man. Two-seventy-five.”
“I'd fuck him, no question,” Shaw says. “But that doesn't mean I'd pay more than he's worth. He's old."
“Old?”
“Looks a bit older than I generally deal in, in any case. He won't be so pretty for much longer.”
“Do your boys last so long they have time to age?” Day asks.
Shaw laughs. It is a terrible noise, and deep. “Good man. I'm going to enjoy dealing with you again, I can tell. Your boy is rather tan, isn't here?”
“Appealingly so, of course.”
“My clients like them pale. One fifty.”
“Brand him as exotic, of course,” Day says. “Two fifty.”
The bargaining continues for an unbearable length of time. I realize, as the two men come ever closer to consensus, that while Holmes took great pains to explain to me how I should act, he neglected to inform me exactly how far along this farce would extend. Surely Holmes has gathered enough information by now? They hardly needed to go this far at all! By the time we'd entered this room Holmes already knew more than he had; Shaw's name, confirmation of this location, the name of several of Shaw's associates. In their discussion before beginning to bargain, Holmes had learned even more, I'm certain. If I thought to this point at all, I imagined Holmes would refuse to come to immediate agreement with Shaw so that we could have an excuse to leave. Why is Holmes still bargaining? This room is suffocating me.
“Without a demonstration? Forgive me if I'm not willing to take your word only on our first dealing. Two-hundred,” Shaw says.
Every piece of me is urging me to turn to Holmes and demand we leave. I lose track of time as I continue to be dissected in the most humiliating fashion.
Finally Shaw says, “Two-ten,” and Day agrees, “Two-ten. You will not regret working with me.”
As if in a dream, I see the two men shake hands. What is Holmes doing?! Surely he cannot mean to keep up this act. But there is so little of Holmes in the man next to me and so much of the detestable Harrison Day.
Shaw calls for one of his men and, after a brief discussion, the man leaves, only to return moments later with a large container. When the man exits, Shaw opens the container and meticulously counts out the appropriate sum. Perhaps this is what Holmes was waiting for? It's difficult to know Holmes's mind at the most ideal of times; when I am forced to stare at the floor and see only peripherally, it is near impossible.
Holmes takes the sum in his hand and recounts. My heart beats with each number, despairing. It is an act, I remind myself, no matter that Holmes's cold calculations of my worth left me in despair. He does not truly mean it. He cannot. But then why is he still counting?
“Excellent,” Holmes says. “I believe you will hear from me again quite shortly, of course.”
I can barely comprehend this last exchange of pleasantries. Dazed, I watch as Holmes hands the leash to Shaw, who despite his denigrations of my worth is looking at me with a dark lust.
Holmes!