Fic: And No One Will Hear You Scream
Title: And No One Will Hear You Scream
Author: dealliasnape (harmonymarguerite)
Summary: The search is on to find the man who is abusing Holmes so, but Holmes is keeping a secret.
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: R
Warning: Rape, non-con.
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and company are the creations of Arthur Conan Doyle.
Notes: Again, a sherlockkink prompt, Soon after Holmes and Watson have started a romantic relationship, Holmes is brutally raped. Watson deals with the aftermath, and is trying desperately to find the culprit... It ends up being that Holmes has been lying about the culprit’s description ect, because it was actually WATSON who committed the rape. Watson has no recollection of such an event. How, you may ask? Watson has another personality (due to Dissociative identity disorder) that he is not aware of, who says/does horrible things to Holmes.
Original thread for OP chickloveslotr located here
And the angst-princess in me rises again!
******
There are moments, where all he knows is pain; where he would scream, but no one would hear.
No one wanted to hear.
The face above him is always familiar, but so twisted he allows himself to forget. It’s easier that way, and the burn of betrayal fades to be replaced by horror and fear.
He fought in the beginning, but fighting with your fists is worthless when the other has a sword. Eventually, he gives up, mouth open in a silent scream of rage or pain, body broken, and mind drifting far away.
So when morning’s light finds him, it is in a crumpled bloody mess on the floor. He thinks he hears Watson’s shocked cry of dismay, and the air changes as a body runs forward to grasp him in strong arms. He has not the energy to flinch away, the last of it spent to drag the morphine close.
He is far away, wishing he was surprised, but a part of him knew this day would come.
When he comes back to himself, it is to Watson’s pale, tear-stained face, jaw clenched and demanding a name, a description, anything that would satisfy the need for vengeance burning in those blue eyes.
And he lies.
Watson sends a message to Lestrade, carefully concealing the truth, and simply saying there had been an attack on Baker Street. The man was tall, muscular, dark haired and dark eyed with a strange tattoo on the back of his hand.
So the search begins.
They find nothing, as Holmes knew they wouldn’t. Watson begs him to remember anything else, any little clue that could set them on the right path, but Holmes cannot speak of it, and pleads Watson to simply leave it in the hands of Scotland Yard. In this, he will trust them.
He still cannot abide Watson’s touch.
It is breaking them apart, Holmes can see it as every day Watson tries less and less to touch him, sits further away on the bed. The physical distance only adds to the mental.
It will break them all, and he wonders if it is kinder to speak the truth now and let everything fall apart, or to be silent and let the slow distance kill the intimacies they had thought to begin.
If he speaks, it will kill Watson.
And so he stays silent, and twists in his dreams at night, calling for help that will never come.
Watson moves back into his old room, unable to stay where Holmes cannot have him, and for once Holmes is able to breathe. He thinks he is safe.
He has never been more wrong.
His attacker comes back with a vengeance, accusing him of cheating, of whoring himself to anyone who looks his way, and nothing he says can stop it. When the words run out, the man becomes physical, and he will have new bruises in the morning.
He is thrown to the floor once more and held down.
When the other leaves, Holmes idly watches a river of blood from an errant strike with the sword run across the floorboards. The pattern is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen, creating branches and turn offs in the collected dust on the floor. He wonders if the map of red would match a network of water somewhere, and he would check if he had the energy to get a map.
It is unfortunate he will live through this.
He has no idea how he will face Watson in the morning, lying broken on the floor once more, and tell him lies of some stranger who snuck in and attacked him in his sleep.
He doesn’t know how much longer he can look in Watson’s eyes and not tell him that the man who attacked Holmes is the very same man who would give his life to save him.
Because Watson doesn’t know. Watson has never known, and Holmes will give his life so that Watson never finds out the darkness that lives in him.
The sun rises and chases the dark away.
If only for a moment.
Author: dealliasnape (harmonymarguerite)
Summary: The search is on to find the man who is abusing Holmes so, but Holmes is keeping a secret.
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: R
Warning: Rape, non-con.
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and company are the creations of Arthur Conan Doyle.
Notes: Again, a sherlockkink prompt, Soon after Holmes and Watson have started a romantic relationship, Holmes is brutally raped. Watson deals with the aftermath, and is trying desperately to find the culprit... It ends up being that Holmes has been lying about the culprit’s description ect, because it was actually WATSON who committed the rape. Watson has no recollection of such an event. How, you may ask? Watson has another personality (due to Dissociative identity disorder) that he is not aware of, who says/does horrible things to Holmes.
Original thread for OP chickloveslotr located here
And the angst-princess in me rises again!
******
There are moments, where all he knows is pain; where he would scream, but no one would hear.
No one wanted to hear.
The face above him is always familiar, but so twisted he allows himself to forget. It’s easier that way, and the burn of betrayal fades to be replaced by horror and fear.
He fought in the beginning, but fighting with your fists is worthless when the other has a sword. Eventually, he gives up, mouth open in a silent scream of rage or pain, body broken, and mind drifting far away.
So when morning’s light finds him, it is in a crumpled bloody mess on the floor. He thinks he hears Watson’s shocked cry of dismay, and the air changes as a body runs forward to grasp him in strong arms. He has not the energy to flinch away, the last of it spent to drag the morphine close.
He is far away, wishing he was surprised, but a part of him knew this day would come.
When he comes back to himself, it is to Watson’s pale, tear-stained face, jaw clenched and demanding a name, a description, anything that would satisfy the need for vengeance burning in those blue eyes.
And he lies.
Watson sends a message to Lestrade, carefully concealing the truth, and simply saying there had been an attack on Baker Street. The man was tall, muscular, dark haired and dark eyed with a strange tattoo on the back of his hand.
So the search begins.
They find nothing, as Holmes knew they wouldn’t. Watson begs him to remember anything else, any little clue that could set them on the right path, but Holmes cannot speak of it, and pleads Watson to simply leave it in the hands of Scotland Yard. In this, he will trust them.
He still cannot abide Watson’s touch.
It is breaking them apart, Holmes can see it as every day Watson tries less and less to touch him, sits further away on the bed. The physical distance only adds to the mental.
It will break them all, and he wonders if it is kinder to speak the truth now and let everything fall apart, or to be silent and let the slow distance kill the intimacies they had thought to begin.
If he speaks, it will kill Watson.
And so he stays silent, and twists in his dreams at night, calling for help that will never come.
Watson moves back into his old room, unable to stay where Holmes cannot have him, and for once Holmes is able to breathe. He thinks he is safe.
He has never been more wrong.
His attacker comes back with a vengeance, accusing him of cheating, of whoring himself to anyone who looks his way, and nothing he says can stop it. When the words run out, the man becomes physical, and he will have new bruises in the morning.
He is thrown to the floor once more and held down.
When the other leaves, Holmes idly watches a river of blood from an errant strike with the sword run across the floorboards. The pattern is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen, creating branches and turn offs in the collected dust on the floor. He wonders if the map of red would match a network of water somewhere, and he would check if he had the energy to get a map.
It is unfortunate he will live through this.
He has no idea how he will face Watson in the morning, lying broken on the floor once more, and tell him lies of some stranger who snuck in and attacked him in his sleep.
He doesn’t know how much longer he can look in Watson’s eyes and not tell him that the man who attacked Holmes is the very same man who would give his life to save him.
Because Watson doesn’t know. Watson has never known, and Holmes will give his life so that Watson never finds out the darkness that lives in him.
The sun rises and chases the dark away.
If only for a moment.