Fanfiction: Empathy 1/1
Title: Empathy
Author: Xero Sky
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 1592
Spoilers: Not a one
Summary: From a prompt at the kinkmeme: community.livejournal.com/shkinkmeme/5516.html
As much as I don't believe he's even a sociopath, I'd love to read a fic where a villain tries to brutalise Sherlock into fear, only to have Sherlock, bloody from torture, calmly inform him that you can't frighten something that has no emotions.
I want an absolute monster!Sherlock scaring the living daylights out of whoever thought they were bad-ass enough to deal with the great Sherlock Holmes.
Bonus points if you can still somehow have him care about John in a fucked up, touchingly psycho way.
Warnings: Torture, bondage, gore, dark!characters, general creepiness
Disclaimer: All characters are property of their copyright holders; no profit of any kind is intended from this work of fan fiction.
It wasn’t that he didn’t feel the pain. The man with the knife, in particular, was skillful with it, managing to cause a great deal of pain without creating enough damage to immediately endanger his life; there was no way of pretending that having strips of skin flayed off wasn’t agonizing, but it wasn’t going to kill him right away. The knife man never cut too deeply, and he was a patient, methodical type. He was also the only one of the five involved in kidnapping and torture this evening who had the sense to cover his face, for all the good it would do him.
The man who was asking the questions was also the man who occasionally threw salt on him like he was a side of beef. Holmes could tell he wasn’t particularly experienced with this sort of thing; the knife man’s work started unnerving him fairly early on, and he really didn’t seem to be enjoying himself. Holmes wasn’t reacting the way he’d expected, and he was having trouble adapting.
Amateur, Holmes thought, giving a compliant grunt as the knife bit deep. They had him tied well, but hadn’t bothered to blindfold him. The knife man was an experienced sadist, but he was obviously not used to interrogations, since he simply went ahead at his own pace, regardless of the questioning.
Holmes was bleeding and he hurt, but what he felt most strongly was simple contempt, primarily for them, but also for himself. How had anything, even the eternal question of Watson, have distracted him so much that he’d let himself be taken by these imbeciles?
The simple fact was that interrogation through torture was never just a matter of gore and nerve endings. It was also made up of fear and rage and a double handful of other emotions that Holmes rarely ever felt, especially not at times like this. He could adapt to the sensations because his mind was clear and sharp, and he had read the men torturing him as easily as if he was reading a book. His admirers here weren’t trying to kill him. They wanted information from him, and there was a limit to how far they would go. Oh, the knife man was willing, but he wasn’t in command here. The question man was the controlling force, and because he was weak, Holmes could take that control from him.
“How far will you go?” he asked that man, his voice quite calm and unaffected. The man actually started, staring at him. He didn’t say anything in response, but one hand jerked involuntarily, spilling salt on the floor.
“You’re a petty thief by trade. I doubt you’ve ever seen the inside of a prison, not through your own cleverness but through simple timidity. And yet, here you are, and the question is, what now?” Holmes said. “As much as you want to know where Miss Andreessen is, you also fear the hangman, and you’ve not got the stomach for this work, unlike our friend here.”
He flicked his eyes over to the knife man by way of acknowledgment, noting as he did that the man had drawn back, idly cleaning his blade as he sensed the atmosphere shift. That was all well and good, but he wasn’t the man who mattered here. He was hired help, much like the muscled goons who’d managed to subdue Holmes in the first place. The question man was the one holding the purse, and that was all the loyalty they had to him. Cracking him should be enough.
“You’ll tell me everything,” the ‘interrogator’ said, “or our ‘friend’ will have your guts out.”
Holmes smiled at him. There was blood in his teeth and spilling from his lips, but he smiled. “And what then?”
Unnerved, the man stuttered, trying to gain back whatever composure he’d thought he had. “Th-then he’ll-“
“He’ll have my eyes out next? Pull my teeth? Break my fingers? Amputate my toes?” Holmes pressed. His eyes were keen, missing nothing. “I know,” he said brightly. “You’ll have him sever my manhood.”
The man gaped at him. Holmes was not at all what he had expected.
“Perhaps you should have him show you how to do it, since I doubt you’ll be able to retain his services a second time,” Holmes added.
No one had anything at all to say to that, and thus the room went utterly silent, and still. Even the faint sounds of traffic from the street above were gone, although no one seemed to notice. All attention was focused on Holmes, who now closed his eyes and let his tired muscles relax, stretching against his bonds as if he were making himself comfortable on the filthy cot.
“My dear boy, the key to torture isn’t the flesh under the knife,” he said, as if warming to his subject. “It’s fear. Fear of pain, fear of death, fear of helplessness: all tools in your hand. It’s your sad misfortune that I’m utterly incapable of feeling it.”
He licked delicately at the blood at the corner of his mouth. “Kill me fast or by degrees; it all comes to the same thing. You mean nothing at all to me, and nothing is precisely what I shall tell you. Now get on with it, or I’ll have bled out before the Yarders arrive. And then it won’t be the prison yard, but the noose for you.”
The tension in the room was something he could have reached out and plucked, like the string of a bow, or a finely-tuned violin. What note should he strike?
He let them wait, stretching the moment even tighter, scraping it out across their nerves.
“It would be a pity if they don’t send you to the anatomists afterwards; I imagine Science would benefit somewhat if they had a chance to dissect your brain.”
He didn’t bother opening his eyes when he heard them scrambling out of the room, his questioner leading the way. Lestrade was upstairs, or nearby. There were very few reasons short of cataclysm that a busy London street would suddenly fall silent in the middle of the day, and the sudden arrival of several of Scotland Yard’s finest was the most likely of these. Watson would be with them, would have led them here in one way or another. He was exceedingly clever, really.
Clever enough to see into the emptiness of Sherlock Holmes’ heart, as no one else had, and fearless enough not to look away again.
He could hear the sounds of conflict upstairs now, and the heavy tread of boots across the floorboards. No doubt Miss Andreessen, whose sudden inheritance had thus far brought her no happiness whatsoever, would be safe enough to leave hiding soon. The thought brought him no particular satisfaction. Being kidnapped was a damnably inefficient way to wrap up the case, and in no way was it like anything he’d planned. It didn’t occur to him to speculate about her feelings on the matter, whether she would be glad to be free to move about again, or sad that her new father-in-law had hired thugs to deprive her of her wealth. Like the bulk of humanity, she had no real value to him at all, beyond what interest her case had brought him.
“Holmes!” Ah, Watson’s voice, coming down the stairs. Holmes struggled to sit up, not wanting to alarm the man any more than he had to.
John Watson meant more to him than any other person he had ever known. The doctor had shown him how to live inside the world, to pretend that he was part of it. His devotion made Holmes feel worthwhile, like a whole person instead of a strange shadow, and he made Holmes happy, which was so rare a thing that he hadn’t even recognized it at first.
“Dear God, old man, what have you gotten yourself into?”
“Nothing worth troubling yourself over, Watson. Nothing at all.”
Of course Watson put himself to a great deal of trouble regardless, and Holmes was soon bandaged within an inch of his life. Leaning on his doctor, Holmes slowly climbed the stairs, taking notice without any conscious effort of anything he might have missed on the way in. Upstairs, his captors were gathered in a loose group, somewhat the worse for wear. The knife man was not among them, however, and Sherlock smiled. It was a genuine smile, and the Yarders took it for approval, but it had nothing to do with them, or with their catch. Only Watson understood, and he pressed Sherlock’s hand in warning.
“Not until you’ve recovered,” he said, exceptionally quietly, and Holmes nodded.
No, of course, he wouldn’t go after the knife man until he was in top form again. The man deserved at least that much respect. When Holmes hunted him down, he would also show him the courtesy of not letting him die until he’d taught him how the thing was properly done. As for the rest, he didn’t spare them much thought. Lestrade’s justice would have them, and then, some day, inevitably, they would pay another price, one extracted by the rather more discreet agents of a blue-eyed, gentleman doctor.
Hurting Holmes was one thing, but upsetting Watson was another, and the price for both mistakes was exceedingly high.
Lestrade watched them go, each with an arm around the other, and wondered how long it would take before the first bodies turned up.
Author: Xero Sky
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 1592
Spoilers: Not a one
Summary: From a prompt at the kinkmeme: community.livejournal.com/shkinkmeme/5516.html
As much as I don't believe he's even a sociopath, I'd love to read a fic where a villain tries to brutalise Sherlock into fear, only to have Sherlock, bloody from torture, calmly inform him that you can't frighten something that has no emotions.
I want an absolute monster!Sherlock scaring the living daylights out of whoever thought they were bad-ass enough to deal with the great Sherlock Holmes.
Bonus points if you can still somehow have him care about John in a fucked up, touchingly psycho way.
Warnings: Torture, bondage, gore, dark!characters, general creepiness
Disclaimer: All characters are property of their copyright holders; no profit of any kind is intended from this work of fan fiction.
It wasn’t that he didn’t feel the pain. The man with the knife, in particular, was skillful with it, managing to cause a great deal of pain without creating enough damage to immediately endanger his life; there was no way of pretending that having strips of skin flayed off wasn’t agonizing, but it wasn’t going to kill him right away. The knife man never cut too deeply, and he was a patient, methodical type. He was also the only one of the five involved in kidnapping and torture this evening who had the sense to cover his face, for all the good it would do him.
The man who was asking the questions was also the man who occasionally threw salt on him like he was a side of beef. Holmes could tell he wasn’t particularly experienced with this sort of thing; the knife man’s work started unnerving him fairly early on, and he really didn’t seem to be enjoying himself. Holmes wasn’t reacting the way he’d expected, and he was having trouble adapting.
Amateur, Holmes thought, giving a compliant grunt as the knife bit deep. They had him tied well, but hadn’t bothered to blindfold him. The knife man was an experienced sadist, but he was obviously not used to interrogations, since he simply went ahead at his own pace, regardless of the questioning.
Holmes was bleeding and he hurt, but what he felt most strongly was simple contempt, primarily for them, but also for himself. How had anything, even the eternal question of Watson, have distracted him so much that he’d let himself be taken by these imbeciles?
The simple fact was that interrogation through torture was never just a matter of gore and nerve endings. It was also made up of fear and rage and a double handful of other emotions that Holmes rarely ever felt, especially not at times like this. He could adapt to the sensations because his mind was clear and sharp, and he had read the men torturing him as easily as if he was reading a book. His admirers here weren’t trying to kill him. They wanted information from him, and there was a limit to how far they would go. Oh, the knife man was willing, but he wasn’t in command here. The question man was the controlling force, and because he was weak, Holmes could take that control from him.
“How far will you go?” he asked that man, his voice quite calm and unaffected. The man actually started, staring at him. He didn’t say anything in response, but one hand jerked involuntarily, spilling salt on the floor.
“You’re a petty thief by trade. I doubt you’ve ever seen the inside of a prison, not through your own cleverness but through simple timidity. And yet, here you are, and the question is, what now?” Holmes said. “As much as you want to know where Miss Andreessen is, you also fear the hangman, and you’ve not got the stomach for this work, unlike our friend here.”
He flicked his eyes over to the knife man by way of acknowledgment, noting as he did that the man had drawn back, idly cleaning his blade as he sensed the atmosphere shift. That was all well and good, but he wasn’t the man who mattered here. He was hired help, much like the muscled goons who’d managed to subdue Holmes in the first place. The question man was the one holding the purse, and that was all the loyalty they had to him. Cracking him should be enough.
“You’ll tell me everything,” the ‘interrogator’ said, “or our ‘friend’ will have your guts out.”
Holmes smiled at him. There was blood in his teeth and spilling from his lips, but he smiled. “And what then?”
Unnerved, the man stuttered, trying to gain back whatever composure he’d thought he had. “Th-then he’ll-“
“He’ll have my eyes out next? Pull my teeth? Break my fingers? Amputate my toes?” Holmes pressed. His eyes were keen, missing nothing. “I know,” he said brightly. “You’ll have him sever my manhood.”
The man gaped at him. Holmes was not at all what he had expected.
“Perhaps you should have him show you how to do it, since I doubt you’ll be able to retain his services a second time,” Holmes added.
No one had anything at all to say to that, and thus the room went utterly silent, and still. Even the faint sounds of traffic from the street above were gone, although no one seemed to notice. All attention was focused on Holmes, who now closed his eyes and let his tired muscles relax, stretching against his bonds as if he were making himself comfortable on the filthy cot.
“My dear boy, the key to torture isn’t the flesh under the knife,” he said, as if warming to his subject. “It’s fear. Fear of pain, fear of death, fear of helplessness: all tools in your hand. It’s your sad misfortune that I’m utterly incapable of feeling it.”
He licked delicately at the blood at the corner of his mouth. “Kill me fast or by degrees; it all comes to the same thing. You mean nothing at all to me, and nothing is precisely what I shall tell you. Now get on with it, or I’ll have bled out before the Yarders arrive. And then it won’t be the prison yard, but the noose for you.”
The tension in the room was something he could have reached out and plucked, like the string of a bow, or a finely-tuned violin. What note should he strike?
He let them wait, stretching the moment even tighter, scraping it out across their nerves.
“It would be a pity if they don’t send you to the anatomists afterwards; I imagine Science would benefit somewhat if they had a chance to dissect your brain.”
He didn’t bother opening his eyes when he heard them scrambling out of the room, his questioner leading the way. Lestrade was upstairs, or nearby. There were very few reasons short of cataclysm that a busy London street would suddenly fall silent in the middle of the day, and the sudden arrival of several of Scotland Yard’s finest was the most likely of these. Watson would be with them, would have led them here in one way or another. He was exceedingly clever, really.
Clever enough to see into the emptiness of Sherlock Holmes’ heart, as no one else had, and fearless enough not to look away again.
He could hear the sounds of conflict upstairs now, and the heavy tread of boots across the floorboards. No doubt Miss Andreessen, whose sudden inheritance had thus far brought her no happiness whatsoever, would be safe enough to leave hiding soon. The thought brought him no particular satisfaction. Being kidnapped was a damnably inefficient way to wrap up the case, and in no way was it like anything he’d planned. It didn’t occur to him to speculate about her feelings on the matter, whether she would be glad to be free to move about again, or sad that her new father-in-law had hired thugs to deprive her of her wealth. Like the bulk of humanity, she had no real value to him at all, beyond what interest her case had brought him.
“Holmes!” Ah, Watson’s voice, coming down the stairs. Holmes struggled to sit up, not wanting to alarm the man any more than he had to.
John Watson meant more to him than any other person he had ever known. The doctor had shown him how to live inside the world, to pretend that he was part of it. His devotion made Holmes feel worthwhile, like a whole person instead of a strange shadow, and he made Holmes happy, which was so rare a thing that he hadn’t even recognized it at first.
“Dear God, old man, what have you gotten yourself into?”
“Nothing worth troubling yourself over, Watson. Nothing at all.”
Of course Watson put himself to a great deal of trouble regardless, and Holmes was soon bandaged within an inch of his life. Leaning on his doctor, Holmes slowly climbed the stairs, taking notice without any conscious effort of anything he might have missed on the way in. Upstairs, his captors were gathered in a loose group, somewhat the worse for wear. The knife man was not among them, however, and Sherlock smiled. It was a genuine smile, and the Yarders took it for approval, but it had nothing to do with them, or with their catch. Only Watson understood, and he pressed Sherlock’s hand in warning.
“Not until you’ve recovered,” he said, exceptionally quietly, and Holmes nodded.
No, of course, he wouldn’t go after the knife man until he was in top form again. The man deserved at least that much respect. When Holmes hunted him down, he would also show him the courtesy of not letting him die until he’d taught him how the thing was properly done. As for the rest, he didn’t spare them much thought. Lestrade’s justice would have them, and then, some day, inevitably, they would pay another price, one extracted by the rather more discreet agents of a blue-eyed, gentleman doctor.
Hurting Holmes was one thing, but upsetting Watson was another, and the price for both mistakes was exceedingly high.
Lestrade watched them go, each with an arm around the other, and wondered how long it would take before the first bodies turned up.