Sherlock Holmes: A Risky Gamble
Title: A Risky Gamble
Characters: Holmes, Watson, and a couple nasty OCs
Rating: R
Word Count: 4958
Warnings: rape
Summary: Originally posted on the kinkmeme and written in response to this prompt:
In a fit of drunken gambling, Watson loses all his money, his watch, etc. until he's left with almost nothing. Desperate, he decides to wager Holmes' body, but loses the bet. The men he was gambling against want their winnings now.
Author's Notes: So I know little and was able to learn little (doing very cursory research) about all the games that might be played in a Victorian gaming room. Details of the card game in this story are deliberately vague so as to possibly be any variant of brag, poker, or 21.
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The next hand... was the only clear thought in the alcohol induced haze in Watson's mind. The next hand was sure to go his way. The odds would have to be in his favor.
With bleary eyes, he watched his opponents: two brothers whose only dubious virtue was the Devil's own luck at the card table. The younger was gleefully counting Watson's money -- which included the rent -- while the elder admired Watson's brother's watch, stroking a thick finger across its face. A small pang of sorrow broke through his drunkenness at the sight.
"One more!" Watson blurted out. "Just one more hand."
The elder brother snorted and made a rude hand gesture at this. "Shove off. You've nothing left to wager."
"I..." Watson delved into his pockets, searching, but finding nothing. Hesitantly, he moved his hand to his cane. "I've got--"
The younger brother held up his hand to forestall both Watson's words and his brother's leaving the table. "Hold up there, George," he said to his brother. "He does have something we might be interested in." He raised his eyebrows suggestively, though the action communicated meaning only to George.
"You're right, Tom," the elder brother replied, resettling himself in his seat while Watson observed their exchange in bemusement. George turned back to the doctor. "One last wager, doctor. We'll give you a chance to get yours back. All of the money we've won off you and this fine watch..." He waved the timepiece before Watson's reddened face as he spoke. "Against your friend the boxer -- his body."
"Holmes?" What? "I don't follow..."
The brothers gave identical rough sighs. The younger responded, "Yes. You agree to wager his body and we'll agree to one more hand. You don't, we walk."
Watson could only stare at them blankly, alcohol and willful incomprehension blocking the meaning of Tom's words.
"Looks like we have to spell it out, Tom," George said to his brother with an exaggerated groan of disgust. He returned his attention to Watson then, the leering curve of his mouth causing Watson a twinge of nausea. "We want your friend's fine body, doctor Watson -- we want to use it."
Watson felt his head spin while bile burned the back of his throat. Mistaking his appalled revulsion for continued incomprehension, the younger brother leaned in and spoke close by Watson's ear. "We want to fuck Holmes." The softness of his tone was in grotesque contrast to his foul words. "We want to fuck him insensible."
"You... you're out of your minds, both of you." Watson flinched away from Tom's closeness as he said it.
"Are we?" asked George, still leering. "I've seen the way you watch him in the ring, doctor, and I know you're thinking the same thing as us." He leaned in on Watson's other side and continued in a slimy, conspiratorial tone, "Every time he's knocked down and you see him scrambling on hands and knees, you're thinking about how much you want to ram your cock up that lovely arse and bugger him into the gritty floor."
"Oh, yes..." Tom hissed in response, thankfully leaning away from Watson before lowering a hand to clutch at his own groin.
"No!" Watson's denial was sharp. While he was shocked by the filthy words and gestures, he was even more appalled at how... appealing the image was. "No," he repeated, more softly. "It's criminal."
George merely shrugged. "It's your last chance."
Last chance... That was his brother's watch in this reprobate's hands. That was his and Holmes's rent that was about to fund whatever debauchery these brothers had planned for the night.
And surely they could not be serious.
Surely on this hand, luck and the cards must be on Watson's side.
"I accept."
"What was that?"
"I accept the wager," Watson repeated more firmly, though the words left the acrid aftertaste of bile in his mouth.
With a gleeful chuckle, Tom shuffled and then dealt the cards. There were no rounds of betting as their wagers had already been decided. Watson eyed his cards and the faces of his opponents. Though the sick feeling refused to leave his stomach, the cards told him he had a good shot. The brothers' expressions told him nothing.
At least they've ceased their leering...
The moment of truth, for good or ill, arrived soon. The three men revealed their cards in turn. Watson bit his lower lip as George showed them his cards. His hand was quite poor and Watson felt the knot in his stomach ease slightly. He revealed his own hand and waited, brow beginning to sweat, for Tom to show them his cards.
"Well, doctor," George said in a sickeningly cheerful tone as the last card was revealed, "looks like Tom and I will be... imposing on Mr. Holmes's hospitality tonight."
I've lost... The thought filtered through his drunkenness to swirl in his brain, making him dizzy. "No..." He put both hands to the sides of his head to stop the room spinning about him. "No... y-you can't."
"You going to renege on your wager?" Tom pitched his voice to cut through the noise of the room, which went nearly silent, the atmosphere deadly. One of the oversized thugs hired to keep the peace and enforce "fair play" moved a hand to his cudgel.
"No, of course not!" He could hear the tone of his own voice, more panicked than reassuring. Even sober, the entire room was more than Watson could take on.
"Don't think you can cheat us when we leave here, either, doctor," Tom warned threat and anticipation in his eyes. "We know where you live and you know what will happen if we tell our friend the owner here that you refused to pay your debts."
He did. It rarely involved as much pain or damage to the debtor as it did to his family, friends, and property. The owner prided himself on taking very good care of his friends.
"V-very well, then." If I delay, Holmes will think of something. "I'll arrange a meeting tomor--"
"No," George cut him off. "Tonight," he breathed. "You give us Holmes tonight."
Watson limped and stumbled along the lamp and moonlit street, Tom and George pressed close against either side, their hands on his elbows, ostensibly supporting him in his drunken state.
"In case you get any heroic ideas," George had said, taking Watson's cane from him as they left the gaming room. It had been tempting, of course, but Tom had put a quick word in the owner's ear before they had left, no doubt explaining some part of the situation. If the brothers did not return later that night, the owner would come looking for Watson.
"Aren't you going to invite us in?" It was not until Tom asked this impatient question that Watson realized they had arrived at his stoop. He looked up at the windows of 221B Baker Street and saw no light.
Perhaps Holmes is out... It was not a vain hope. The erratic detective may have decided to investigate some odd nocturnal phenomenon or hole up above the Punch Bowl for the night. Please let him not be home! It was the clearest thought Watson had had since before sitting down at the card table.
With an unsteady hand, Watson unlocked the front door and opened it. "Wait here," he bid his unwanted guests in the entry hall. "I'll check on him, first." They made no response, but they did not follow him up the stairs to the sitting room. Hands still shaking and nervousness writhing in his stomach, he slowly opened the door and peered inside.
The moonlight streaming in the open curtains illuminated the sleeping form of Sherlock Holmes sprawled on and over the settee. Damn! Watson made his unsteady way to his flatmate. Holmes was clad only in a pair of shabby trousers, his dressing gown having been bunched up under his head to serve as a makeshift pillow. He was snoring softly and from the smell emanating from his body, alcohol had had some part in his insensibility. A small trail of drool had leaked from one corner of his partially open mouth. Watson's hand went to his pocket to pull out his handkerchief.
"Whoo." A soft breathy whistle of appreciation interrupted the doctor, startling him. "Our wagers may've been a touch uneven," Tom murmured from behind Watson.
"A pleasure money can't buy, eh Tom?" George practically purred as he moved up beside the small sofa. His gaze slowly traced every curve of Holmes's form, the lust glimmering in his usually dull eyes seeming to leave a filthy, slimy trail on the sleeping man's skin. "Makes you feel migthy high and fine, doesn't it?" His voice had become husky. He reached out a meaty hand toward the exposed flesh of Holmes's abdomen.
No. Watson began lunging forward, mouth open to vocalize his protest, but a quick, sharp punch to the small of his back landed him on his hands and knees, winded and gasping for breath.
"You'd better make sure he doesn't change his mind, Tom."
"You want him out?"
"Just tie him up. Gag him. Landladies in these sorts of houses are always light sleepers."
Without another word, Tom dragged a still incapacitated Watson to and onto a chair. He lashed all four limbs securely to the chair with curtain ties. He then gripped Watson's jaws, forcing them apart before shoving Watson's own handkerchief into his mouth and tying it in place with a cravat that Holmes had left strewn on the back of the chair.
"Now, come and help me here, Tom." The impatience in George's short, breathy voice was palpable. Watson's turned his eyes back to the settee. The elder brother was softly stroking Holmes's torso with one hand. The other had strayed absently to his groin and was rubbing his obvious arousal. Holmes frowned in his sleep and began to stir.
"How do you want him, George?" Tom asked, moving to his brother's side.
"On the floor, on all fours, writhing beneath me."
"Yesss..."
No... Dear God, what have I done?
Watson could only watch helplessly as the two brothers made eye contact over Holmes's sleeping form. With a nod, they moved together, placing rough hands on the detective's body and swiftly rolling him over and down onto the floor.
"Wah!" Holmes woke with a startled yelp. In spite of the alcohol that was no doubt still impairing him and the violent awakening, Holmes's fighting instincts kicked in and he immediately began to shift up into a crouch.
George and Tom, however, were apparently ready for such a reaction. George gripped Holmes's hips in his large hands while Tom pushed down on the detective's shoulders with all his considerable weight.
"Not so fast, there," George chided, lust and mockery sickeningly mingled in his voice. "You wouldn't deny two hardworking men your hospitality, would you? Not when they've earned it."
Holmes made no reply to this. He stilled completely in the brothers' hold. Planning his next move, Watson realized, daring to hope for a moment that his friend might get out of this mess.
"I know that look in his eye, George," Tom warned, the whitening of his knuckles indicating the increased strength of his grip. "I've seen it in the ring. He's getting ready to really fight."
"Well, then," George answered as he wrapped an arm around Holmes's waist, pulling the smaller man tight against him. If Holmes had been unclear as to their intentions before, he could not be now -- not with George's erection pressing so close against him. A shudder ran through his body and every muscle tensed. "We'd best get on with it."
"Wha-- why are you doing this?" Holmes's voice would doubtless seem calm and collected to the brothers, but Watson could hear the beginnings of panic.
"We're just collecting a wager, you see. Your doctor friend just doesn't know when to quit."
Watson closed his eyes. He had not really expected the brothers to keep quiet about that, but still...
"Watson?"
"Yeah. When he ran out of money, he offered you as a wager," Tom explained cheerfully, clearly hoping to cause pain.
"Having seen this fine arse," George apparently rubbed himself against Holmes as he said this, eliciting a gasp of fear, "we accepted."
"Too bad for you that your friend lost."
"That is a weak and obvious lie," Holmes spat out, the conviction in his voice cutting into Watson.
"You can ask him yourself, if you like," Tom's enjoyment of the situation was evident in the laughter in his voice. "He's right over there."
"He's here? What have you done with him? Watson?" Watson's eyes snapped open when Holmes called out his name. He watched as his friend began to struggle in earnest against the men holding him. Guilt like nausea roiled in Watson's stomach.
"Keep him still and shut him up!" George ordered his brother, impatience making his voice harsh. His face was red and his breathing short. He closed his eyes for a moment as another move of Holmes's pressed the detective even harder against George's erection. "Now, Tom!"
Tom made a quick move, releasing one of Holmes's shoulders and putting a leg against the struggling man's neck. He ruthlessly pressed down, cutting off Holmes's air, as he let go of the other shoulder. He looked about, but found only the dressing gown on the settee. With a small shrug, he snatched it up, balled up a portion of it, and shoved it as far as it would go into the detective's gasping mouth. Watson winced at the weak choking noises Holmes made. The struggles became weaker as Tom continued his pressure against Holmes's neck.
"That's better," George breathed, loosening his own hold on Holmes to put a hand to the waist of the detective's trousers. He pulled them down roughly, snapping bindings. With those out of the way, he put his hand on one of Holmes's buttocks, caressing it and groaning obscenely. "Now we're getting somewhere."
Get your God damned hands off him! Watson tried to shout around his gag, fighting uselessly against his bonds. Tom spared him a smiling glance as he finally removed his leg from Holmes's neck. The detective's body was limp, but he was apparently still conscious.
George slid his hand to Holmes's crack, pushing one cheek away and putting his thumb against the opening there. "He's tight," he grunted as he pushed his thumb in. Holmes whimpered faintly. "Too tight maybe."
"Right." Tom returned one hand to the detective to press down between his shoulder blades. With the other, he rifled through the clutter on the low table beside him. With a triumphant laugh he held up the small jar of the grease compound Holmes had been using on his violin pegs. With a more sadistic laugh, he handed it to his brother, who snatched it up impatiently.
With another groan, George opened the front of his own trousers and released his leaking erection. His motions nearly frantic, he opened the jar of grease, scooped out a good portion with a finger, and quickly coated his arousal with it, groaning and panting his impatience through the entire process. When George positioned himself against Holmes's entrance, Watson closed his eyes, unable to watch.
He could not close his ears, however. He heard Tom's lust-husky voice as he urged his brother on. He heard every obscene moan and filthy word George uttered as he pushed his cock into Holmes. And he heard every last choked cry and whimper that Holmes's pride could not hold back.
"How is he, George?" Tom asked, excitement running his words together.
There was a disgusting sound of flesh moving against flesh, followed by another groan from George and another strangled noise from Holmes. "Fuck." It seemed to be the only coherent word George could manage.
Watson clenched his eyes more tightly shut, but it only served to heighten his awareness of the sounds. And to make him see what was blocked from his vision when his eyes were open: Holmes's face.
In his mind's eye, his dear friend's face was white and pinched with pain and fear. Those intelligent brown eyes were filled with shame and betrayal. They slowly closed against the tears the detective could no longer hold back.
With his own pained gasp, Watson snapped his eyes open, only to see George thrusting spasmodically into Holmes. He turned his head away sharply, clenching his fists and jaws.
"Hurry up!" Tom urged his brother. "My turn."
"Al...most..." George gasped out. Then he gave a particularly loud, violent grunt followed by breathless panting. "Sweet as I'd imagined," he purred.
"Move."
"All yours, little brother."
Watson's eyes fell on the violin that lay on the desk beside him. He tried to focus on it, to remember its music -- anything to tune out the sounds in the room. There was the shuffling, sliding noise of men moving about on their knees, the rustling of clothing being removed, the harsh breaths of excited men, and the pitiful, muffled moans of a bound man trying not to succumb to pain and fear.
There was no song in Watson's mind to overcome those dreadful noises. No matter how he tried to recall the chords of the piece Holmes had played to him just last night -- even going so far as to attempt to hum it -- Watson could not drown out the repulsive wet sounds of Tom taking his brother's place over and inside Holmes.
"Bloody... fucking...hell..." Tom had less control than his brother, the sounds told Watson. The younger brother's grunts, his lewd words, the disgusting slide of his flesh against Holmes's all came faster than George's. As did the detective's gagged cries of pain.
The infinitesimal shift in the fall of moonlight in the room told Watson that it ended quite soon, no matter how interminable it had seemed.
For a moment, Tom's panting was the only sound in the room. Then his brother broke the near silence. "What do you think, Tom? Another round?"
God, no...
Tom laughed breathlessly, but said, "Shame I drank so much in the gaming room. I'm no good for another go."
"A waste," George agreed. "We're neither of us as young as we used to be."
"A little love tap, and then on our way?"
"Right. That'll do the job, if you'll hand it here."
Watson turned his gaze back to the two brothers in time to see Tom hand Watson's cane to his brother. Watson made a muffled cry of protest, but could do nothing to stop George from raising that cane and bringing it down hard on the back of Holmes's head. The detective went completely limp as he fell unconscious.
"For the bets he's lost us," George explained, turning to Watson. He walked toward the bound doctor, taking something from his pocket as he did so. "As for our wagers... It really was an uneven bet," he said, rubbing his own groin in satisfaction. "You can have this back." With that, he dropped Watson's brother's watch into the doctor's lap. Chuckling, he turned around and left the room.
Tom followed him out, but he paused in the doorway of the sitting room. Turning back, he said in parting, "See you in the gaming rooms!"
Then he too exited, leaving Watson alone with his unconscious, violated flatmate... and an overwhelming feeling of self-recrimination.
What have I done? He asked himself over and over again until the words lost meaning in his mind, becoming a dizzying, sickening knot of guilt. His brother's watch felt oppressively heavy in his lap. He twisted in his bonds, moving his legs as best he could, trying to shake it off, but only succeeded in making it slide between his thighs. It felt hot, like it was burning him.
What have I done? The meaningless question would not leave him as he looked over to where Holmes still lay. From his position, with the coffee table between them, all Watson could see of the other man was his lower body. There were bruises beginning to form on his hips -- bruises shaped like fingers -- and white fluid was slowly leaking from between his buttocks.
Look away, urged a weak corner of his mind as bile burned the back of his throat and tears stung his eyes. Spare Holmes the shame.
Spare himself the pain of his guilt.
Look hard, his conscience commanded. Feel the extent of your crime. This was what his addiction had brought.
In the end, his weakness won out and he looked away. He turned his head toward the window, eyes seeking the shape of the moon through its dusty panes. From his angle, however, he could only see the rays of moonlight that flowed in from between the unbound curtains. He watched the dust motes that danced in those beams, striving to think of nothing.
Sometime during that endlessly failing attempt, Holmes regained consciousness. A pained, confused, muffled groan came from the opposite side of the table. Watson turned back to see the detective slowly levering himself upright. Then he pulled the bit of dressing gown out of his mouth.
"What...?" Holmes looked utterly bemused, as if he was not sure where he was or why he was there. His hand went up to touch the back of his head, gingerly testing the spot that George had struck. Then he lowered his hand, trembling, to his lower body. His fingers found the wetness there and jerked back as if burned. His whole body shuddering with revulsion, Holmes frantically wiped his fingers on his trousers before feverishly pulling them up, repeatedly wincing with pain as he did so. That finished, he looked up and around, eyes wide and fearful. His gaze met Watson's.
"Watson?" he asked, voice small and quavering. "What happened?"
What happened? Still bound and gagged, Watson could only shake his head at the fear and bewilderment in Holmes's dark eyes. He doesn't remember? Watson felt a stab of self-hatred at the selfish hope and relief that lay in that thought.
"Watson!" Holmes repeated, this time in surprise as he realized that his friend was bound to a chair and gagged. He began to rise, but flinched from the pain as he did so. Shame and disgust added to the pathetic mix of emotions in his eyes before he lowered them. His fingers scrabbled over to his dressing gown and he draped it over his frame with shaking hands. He closed the front of it and tied it as tightly as he could before painstakingly scooting himself to the chair where Watson sat bound. With trembling fingers, Holmes picked at the curtain ties binding Watson's right hand to the arm of the chair. He finally succeeded in loosening them enough that Watson was able to pull his hand free. "Watson, are you all right?" he asked as Watson pulled down his gag and removed his handkerchief from his mouth.
"Am I all right? Am I all right?" Watson was not sure if he wanted to laugh or to be sick. "Holmes..."
"Have they hurt you?"
"They? Holmes... what do you remember?"
"Just...flashes...sensations..." Holmes shuddered, hugging his dressing gown even more tightly about himself. "Watson, what happened?"
"Two men came into the flat... I think they followed me home... They tied me up..." The truth, but not all of it. "They... attacked you in your sleep."
"Who...? Why?" Holmes met his eyes again and Watson could again see the emotions filling them. Pride was fighting not to crumble before shame, pain, and shock.
Tell him. It will hurt you both less to tell him now. Sherlock Holmes would inevitably find out what had happened.
No. Don't say anything. He may never want to know. "It was dark... I could not see their faces properly." Holmes was in a truly pitiable state if he accepted this evasion. "They said something about seeing you box and... liking you."
Holmes nodded jerkily before dropping his head. Further tremors shook his body, but his hands went to untie Watson's other wrist.
"Leave that," Watson said, his tone sharper than he intended. "Leave that. I'll get it," he repeated more softly. "Pour yourself some brandy and sit in your chair."
Holmes nodded again and followed his doctor's orders. Every motion seemed to be agony, but he levered himself to his feet and stumbled his way to the side bar. He poured more brandy around the glass than into it, but he managed it and then the painful steps to his chair.
When Watson saw him safely seated, he turned his attention to his bonds. He picked one-handed at the one on his left wrist, eventually getting it undone. He then made short work of freeing his feet before he rushed to Holmes's side.
"Holmes?" he called softly. The other man met his gaze and Watson looked hard into his eyes. They seemed calmer. He reached his hand out slowly to Holmes, who flinched slightly but allowed the contact as Watson gently felt for damage on the back of his head. Holmes hissed in pain as the doctor's fingers found a small bump. "Any dizziness?"
Holmes shook his head. "Just pain."
"I'm going to need to clean and examine your... other injuries as well."
Shame and revulsion once more pinched Holmes's features and shook his frame, but he nodded once. "No one I trust more than you, my dear Watson."
"T-towels," Watson stammered, feeling the blood rush away from his head. He staggered as quickly as he could out of the sitting room and into the water closet to be violently ill.
When the heaving of his stomach finally subsided, Watson quietly made his way to the linen cupboard for clean towels and then down to the kitchen for a pitcher of water. He limped his way back to the sitting room to find Holmes exactly where he had left him. The detective was staring into the empty tumbler he held cupped in his hands. Before returning to the man's side, he lit a lamp and then went to his doctor's case to retrieve his largest pipette -- it would help.
"Holmes," he said softly as he moved back to the armchair. "I'm going to need you to open your dressing gown and remove your trousers."
The other man continued staring into the glass. "You saw it, didn't you?" His tone was flat. "You witnessed the entire... act."
"Not all. I could not bear it..." I was too weak.
"But you saw enough." Apparently having reached a decision of some kind, Holmes nodded to himself. He then set the glass down on the side table and reached trembling fingers to the sash of his dressing gown. Watson turned his face away as the detective disrobed -- it might make it somewhat easier. "I'm ready, doctor," Holmes said firmly enough after long moments.
Watson was not, but he set to work anyway. It was a penance of a kind, to do this, though it would never be enough. He would see just how much damage his weakness and selfishness had done.
With wet towels and the pipette he gently cleaned away Tom's and George's seed, the grease, and a very small amount of blood. He felt every tremor of shame or pain that passed through Holmes's body during the process. He went back to his case for his ethanol and a small tin of ointment. Holmes hissed in pain and shuddered in remembered fear as Watson cleaned the tearing around his anus and then gently rubbed ointment into the small wounds. That was, thankfully, the extent of the physical damage.
When he finished, Watson looked up at Holmes's face. The other man's eyes were tightly closed and his lower lip was clenched between his teeth. "Stop that," the doctor chided, reaching a hand out to touch Holmes's cheek, but pulling it back before he made contact. "It's over."
With a shuddering sigh, Holmes opened his eyes. "Thank you," he whispered.
"It's... I...” What did he want to say? "Holmes, I'm sorry," Watson blurted out.
"Whatever for?"
Watson lowered his eyes, no longer able to meet the trust in that gaze. "I... I lost the rent."
Holmes sighed again and replied, "My dear Watson, it is only money." He sounded almost like his usual self.
Watson nodded. "Let me help you to bed," he said, extending a hand to help Holmes up. The detective took it without hesitation and they got him to his feet.
"Your watch, Watson. That is not a secure place to leave it," Holmes said when he got to his feet. Watson followed his gaze to the other chair.
"I'll get it later. We need to get you into bed first." Step by painstaking step, they got Holmes into his room and onto his bed. Watson went back to the sitting room, refilled Holmes's glass, and brought it to him. "Drink this and sleep," he ordered.
"Yes, doctor," Holmes replied with the barest hint of a smile. "Good night, Watson."
"Good night, Holmes," Watson answered before leaving the room.
He went to his chair and picked up his watch. It still felt so heavy and hot in his hand. Just looking at it made him feel ill. He went over to the desk, opened the bottom drawer, and shoved the watch deep inside before closing the drawer again. Watson then put his hands flat on the surface of the desk and leaned over it, breathing heavily, the guilt he could not hide in a drawer knotting his stomach.
Things would never -- could never -- be the same again.
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OK, cliched ending, but... I thought it fit.
And I'm not sure about the characterizations here...
Also, I hate naming disposable characters (especially ones this nasty), but I found it expedient. No thought went into their names (just the first short men's names that popped into my head that did not belong to major SH characters).
Anyway, thanks for reading.
If you have any constructive criticism, I will not be offended if you leave it respectfully.
Characters: Holmes, Watson, and a couple nasty OCs
Rating: R
Word Count: 4958
Warnings: rape
Summary: Originally posted on the kinkmeme and written in response to this prompt:
In a fit of drunken gambling, Watson loses all his money, his watch, etc. until he's left with almost nothing. Desperate, he decides to wager Holmes' body, but loses the bet. The men he was gambling against want their winnings now.
Author's Notes: So I know little and was able to learn little (doing very cursory research) about all the games that might be played in a Victorian gaming room. Details of the card game in this story are deliberately vague so as to possibly be any variant of brag, poker, or 21.
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The next hand... was the only clear thought in the alcohol induced haze in Watson's mind. The next hand was sure to go his way. The odds would have to be in his favor.
With bleary eyes, he watched his opponents: two brothers whose only dubious virtue was the Devil's own luck at the card table. The younger was gleefully counting Watson's money -- which included the rent -- while the elder admired Watson's brother's watch, stroking a thick finger across its face. A small pang of sorrow broke through his drunkenness at the sight.
"One more!" Watson blurted out. "Just one more hand."
The elder brother snorted and made a rude hand gesture at this. "Shove off. You've nothing left to wager."
"I..." Watson delved into his pockets, searching, but finding nothing. Hesitantly, he moved his hand to his cane. "I've got--"
The younger brother held up his hand to forestall both Watson's words and his brother's leaving the table. "Hold up there, George," he said to his brother. "He does have something we might be interested in." He raised his eyebrows suggestively, though the action communicated meaning only to George.
"You're right, Tom," the elder brother replied, resettling himself in his seat while Watson observed their exchange in bemusement. George turned back to the doctor. "One last wager, doctor. We'll give you a chance to get yours back. All of the money we've won off you and this fine watch..." He waved the timepiece before Watson's reddened face as he spoke. "Against your friend the boxer -- his body."
"Holmes?" What? "I don't follow..."
The brothers gave identical rough sighs. The younger responded, "Yes. You agree to wager his body and we'll agree to one more hand. You don't, we walk."
Watson could only stare at them blankly, alcohol and willful incomprehension blocking the meaning of Tom's words.
"Looks like we have to spell it out, Tom," George said to his brother with an exaggerated groan of disgust. He returned his attention to Watson then, the leering curve of his mouth causing Watson a twinge of nausea. "We want your friend's fine body, doctor Watson -- we want to use it."
Watson felt his head spin while bile burned the back of his throat. Mistaking his appalled revulsion for continued incomprehension, the younger brother leaned in and spoke close by Watson's ear. "We want to fuck Holmes." The softness of his tone was in grotesque contrast to his foul words. "We want to fuck him insensible."
"You... you're out of your minds, both of you." Watson flinched away from Tom's closeness as he said it.
"Are we?" asked George, still leering. "I've seen the way you watch him in the ring, doctor, and I know you're thinking the same thing as us." He leaned in on Watson's other side and continued in a slimy, conspiratorial tone, "Every time he's knocked down and you see him scrambling on hands and knees, you're thinking about how much you want to ram your cock up that lovely arse and bugger him into the gritty floor."
"Oh, yes..." Tom hissed in response, thankfully leaning away from Watson before lowering a hand to clutch at his own groin.
"No!" Watson's denial was sharp. While he was shocked by the filthy words and gestures, he was even more appalled at how... appealing the image was. "No," he repeated, more softly. "It's criminal."
George merely shrugged. "It's your last chance."
Last chance... That was his brother's watch in this reprobate's hands. That was his and Holmes's rent that was about to fund whatever debauchery these brothers had planned for the night.
And surely they could not be serious.
Surely on this hand, luck and the cards must be on Watson's side.
"I accept."
"What was that?"
"I accept the wager," Watson repeated more firmly, though the words left the acrid aftertaste of bile in his mouth.
With a gleeful chuckle, Tom shuffled and then dealt the cards. There were no rounds of betting as their wagers had already been decided. Watson eyed his cards and the faces of his opponents. Though the sick feeling refused to leave his stomach, the cards told him he had a good shot. The brothers' expressions told him nothing.
At least they've ceased their leering...
The moment of truth, for good or ill, arrived soon. The three men revealed their cards in turn. Watson bit his lower lip as George showed them his cards. His hand was quite poor and Watson felt the knot in his stomach ease slightly. He revealed his own hand and waited, brow beginning to sweat, for Tom to show them his cards.
"Well, doctor," George said in a sickeningly cheerful tone as the last card was revealed, "looks like Tom and I will be... imposing on Mr. Holmes's hospitality tonight."
I've lost... The thought filtered through his drunkenness to swirl in his brain, making him dizzy. "No..." He put both hands to the sides of his head to stop the room spinning about him. "No... y-you can't."
"You going to renege on your wager?" Tom pitched his voice to cut through the noise of the room, which went nearly silent, the atmosphere deadly. One of the oversized thugs hired to keep the peace and enforce "fair play" moved a hand to his cudgel.
"No, of course not!" He could hear the tone of his own voice, more panicked than reassuring. Even sober, the entire room was more than Watson could take on.
"Don't think you can cheat us when we leave here, either, doctor," Tom warned threat and anticipation in his eyes. "We know where you live and you know what will happen if we tell our friend the owner here that you refused to pay your debts."
He did. It rarely involved as much pain or damage to the debtor as it did to his family, friends, and property. The owner prided himself on taking very good care of his friends.
"V-very well, then." If I delay, Holmes will think of something. "I'll arrange a meeting tomor--"
"No," George cut him off. "Tonight," he breathed. "You give us Holmes tonight."
Watson limped and stumbled along the lamp and moonlit street, Tom and George pressed close against either side, their hands on his elbows, ostensibly supporting him in his drunken state.
"In case you get any heroic ideas," George had said, taking Watson's cane from him as they left the gaming room. It had been tempting, of course, but Tom had put a quick word in the owner's ear before they had left, no doubt explaining some part of the situation. If the brothers did not return later that night, the owner would come looking for Watson.
"Aren't you going to invite us in?" It was not until Tom asked this impatient question that Watson realized they had arrived at his stoop. He looked up at the windows of 221B Baker Street and saw no light.
Perhaps Holmes is out... It was not a vain hope. The erratic detective may have decided to investigate some odd nocturnal phenomenon or hole up above the Punch Bowl for the night. Please let him not be home! It was the clearest thought Watson had had since before sitting down at the card table.
With an unsteady hand, Watson unlocked the front door and opened it. "Wait here," he bid his unwanted guests in the entry hall. "I'll check on him, first." They made no response, but they did not follow him up the stairs to the sitting room. Hands still shaking and nervousness writhing in his stomach, he slowly opened the door and peered inside.
The moonlight streaming in the open curtains illuminated the sleeping form of Sherlock Holmes sprawled on and over the settee. Damn! Watson made his unsteady way to his flatmate. Holmes was clad only in a pair of shabby trousers, his dressing gown having been bunched up under his head to serve as a makeshift pillow. He was snoring softly and from the smell emanating from his body, alcohol had had some part in his insensibility. A small trail of drool had leaked from one corner of his partially open mouth. Watson's hand went to his pocket to pull out his handkerchief.
"Whoo." A soft breathy whistle of appreciation interrupted the doctor, startling him. "Our wagers may've been a touch uneven," Tom murmured from behind Watson.
"A pleasure money can't buy, eh Tom?" George practically purred as he moved up beside the small sofa. His gaze slowly traced every curve of Holmes's form, the lust glimmering in his usually dull eyes seeming to leave a filthy, slimy trail on the sleeping man's skin. "Makes you feel migthy high and fine, doesn't it?" His voice had become husky. He reached out a meaty hand toward the exposed flesh of Holmes's abdomen.
No. Watson began lunging forward, mouth open to vocalize his protest, but a quick, sharp punch to the small of his back landed him on his hands and knees, winded and gasping for breath.
"You'd better make sure he doesn't change his mind, Tom."
"You want him out?"
"Just tie him up. Gag him. Landladies in these sorts of houses are always light sleepers."
Without another word, Tom dragged a still incapacitated Watson to and onto a chair. He lashed all four limbs securely to the chair with curtain ties. He then gripped Watson's jaws, forcing them apart before shoving Watson's own handkerchief into his mouth and tying it in place with a cravat that Holmes had left strewn on the back of the chair.
"Now, come and help me here, Tom." The impatience in George's short, breathy voice was palpable. Watson's turned his eyes back to the settee. The elder brother was softly stroking Holmes's torso with one hand. The other had strayed absently to his groin and was rubbing his obvious arousal. Holmes frowned in his sleep and began to stir.
"How do you want him, George?" Tom asked, moving to his brother's side.
"On the floor, on all fours, writhing beneath me."
"Yesss..."
No... Dear God, what have I done?
Watson could only watch helplessly as the two brothers made eye contact over Holmes's sleeping form. With a nod, they moved together, placing rough hands on the detective's body and swiftly rolling him over and down onto the floor.
"Wah!" Holmes woke with a startled yelp. In spite of the alcohol that was no doubt still impairing him and the violent awakening, Holmes's fighting instincts kicked in and he immediately began to shift up into a crouch.
George and Tom, however, were apparently ready for such a reaction. George gripped Holmes's hips in his large hands while Tom pushed down on the detective's shoulders with all his considerable weight.
"Not so fast, there," George chided, lust and mockery sickeningly mingled in his voice. "You wouldn't deny two hardworking men your hospitality, would you? Not when they've earned it."
Holmes made no reply to this. He stilled completely in the brothers' hold. Planning his next move, Watson realized, daring to hope for a moment that his friend might get out of this mess.
"I know that look in his eye, George," Tom warned, the whitening of his knuckles indicating the increased strength of his grip. "I've seen it in the ring. He's getting ready to really fight."
"Well, then," George answered as he wrapped an arm around Holmes's waist, pulling the smaller man tight against him. If Holmes had been unclear as to their intentions before, he could not be now -- not with George's erection pressing so close against him. A shudder ran through his body and every muscle tensed. "We'd best get on with it."
"Wha-- why are you doing this?" Holmes's voice would doubtless seem calm and collected to the brothers, but Watson could hear the beginnings of panic.
"We're just collecting a wager, you see. Your doctor friend just doesn't know when to quit."
Watson closed his eyes. He had not really expected the brothers to keep quiet about that, but still...
"Watson?"
"Yeah. When he ran out of money, he offered you as a wager," Tom explained cheerfully, clearly hoping to cause pain.
"Having seen this fine arse," George apparently rubbed himself against Holmes as he said this, eliciting a gasp of fear, "we accepted."
"Too bad for you that your friend lost."
"That is a weak and obvious lie," Holmes spat out, the conviction in his voice cutting into Watson.
"You can ask him yourself, if you like," Tom's enjoyment of the situation was evident in the laughter in his voice. "He's right over there."
"He's here? What have you done with him? Watson?" Watson's eyes snapped open when Holmes called out his name. He watched as his friend began to struggle in earnest against the men holding him. Guilt like nausea roiled in Watson's stomach.
"Keep him still and shut him up!" George ordered his brother, impatience making his voice harsh. His face was red and his breathing short. He closed his eyes for a moment as another move of Holmes's pressed the detective even harder against George's erection. "Now, Tom!"
Tom made a quick move, releasing one of Holmes's shoulders and putting a leg against the struggling man's neck. He ruthlessly pressed down, cutting off Holmes's air, as he let go of the other shoulder. He looked about, but found only the dressing gown on the settee. With a small shrug, he snatched it up, balled up a portion of it, and shoved it as far as it would go into the detective's gasping mouth. Watson winced at the weak choking noises Holmes made. The struggles became weaker as Tom continued his pressure against Holmes's neck.
"That's better," George breathed, loosening his own hold on Holmes to put a hand to the waist of the detective's trousers. He pulled them down roughly, snapping bindings. With those out of the way, he put his hand on one of Holmes's buttocks, caressing it and groaning obscenely. "Now we're getting somewhere."
Get your God damned hands off him! Watson tried to shout around his gag, fighting uselessly against his bonds. Tom spared him a smiling glance as he finally removed his leg from Holmes's neck. The detective's body was limp, but he was apparently still conscious.
George slid his hand to Holmes's crack, pushing one cheek away and putting his thumb against the opening there. "He's tight," he grunted as he pushed his thumb in. Holmes whimpered faintly. "Too tight maybe."
"Right." Tom returned one hand to the detective to press down between his shoulder blades. With the other, he rifled through the clutter on the low table beside him. With a triumphant laugh he held up the small jar of the grease compound Holmes had been using on his violin pegs. With a more sadistic laugh, he handed it to his brother, who snatched it up impatiently.
With another groan, George opened the front of his own trousers and released his leaking erection. His motions nearly frantic, he opened the jar of grease, scooped out a good portion with a finger, and quickly coated his arousal with it, groaning and panting his impatience through the entire process. When George positioned himself against Holmes's entrance, Watson closed his eyes, unable to watch.
He could not close his ears, however. He heard Tom's lust-husky voice as he urged his brother on. He heard every obscene moan and filthy word George uttered as he pushed his cock into Holmes. And he heard every last choked cry and whimper that Holmes's pride could not hold back.
"How is he, George?" Tom asked, excitement running his words together.
There was a disgusting sound of flesh moving against flesh, followed by another groan from George and another strangled noise from Holmes. "Fuck." It seemed to be the only coherent word George could manage.
Watson clenched his eyes more tightly shut, but it only served to heighten his awareness of the sounds. And to make him see what was blocked from his vision when his eyes were open: Holmes's face.
In his mind's eye, his dear friend's face was white and pinched with pain and fear. Those intelligent brown eyes were filled with shame and betrayal. They slowly closed against the tears the detective could no longer hold back.
With his own pained gasp, Watson snapped his eyes open, only to see George thrusting spasmodically into Holmes. He turned his head away sharply, clenching his fists and jaws.
"Hurry up!" Tom urged his brother. "My turn."
"Al...most..." George gasped out. Then he gave a particularly loud, violent grunt followed by breathless panting. "Sweet as I'd imagined," he purred.
"Move."
"All yours, little brother."
Watson's eyes fell on the violin that lay on the desk beside him. He tried to focus on it, to remember its music -- anything to tune out the sounds in the room. There was the shuffling, sliding noise of men moving about on their knees, the rustling of clothing being removed, the harsh breaths of excited men, and the pitiful, muffled moans of a bound man trying not to succumb to pain and fear.
There was no song in Watson's mind to overcome those dreadful noises. No matter how he tried to recall the chords of the piece Holmes had played to him just last night -- even going so far as to attempt to hum it -- Watson could not drown out the repulsive wet sounds of Tom taking his brother's place over and inside Holmes.
"Bloody... fucking...hell..." Tom had less control than his brother, the sounds told Watson. The younger brother's grunts, his lewd words, the disgusting slide of his flesh against Holmes's all came faster than George's. As did the detective's gagged cries of pain.
The infinitesimal shift in the fall of moonlight in the room told Watson that it ended quite soon, no matter how interminable it had seemed.
For a moment, Tom's panting was the only sound in the room. Then his brother broke the near silence. "What do you think, Tom? Another round?"
God, no...
Tom laughed breathlessly, but said, "Shame I drank so much in the gaming room. I'm no good for another go."
"A waste," George agreed. "We're neither of us as young as we used to be."
"A little love tap, and then on our way?"
"Right. That'll do the job, if you'll hand it here."
Watson turned his gaze back to the two brothers in time to see Tom hand Watson's cane to his brother. Watson made a muffled cry of protest, but could do nothing to stop George from raising that cane and bringing it down hard on the back of Holmes's head. The detective went completely limp as he fell unconscious.
"For the bets he's lost us," George explained, turning to Watson. He walked toward the bound doctor, taking something from his pocket as he did so. "As for our wagers... It really was an uneven bet," he said, rubbing his own groin in satisfaction. "You can have this back." With that, he dropped Watson's brother's watch into the doctor's lap. Chuckling, he turned around and left the room.
Tom followed him out, but he paused in the doorway of the sitting room. Turning back, he said in parting, "See you in the gaming rooms!"
Then he too exited, leaving Watson alone with his unconscious, violated flatmate... and an overwhelming feeling of self-recrimination.
What have I done? He asked himself over and over again until the words lost meaning in his mind, becoming a dizzying, sickening knot of guilt. His brother's watch felt oppressively heavy in his lap. He twisted in his bonds, moving his legs as best he could, trying to shake it off, but only succeeded in making it slide between his thighs. It felt hot, like it was burning him.
What have I done? The meaningless question would not leave him as he looked over to where Holmes still lay. From his position, with the coffee table between them, all Watson could see of the other man was his lower body. There were bruises beginning to form on his hips -- bruises shaped like fingers -- and white fluid was slowly leaking from between his buttocks.
Look away, urged a weak corner of his mind as bile burned the back of his throat and tears stung his eyes. Spare Holmes the shame.
Spare himself the pain of his guilt.
Look hard, his conscience commanded. Feel the extent of your crime. This was what his addiction had brought.
In the end, his weakness won out and he looked away. He turned his head toward the window, eyes seeking the shape of the moon through its dusty panes. From his angle, however, he could only see the rays of moonlight that flowed in from between the unbound curtains. He watched the dust motes that danced in those beams, striving to think of nothing.
Sometime during that endlessly failing attempt, Holmes regained consciousness. A pained, confused, muffled groan came from the opposite side of the table. Watson turned back to see the detective slowly levering himself upright. Then he pulled the bit of dressing gown out of his mouth.
"What...?" Holmes looked utterly bemused, as if he was not sure where he was or why he was there. His hand went up to touch the back of his head, gingerly testing the spot that George had struck. Then he lowered his hand, trembling, to his lower body. His fingers found the wetness there and jerked back as if burned. His whole body shuddering with revulsion, Holmes frantically wiped his fingers on his trousers before feverishly pulling them up, repeatedly wincing with pain as he did so. That finished, he looked up and around, eyes wide and fearful. His gaze met Watson's.
"Watson?" he asked, voice small and quavering. "What happened?"
What happened? Still bound and gagged, Watson could only shake his head at the fear and bewilderment in Holmes's dark eyes. He doesn't remember? Watson felt a stab of self-hatred at the selfish hope and relief that lay in that thought.
"Watson!" Holmes repeated, this time in surprise as he realized that his friend was bound to a chair and gagged. He began to rise, but flinched from the pain as he did so. Shame and disgust added to the pathetic mix of emotions in his eyes before he lowered them. His fingers scrabbled over to his dressing gown and he draped it over his frame with shaking hands. He closed the front of it and tied it as tightly as he could before painstakingly scooting himself to the chair where Watson sat bound. With trembling fingers, Holmes picked at the curtain ties binding Watson's right hand to the arm of the chair. He finally succeeded in loosening them enough that Watson was able to pull his hand free. "Watson, are you all right?" he asked as Watson pulled down his gag and removed his handkerchief from his mouth.
"Am I all right? Am I all right?" Watson was not sure if he wanted to laugh or to be sick. "Holmes..."
"Have they hurt you?"
"They? Holmes... what do you remember?"
"Just...flashes...sensations..." Holmes shuddered, hugging his dressing gown even more tightly about himself. "Watson, what happened?"
"Two men came into the flat... I think they followed me home... They tied me up..." The truth, but not all of it. "They... attacked you in your sleep."
"Who...? Why?" Holmes met his eyes again and Watson could again see the emotions filling them. Pride was fighting not to crumble before shame, pain, and shock.
Tell him. It will hurt you both less to tell him now. Sherlock Holmes would inevitably find out what had happened.
No. Don't say anything. He may never want to know. "It was dark... I could not see their faces properly." Holmes was in a truly pitiable state if he accepted this evasion. "They said something about seeing you box and... liking you."
Holmes nodded jerkily before dropping his head. Further tremors shook his body, but his hands went to untie Watson's other wrist.
"Leave that," Watson said, his tone sharper than he intended. "Leave that. I'll get it," he repeated more softly. "Pour yourself some brandy and sit in your chair."
Holmes nodded again and followed his doctor's orders. Every motion seemed to be agony, but he levered himself to his feet and stumbled his way to the side bar. He poured more brandy around the glass than into it, but he managed it and then the painful steps to his chair.
When Watson saw him safely seated, he turned his attention to his bonds. He picked one-handed at the one on his left wrist, eventually getting it undone. He then made short work of freeing his feet before he rushed to Holmes's side.
"Holmes?" he called softly. The other man met his gaze and Watson looked hard into his eyes. They seemed calmer. He reached his hand out slowly to Holmes, who flinched slightly but allowed the contact as Watson gently felt for damage on the back of his head. Holmes hissed in pain as the doctor's fingers found a small bump. "Any dizziness?"
Holmes shook his head. "Just pain."
"I'm going to need to clean and examine your... other injuries as well."
Shame and revulsion once more pinched Holmes's features and shook his frame, but he nodded once. "No one I trust more than you, my dear Watson."
"T-towels," Watson stammered, feeling the blood rush away from his head. He staggered as quickly as he could out of the sitting room and into the water closet to be violently ill.
When the heaving of his stomach finally subsided, Watson quietly made his way to the linen cupboard for clean towels and then down to the kitchen for a pitcher of water. He limped his way back to the sitting room to find Holmes exactly where he had left him. The detective was staring into the empty tumbler he held cupped in his hands. Before returning to the man's side, he lit a lamp and then went to his doctor's case to retrieve his largest pipette -- it would help.
"Holmes," he said softly as he moved back to the armchair. "I'm going to need you to open your dressing gown and remove your trousers."
The other man continued staring into the glass. "You saw it, didn't you?" His tone was flat. "You witnessed the entire... act."
"Not all. I could not bear it..." I was too weak.
"But you saw enough." Apparently having reached a decision of some kind, Holmes nodded to himself. He then set the glass down on the side table and reached trembling fingers to the sash of his dressing gown. Watson turned his face away as the detective disrobed -- it might make it somewhat easier. "I'm ready, doctor," Holmes said firmly enough after long moments.
Watson was not, but he set to work anyway. It was a penance of a kind, to do this, though it would never be enough. He would see just how much damage his weakness and selfishness had done.
With wet towels and the pipette he gently cleaned away Tom's and George's seed, the grease, and a very small amount of blood. He felt every tremor of shame or pain that passed through Holmes's body during the process. He went back to his case for his ethanol and a small tin of ointment. Holmes hissed in pain and shuddered in remembered fear as Watson cleaned the tearing around his anus and then gently rubbed ointment into the small wounds. That was, thankfully, the extent of the physical damage.
When he finished, Watson looked up at Holmes's face. The other man's eyes were tightly closed and his lower lip was clenched between his teeth. "Stop that," the doctor chided, reaching a hand out to touch Holmes's cheek, but pulling it back before he made contact. "It's over."
With a shuddering sigh, Holmes opened his eyes. "Thank you," he whispered.
"It's... I...” What did he want to say? "Holmes, I'm sorry," Watson blurted out.
"Whatever for?"
Watson lowered his eyes, no longer able to meet the trust in that gaze. "I... I lost the rent."
Holmes sighed again and replied, "My dear Watson, it is only money." He sounded almost like his usual self.
Watson nodded. "Let me help you to bed," he said, extending a hand to help Holmes up. The detective took it without hesitation and they got him to his feet.
"Your watch, Watson. That is not a secure place to leave it," Holmes said when he got to his feet. Watson followed his gaze to the other chair.
"I'll get it later. We need to get you into bed first." Step by painstaking step, they got Holmes into his room and onto his bed. Watson went back to the sitting room, refilled Holmes's glass, and brought it to him. "Drink this and sleep," he ordered.
"Yes, doctor," Holmes replied with the barest hint of a smile. "Good night, Watson."
"Good night, Holmes," Watson answered before leaving the room.
He went to his chair and picked up his watch. It still felt so heavy and hot in his hand. Just looking at it made him feel ill. He went over to the desk, opened the bottom drawer, and shoved the watch deep inside before closing the drawer again. Watson then put his hands flat on the surface of the desk and leaned over it, breathing heavily, the guilt he could not hide in a drawer knotting his stomach.
Things would never -- could never -- be the same again.
________________________________________________________________________________________________
OK, cliched ending, but... I thought it fit.
And I'm not sure about the characterizations here...
Also, I hate naming disposable characters (especially ones this nasty), but I found it expedient. No thought went into their names (just the first short men's names that popped into my head that did not belong to major SH characters).
Anyway, thanks for reading.
If you have any constructive criticism, I will not be offended if you leave it respectfully.