for misanthropyray: "Daddy Loves Me the Best"
Original Author: misanthropyray
Original Story Title: Daddy's Had Enough Now
Original Story Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/252577
Original Story Pairings: Sherlock/Moriarty
Original Story Rating: NC-17
Original Story Warnings: Non-con, graphic violence, necrophilia
Remix Story Title: Daddy Loves Me the Best
Remix Author: thisprettywren
Remix Beta: longtimegone, lindentreeisle
Remix Britpicker: N/A
Remix Story Pairings: Moriarty/Moran, Moran/Sherlock
Remix Story Rating: NC-17
Remix Story Warnings: Non-con, graphic violence
"Daddy Loves Me the Best"
"You'll come around to my way of thinking soon enough." Jim's voice is quiet; he speaks with carefully-controlled movements of tongue and lips, tasting the individual words.
I lean my weight a little more heavily into the wall. This may be between the two of them but Jim hasn't forgotten I'm there; he may have his back to me but he tilts his head slightly to the side so that I can see his profile. The skin has drawn tight at the corners of his eyes and the edges of his mouth.
Sherlock shifts as much as he can in his chair, his gaze flicking from Jim's face to me standing behind him. He can't see it yet, not like I can; doesn't know what a dangerous game he's playing, just by continuing to breathe. I flash him a wide-mouthed grin and he narrows his eyes before turning his attention back to Jim.
"This game you're playing--"
He's cut off by Jim slamming his open palm into the surface of the table between them. "We're playing, Sherlock," he says. "You and I. Don't be so dull as to pretend you don't see it."
Sherlock blinks twice before speaking. "But a game with no purpose." His tone is one of genuine curiosity, and Jim tips his head back in a laugh.
"Always looking for patterns." He pushes himself to his feet, tipping his chair over backward. It clatters against the cement floor and I push myself off the wall and stand up straighter, widening my stance. That's my cue; this is why I'm here. If he needs me.
Jim's around the table in a flash, his fingers twisted in Sherlock's dark hair, yanking his head back to expose the long lines of throat. I hear the clank of the handcuffs against the back of the chair as Sherlock jerks his arms relexively.
Jim leans forward until they're practically touching, Sherlock's nostrils flaring with each inhale as he struggles for breath against the strain on his throat from the force of Jim's grip. I flex my fingers, suddenly unsure what to do with my hands. Being made to watch feels odd, uncomfortable, but-- well. Sherlock Holmes has always been a special case.
Then Jim leans just that little bit further and they are touching, his lips just brushing the skin at the corner of Sherlock's mouth.
"You're slow, but you'll get there eventually." Jim tips his head and his eyes slide up to meet mine, dark and liquid. "In the end, you'll beg me for it."
He releases Sherlock's hair abruptly and steps away, smoothing down the front of his suit jacket. His voice, when he speaks, is as casual as though the preceding few minutes had not even occurred.
"Take care of him, Seb." He waves his hand at me in a dismissive gesture, turning away to walk through the room's only door. I watch him go. He doesn't look back; doesn't so much as glance at me.
When I turn back to face Sherlock, his gaze is on my face. His lip quirks up into a smirk, eyes narrowing in a knowing look that sends a rush of angry heat to my face. I feel my nostrils flare before I can stop them.
"Jealous?" Sherlock tips his head to one side, slightly, and it's uncanny; just for a moment, I wonder if he's intentionally mimicking Jim. Mocking him, mocking me.
At the end of the day, it's me Jim trusts with the important things.
Sherlock might be getting his attention, but he doesn't understand Jim at all. Not yet.
It's no small task to keep a man like Sherlock Holmes locked up and safe. He's a clever little bastard, I'll give him that. He slips his cuffs more than once, and even manages to work his way free of the deadbolt on the door early one morning.
Lucky for everyone it was me that found him. There's a reason Jim trusts me; I got him back in his room with nothing more than a cracked cheekbone.
Well, nothing more visible than a cracked cheekbone. I'd got in a few kicks to his side, and from the way he'd lain on his camp bed--his body contorted into an awkward half-curl, protecting it as much as he could with the way the cuffs held his arms spread--it seemed there might have been more he was hiding from me.
A man takes a certain pride in his work, he likes to see the results. Still, it wasn't without its own kind of satisfaction; it wasn't often you heard a rib break, and that spot over his left kidney would be deep purple by now, showing nicely against Sherlock's pale skin.
In the evenings, Jim enters the room alone and pulls the door closed behind him. There's silence from the other side, mostly, but whatever it is they talk about, Jim always emerges with his face twisted in fury. Sometimes he has instructions for me--take him an extra cup of tea; leave the lights on tonight, and tomorrow night, too; break his left thumb; piss in his food, don't let him see but be sure he can smell it--and sometimes he simply mutters "Don't touch him" as he sweeps past me into the bedroom. He closes the door and paces, saying nothing.
On those nights, I remove myself from the house altogether.
He might refuse to speak to me, might forbid me from balancing the scales by my own means, but here in London I can always find the doctor in my sights. "Sherlock Holmes is special," I mutter to myself, and decide, again, that this won't be the night I pull the trigger.
One night, in the second week, Jim opens the door to Sherlock's room and calls for me to join him.
"Bring the package that came last week, Seb," he says. "If you'd be so kind."
When I enter the room Sherlock is sitting up on the edge of the bed, blood dripping from one nostril. Only his right hand is still cuffed to the frame. There's a chess set on a low tray, just out of his reach. The pieces are scattered across the board; they'd been mid-game. I reassess: Sherlock could reach it if he moved forward a bit. With the angle of his arm still attached to the frame of the bed, he'd probably have to do so on his knees.
I am, I will admit, rather sorry to have missed that.
Jim grins at me, eyes wide and shining, and I can feel an answering grin stretch my own mouth even before he speaks.
"It seems Sherlock doesn't want to play our little game anymore," he says, "which means it's time for him to pay his forfeit."
It ends as we'd both--maybe all three of us--known it would, with me kneeling on Sherlock's shoulders, pinning his hands with my forearm.
"His throat," Jim says from behind me. As though I'd have forgotten, but I swallow my retort and use the heel of my right hand to force his chin back and up. His chest is heaving, and I shift my weight, aware of the pressure my movements are placing on bruises and wrenched joints. The long muscle of his throat convulses as Sherlock swallows his groan.
Jim's hands are as neat and careful as ever, teasing Sherlock with the tip of the syringe, holding it so that it scratches lightly against the pale skin with each breath.
"Oh, Sherlock, pet, we've talked about this. Hold still and take your medicine," he singsongs. "If you can't say something nice--" he presses the plunger home, expelling half its contents into Sherlock's larynx, his adam's apple moving as he tenses his muscles uselessly, "--oh dear, well, it seems I've forgotten the rest of it." He moves the needle, presses it carefully through the slight resistance of Sherlock's skin, depresses the plunger until the barrel is empty. "Do let me know if you remember, pet, won't you?"
He grips my shoulder and pulls me with him as he steps back. Sherlock makes no move to get up, though he's still only secured by one wrist once I release the pressure that had been holding him to his camp bed; he has his eyes screwed tightly shut, gasping through an open mouth, prodding at his own throat with the fingers of his left hand.
"Oh dear," Jim says to me in mock sympathy. "Do you think it'll kill him?"
I furrow my brow in confusion. Am I meant to play along? It was just a paralytic for his vocal chords, it certainly wouldn't--
Jim winks at me with an exaggerated movement of his entire cheek and I feel the tension drain from my shoulders. I haven't been cut out of the game after all.
"No, probably not."
"Well, let's leave him to discover the side effects on his own," Jim says, wrapping one arm around my waist, slipping one hand beneath the bottom of my shirt. His fingers are cool against the skin of my stomach. "He'll want to do his own observation."
"Of course." I grin down at him. "The scientific process and all, you know."
Jim flashes me a smile of his own before leaning in to rest his head against my neck. "Just so, Seb. Just so."
I can feel Jim's pulse in his throat, thudding faintly against my collarbone. Behind us, on the bed, Sherlock is still gasping and making small, strangled noises. In the edge of my vision I can see his free hand fluttering ineffectually at his throat, pressing at his lips. Jim's hair is tickling the underside of my chin.
This night is shaping up to be something special.
Sherlock without his voice is a source of fascination for nearly a week. Jim had been keeping him locked away, for the most part; had enjoyed watching him fight not to give in to the demands of boredom and isolation, forcing Sherlock to interact with him if he wanted any interaction at all.
But now, Jim enjoys bringing him out, making a spectacle of him; enjoys the frustration in his eyes when he can't respond to Jim's taunts. Swallowing requires concentration and Jim makes a game out of distracting him until he can't keep it up. With his hands restrained he can't do anything about the way the spit spills out over his chin.
"The most interesting thing to come out of that mouth in ages, dear," he says, twining his fingers in Sherlock's hair, and the anger in those pale eyes is beautiful.
That brother of his makes a proper nuisance of himself, and early one morning Jim drags me into Sherlock's room to announce that we're leaving the city.
"A little holiday," Jim tells Sherlock. He wraps his arm around my waist, leans his head into my shoulder, and Sherlock rolls his head on the pillow to face the wall, the muscles in the back of his neck straining with tension. "Just the three of us. Doesn't that sound lovely? A chance to get away from it all? Oh now, don't fret," Jim tells the back of Sherlock's head, "no need to worry about that doctor of yours; I'll see he's taken care of properly while we're away."
It isn't until we're settled in at the cottage--just one room, really; it's all a bit more cozy, rather intimate--that Jim starts to get bored of his new toy.
There's only so much fun Jim can have with Sherlock, really, now that he's mute. He hasn't touched Sherlock, not that way, not yet, but I can see from the way his gaze sharpens when he looks at him that he won't be able to resist the urge simmering beneath the surface of his skin much longer. He'll be so disappointed, afterward.
Fortunately, I have a better idea. Something far less obvious; something far more interesting.
The first boy I bring home is tall, light-haired, brown-eyed, and sullen. He's not here to please but he doesn't bat an eye at the audience, either, even the mute man bound to a chair who turns his head away until I fist my hand in his hair and force him to watch. When he finishes Jim saunters over to us, the sweat still drying on his skin, and leans his hands on Sherlock's shoulders--he wrenches them abruptly before forcing himself into stiff, uneasy stillness, entirely transparent--as he leans up to kiss me.
"Thank you, my pet," he says against my mouth. Beneath us, Sherlock makes an airy breathing sound as though he'd like to choke, if he were still able.
I'm about to return empty-handed when I find the boy.
Jim'd had a bad couple of days--a job gone bad, incompetent underlings, "Why can't everyone be more like you, Seb?"--and I really wanted to do something special for him. Take his mind off his troubles. It's not easy, brain like his, but I do what I can.
He doesn't ask many questions before climbing into the car. We talk a bit on the ride outside of London, me watching his face out of the corner of my eye, the angular cheekbones under pale skin framed by curly dark hair.
His voice is jarringly wrong, but I suspect Jim will have something else for him to do with his mouth. Apart from that, he's very nearly perfect.
I can see the fury in Jim's eyes when we pull up even through the glass of the window, read his restlessness in the way he twitches the curtain closed. Jim despises tardiness, he'll doubtless be furious that I've been so long. He's probably in there now deciding how he'll punish me for keeping him waiting, and I feel a surge of smudge satisfaction at the knowledge that he'll forgive me when he sees what I've brought for him.
The boy hesitates in the passenger seat. "Come on," I urge him, opening my door. "You can't come all this way to back out now. Inside."
He reads the menace in my tone and unfolds from the car, shuts his door with just a bit too much force. He stands, awkward and sullen, angular arms wrapped around his waist. I put a hand on the back of his neck to lead him inside and he jerks his chin up in defiance but doesn't ask anything else.
Oh, he's perfect.
Jim actually licks his lips when he sees The Boy, his eyes glittering with anticipation.
"Seb. Get out."
I blink at him in surprise, just for a moment. There's nowhere to go here, in this tiny cottage, so he must mean--
His eyes meet mine, dark with understanding and promise. Hunger. Oh. With Sherlock.
A shiver of anticipation makes its way down my spine.
I make a show of closing the door, good and loud, then make my way up the steps to the loft. The boy doesn't notice, seemingly unable to tear his eyes away from Jim's. Truth be told, I don't blame him; Jim's practically devouring him already.
Oh, and he hasn't even started yet.
Sherlock is on the bed, arms stretched tight overhead. He watches me with what even I can tell is an affected air of boredom.
"Shh," I stage-whisper to him. "Don't say a word."
One of his eyesbrows twitches upward and I shove my fist against my own mouth to muffle the laugh that bursts out of my throat. Below, I can hear Jim and the boy negotiating prices.
We'll be able to hear everything from up here. Sherlock is as aware of that as I am, holding himself stiffly, as though through stillness he might simply will himself elsewhere. He slides his lower lip between his teeth as I sit down next to him. I cup his cheek in my hand, rasping my palm along the slight roughening of stubble we've allowed to form on his face. My other hand wanders over his bare chest, my fingertips playing in the deepening furrows between his ribs.
He stares resolutely at the ceiling.
"Oh, don't sulk," I say. "And when we've gone to such lengths to entertain you, too. Don't tell me you're upset about not being able to see." Sherlock's throat convulses as he swallows; he still can't make sounds, but he's beginnning to regain muscle control. We'll have to give him more injections soon if we're going to keep him like this.
Suddenly, I want him to see. I want him to know how well I'd done, too; how perfect my choice had been. I reach up to undo the padlock on his left wrist, fist my hand in his hair and pull him roughly to his feet. He sways; he hasn't been vertical in a while and he's off-balance with his right hand still tethered. I pull him forward until he hisses against the stretch in his shoulder to where he can just see over the low loft wall. The boy has his back to us, but Jim catches my eye and manoeuvres himself just slightly to the left so that the boy has to turn slightly. Sherlock sucks in a breath through his nose at the sight of his profile.
Good.
The voices float up from below:
“You’ll answer to whatever I call you. Any question I ask you, you’ll respond with a ‘yes’. No other talking is acceptable. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
There it was, the answer Jim had never been able to get from Sherlock; the last refusal he'd been able to make. Sherlock understands; his shoulder jerks in my grasp, his teeth grinding together.
"Not too bad, eh?" I say, pressing my lips against his ear, then shove him backward onto the mattress. He lands with a thud, curling toward his left side-- ah. That's right, his ribs. Still hurting him, then. A job well done.
I swallow my chuckle and get his hand resecured before he manages to regain his breath.
Sherlock is watching my face, eyes pale and sharp despite how reddened they are. The virgin, Jim calls him. It's delicious.
Well. Maybe I'll have something of my own, then.
"No need to let them have all the fun."
Sherlock's eyelids flare open briefly in understanding, then he sets his teeth and turns his head away.
"Oh, no." I fist my hand in his hair and force him to turn his head so he's facing me. "That's not how this is going to go. Not at all."
His eyes flick down briefly to my crotch, and-- yes, I could do that, take his mouth or his arse, like this, accompanied by the sounds of Jim fucking his likeness below. But he's wrong, again; about Jim, about us. That's not how this game works.
If he hasn't learned it yet, perhaps it's time for a demonstration.
He's completely soft when I wrap my fist around him, still pinning him by the hair with my other hand, but his whole body jerks at the touch.
"Oh, weren't expecting that, were you?" I say. "You know, everyone always said you were so bloody clever, but you don't seem too clever to me. Not by half."
He closes his eyes as I begin to stroke, so I release his cock and pinch the skin behind his balls, hard. His eyes fly open in surprise, his mouth opening in a choked gasp.
From below, I can hear Jim's voice. "Sherlock." Beautiful.
"Eyes on me," I spit out, and give him two more quick pinches and then half a dozen harsh strokes, too hard to be pleasurable while he's still soft, but even so I can feel the blood beginning to heat his skin.
"Oh, you like that," I hiss, and his eyes close for a second before flying open again. I didn't even have to move my hand, this time.
I don't bother trying to hide my smirk. "Good boy."
I can feel Sherlock straining, fighting with himself, simultaneously trying to stifle his body's reactions to my touch (he's starved for it, of course he is; he hasn't had his hands free in weeks) and fighting both to hear and to ignore the noises he can hear below, wet sounds and gasps of pleasure. He squirms, mouth twisting open in disgust, gasping for air as his body betrays him.
It's beautiful. It's a shame Jim won't be here to see it, but then, there are some things I need to keep for myself.
Sherlock's cock is fully hard now, heated and so full I can feel his pulse through the palm of my hand.
"You need this," I whisper to him, and he tries to turn his head sharply, once to each side, still pinned by my fingers in his hair; a perfunctory negation. The best part is, I'm right and he knows it. His contempt makes it no less true.
There's a tearing sound, a wet gurgle from below, and we've timed this perfectly. Sherlock's brow furrows, but he’s already on the edge and his face contorts into a silent grimace of confused pleasure. Then I hear Jim's groan as he finishes and I pull twice more and Sherlock spills himself over my hand and his own stomach, hot and wet.
I shove my fingers into his mouth, wiping the taste of his shame along the back of his useless tongue until he gags.
From below, I can hear Jim moving around. There's a heavy dripping sound and his footsteps on the stairs, slow and deliberate, heavy with satisfaction. I can already see the scene in my mind's eye: the rapidly-cooling limbs, the blood. The picture Jim's painted for me, evidence of hsi own enjoyment; and here, I've left my own scene for him in exchange, drying against the pale skin of Sherlock's stomach.
Sherlock's eyes grow wide and I twist to look over my shoulder. Jim is still wearing his shirt but otherwise naked, and there's--
Blood. There's blood everywhere, on his cock and thighs, on his cheek, staining the hem of his shirt.
Nobody moves. Sherlock stops breathing; then, he can't seem to breathe enough, his narrow chest heaving.
From below, I can still hear it, slow and steady: drip, drip, drip.
Jim's grin is the brightest thing in the room.
"Next time, Seb," he says. "See if you can find one that looks like the doctor."
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Remember to leave feedback for both authors!
Original Story Title: Daddy's Had Enough Now
Original Story Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/252577
Original Story Pairings: Sherlock/Moriarty
Original Story Rating: NC-17
Original Story Warnings: Non-con, graphic violence, necrophilia
Remix Story Title: Daddy Loves Me the Best
Remix Author: thisprettywren
Remix Beta: longtimegone, lindentreeisle
Remix Britpicker: N/A
Remix Story Pairings: Moriarty/Moran, Moran/Sherlock
Remix Story Rating: NC-17
Remix Story Warnings: Non-con, graphic violence
"Daddy Loves Me the Best"
"You'll come around to my way of thinking soon enough." Jim's voice is quiet; he speaks with carefully-controlled movements of tongue and lips, tasting the individual words.
I lean my weight a little more heavily into the wall. This may be between the two of them but Jim hasn't forgotten I'm there; he may have his back to me but he tilts his head slightly to the side so that I can see his profile. The skin has drawn tight at the corners of his eyes and the edges of his mouth.
Sherlock shifts as much as he can in his chair, his gaze flicking from Jim's face to me standing behind him. He can't see it yet, not like I can; doesn't know what a dangerous game he's playing, just by continuing to breathe. I flash him a wide-mouthed grin and he narrows his eyes before turning his attention back to Jim.
"This game you're playing--"
He's cut off by Jim slamming his open palm into the surface of the table between them. "We're playing, Sherlock," he says. "You and I. Don't be so dull as to pretend you don't see it."
Sherlock blinks twice before speaking. "But a game with no purpose." His tone is one of genuine curiosity, and Jim tips his head back in a laugh.
"Always looking for patterns." He pushes himself to his feet, tipping his chair over backward. It clatters against the cement floor and I push myself off the wall and stand up straighter, widening my stance. That's my cue; this is why I'm here. If he needs me.
Jim's around the table in a flash, his fingers twisted in Sherlock's dark hair, yanking his head back to expose the long lines of throat. I hear the clank of the handcuffs against the back of the chair as Sherlock jerks his arms relexively.
Jim leans forward until they're practically touching, Sherlock's nostrils flaring with each inhale as he struggles for breath against the strain on his throat from the force of Jim's grip. I flex my fingers, suddenly unsure what to do with my hands. Being made to watch feels odd, uncomfortable, but-- well. Sherlock Holmes has always been a special case.
Then Jim leans just that little bit further and they are touching, his lips just brushing the skin at the corner of Sherlock's mouth.
"You're slow, but you'll get there eventually." Jim tips his head and his eyes slide up to meet mine, dark and liquid. "In the end, you'll beg me for it."
He releases Sherlock's hair abruptly and steps away, smoothing down the front of his suit jacket. His voice, when he speaks, is as casual as though the preceding few minutes had not even occurred.
"Take care of him, Seb." He waves his hand at me in a dismissive gesture, turning away to walk through the room's only door. I watch him go. He doesn't look back; doesn't so much as glance at me.
When I turn back to face Sherlock, his gaze is on my face. His lip quirks up into a smirk, eyes narrowing in a knowing look that sends a rush of angry heat to my face. I feel my nostrils flare before I can stop them.
"Jealous?" Sherlock tips his head to one side, slightly, and it's uncanny; just for a moment, I wonder if he's intentionally mimicking Jim. Mocking him, mocking me.
At the end of the day, it's me Jim trusts with the important things.
Sherlock might be getting his attention, but he doesn't understand Jim at all. Not yet.
It's no small task to keep a man like Sherlock Holmes locked up and safe. He's a clever little bastard, I'll give him that. He slips his cuffs more than once, and even manages to work his way free of the deadbolt on the door early one morning.
Lucky for everyone it was me that found him. There's a reason Jim trusts me; I got him back in his room with nothing more than a cracked cheekbone.
Well, nothing more visible than a cracked cheekbone. I'd got in a few kicks to his side, and from the way he'd lain on his camp bed--his body contorted into an awkward half-curl, protecting it as much as he could with the way the cuffs held his arms spread--it seemed there might have been more he was hiding from me.
A man takes a certain pride in his work, he likes to see the results. Still, it wasn't without its own kind of satisfaction; it wasn't often you heard a rib break, and that spot over his left kidney would be deep purple by now, showing nicely against Sherlock's pale skin.
In the evenings, Jim enters the room alone and pulls the door closed behind him. There's silence from the other side, mostly, but whatever it is they talk about, Jim always emerges with his face twisted in fury. Sometimes he has instructions for me--take him an extra cup of tea; leave the lights on tonight, and tomorrow night, too; break his left thumb; piss in his food, don't let him see but be sure he can smell it--and sometimes he simply mutters "Don't touch him" as he sweeps past me into the bedroom. He closes the door and paces, saying nothing.
On those nights, I remove myself from the house altogether.
He might refuse to speak to me, might forbid me from balancing the scales by my own means, but here in London I can always find the doctor in my sights. "Sherlock Holmes is special," I mutter to myself, and decide, again, that this won't be the night I pull the trigger.
One night, in the second week, Jim opens the door to Sherlock's room and calls for me to join him.
"Bring the package that came last week, Seb," he says. "If you'd be so kind."
When I enter the room Sherlock is sitting up on the edge of the bed, blood dripping from one nostril. Only his right hand is still cuffed to the frame. There's a chess set on a low tray, just out of his reach. The pieces are scattered across the board; they'd been mid-game. I reassess: Sherlock could reach it if he moved forward a bit. With the angle of his arm still attached to the frame of the bed, he'd probably have to do so on his knees.
I am, I will admit, rather sorry to have missed that.
Jim grins at me, eyes wide and shining, and I can feel an answering grin stretch my own mouth even before he speaks.
"It seems Sherlock doesn't want to play our little game anymore," he says, "which means it's time for him to pay his forfeit."
It ends as we'd both--maybe all three of us--known it would, with me kneeling on Sherlock's shoulders, pinning his hands with my forearm.
"His throat," Jim says from behind me. As though I'd have forgotten, but I swallow my retort and use the heel of my right hand to force his chin back and up. His chest is heaving, and I shift my weight, aware of the pressure my movements are placing on bruises and wrenched joints. The long muscle of his throat convulses as Sherlock swallows his groan.
Jim's hands are as neat and careful as ever, teasing Sherlock with the tip of the syringe, holding it so that it scratches lightly against the pale skin with each breath.
"Oh, Sherlock, pet, we've talked about this. Hold still and take your medicine," he singsongs. "If you can't say something nice--" he presses the plunger home, expelling half its contents into Sherlock's larynx, his adam's apple moving as he tenses his muscles uselessly, "--oh dear, well, it seems I've forgotten the rest of it." He moves the needle, presses it carefully through the slight resistance of Sherlock's skin, depresses the plunger until the barrel is empty. "Do let me know if you remember, pet, won't you?"
He grips my shoulder and pulls me with him as he steps back. Sherlock makes no move to get up, though he's still only secured by one wrist once I release the pressure that had been holding him to his camp bed; he has his eyes screwed tightly shut, gasping through an open mouth, prodding at his own throat with the fingers of his left hand.
"Oh dear," Jim says to me in mock sympathy. "Do you think it'll kill him?"
I furrow my brow in confusion. Am I meant to play along? It was just a paralytic for his vocal chords, it certainly wouldn't--
Jim winks at me with an exaggerated movement of his entire cheek and I feel the tension drain from my shoulders. I haven't been cut out of the game after all.
"No, probably not."
"Well, let's leave him to discover the side effects on his own," Jim says, wrapping one arm around my waist, slipping one hand beneath the bottom of my shirt. His fingers are cool against the skin of my stomach. "He'll want to do his own observation."
"Of course." I grin down at him. "The scientific process and all, you know."
Jim flashes me a smile of his own before leaning in to rest his head against my neck. "Just so, Seb. Just so."
I can feel Jim's pulse in his throat, thudding faintly against my collarbone. Behind us, on the bed, Sherlock is still gasping and making small, strangled noises. In the edge of my vision I can see his free hand fluttering ineffectually at his throat, pressing at his lips. Jim's hair is tickling the underside of my chin.
This night is shaping up to be something special.
Sherlock without his voice is a source of fascination for nearly a week. Jim had been keeping him locked away, for the most part; had enjoyed watching him fight not to give in to the demands of boredom and isolation, forcing Sherlock to interact with him if he wanted any interaction at all.
But now, Jim enjoys bringing him out, making a spectacle of him; enjoys the frustration in his eyes when he can't respond to Jim's taunts. Swallowing requires concentration and Jim makes a game out of distracting him until he can't keep it up. With his hands restrained he can't do anything about the way the spit spills out over his chin.
"The most interesting thing to come out of that mouth in ages, dear," he says, twining his fingers in Sherlock's hair, and the anger in those pale eyes is beautiful.
That brother of his makes a proper nuisance of himself, and early one morning Jim drags me into Sherlock's room to announce that we're leaving the city.
"A little holiday," Jim tells Sherlock. He wraps his arm around my waist, leans his head into my shoulder, and Sherlock rolls his head on the pillow to face the wall, the muscles in the back of his neck straining with tension. "Just the three of us. Doesn't that sound lovely? A chance to get away from it all? Oh now, don't fret," Jim tells the back of Sherlock's head, "no need to worry about that doctor of yours; I'll see he's taken care of properly while we're away."
It isn't until we're settled in at the cottage--just one room, really; it's all a bit more cozy, rather intimate--that Jim starts to get bored of his new toy.
There's only so much fun Jim can have with Sherlock, really, now that he's mute. He hasn't touched Sherlock, not that way, not yet, but I can see from the way his gaze sharpens when he looks at him that he won't be able to resist the urge simmering beneath the surface of his skin much longer. He'll be so disappointed, afterward.
Fortunately, I have a better idea. Something far less obvious; something far more interesting.
The first boy I bring home is tall, light-haired, brown-eyed, and sullen. He's not here to please but he doesn't bat an eye at the audience, either, even the mute man bound to a chair who turns his head away until I fist my hand in his hair and force him to watch. When he finishes Jim saunters over to us, the sweat still drying on his skin, and leans his hands on Sherlock's shoulders--he wrenches them abruptly before forcing himself into stiff, uneasy stillness, entirely transparent--as he leans up to kiss me.
"Thank you, my pet," he says against my mouth. Beneath us, Sherlock makes an airy breathing sound as though he'd like to choke, if he were still able.
I'm about to return empty-handed when I find the boy.
Jim'd had a bad couple of days--a job gone bad, incompetent underlings, "Why can't everyone be more like you, Seb?"--and I really wanted to do something special for him. Take his mind off his troubles. It's not easy, brain like his, but I do what I can.
He doesn't ask many questions before climbing into the car. We talk a bit on the ride outside of London, me watching his face out of the corner of my eye, the angular cheekbones under pale skin framed by curly dark hair.
His voice is jarringly wrong, but I suspect Jim will have something else for him to do with his mouth. Apart from that, he's very nearly perfect.
I can see the fury in Jim's eyes when we pull up even through the glass of the window, read his restlessness in the way he twitches the curtain closed. Jim despises tardiness, he'll doubtless be furious that I've been so long. He's probably in there now deciding how he'll punish me for keeping him waiting, and I feel a surge of smudge satisfaction at the knowledge that he'll forgive me when he sees what I've brought for him.
The boy hesitates in the passenger seat. "Come on," I urge him, opening my door. "You can't come all this way to back out now. Inside."
He reads the menace in my tone and unfolds from the car, shuts his door with just a bit too much force. He stands, awkward and sullen, angular arms wrapped around his waist. I put a hand on the back of his neck to lead him inside and he jerks his chin up in defiance but doesn't ask anything else.
Oh, he's perfect.
Jim actually licks his lips when he sees The Boy, his eyes glittering with anticipation.
"Seb. Get out."
I blink at him in surprise, just for a moment. There's nowhere to go here, in this tiny cottage, so he must mean--
His eyes meet mine, dark with understanding and promise. Hunger. Oh. With Sherlock.
A shiver of anticipation makes its way down my spine.
I make a show of closing the door, good and loud, then make my way up the steps to the loft. The boy doesn't notice, seemingly unable to tear his eyes away from Jim's. Truth be told, I don't blame him; Jim's practically devouring him already.
Oh, and he hasn't even started yet.
Sherlock is on the bed, arms stretched tight overhead. He watches me with what even I can tell is an affected air of boredom.
"Shh," I stage-whisper to him. "Don't say a word."
One of his eyesbrows twitches upward and I shove my fist against my own mouth to muffle the laugh that bursts out of my throat. Below, I can hear Jim and the boy negotiating prices.
We'll be able to hear everything from up here. Sherlock is as aware of that as I am, holding himself stiffly, as though through stillness he might simply will himself elsewhere. He slides his lower lip between his teeth as I sit down next to him. I cup his cheek in my hand, rasping my palm along the slight roughening of stubble we've allowed to form on his face. My other hand wanders over his bare chest, my fingertips playing in the deepening furrows between his ribs.
He stares resolutely at the ceiling.
"Oh, don't sulk," I say. "And when we've gone to such lengths to entertain you, too. Don't tell me you're upset about not being able to see." Sherlock's throat convulses as he swallows; he still can't make sounds, but he's beginnning to regain muscle control. We'll have to give him more injections soon if we're going to keep him like this.
Suddenly, I want him to see. I want him to know how well I'd done, too; how perfect my choice had been. I reach up to undo the padlock on his left wrist, fist my hand in his hair and pull him roughly to his feet. He sways; he hasn't been vertical in a while and he's off-balance with his right hand still tethered. I pull him forward until he hisses against the stretch in his shoulder to where he can just see over the low loft wall. The boy has his back to us, but Jim catches my eye and manoeuvres himself just slightly to the left so that the boy has to turn slightly. Sherlock sucks in a breath through his nose at the sight of his profile.
Good.
The voices float up from below:
“You’ll answer to whatever I call you. Any question I ask you, you’ll respond with a ‘yes’. No other talking is acceptable. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
There it was, the answer Jim had never been able to get from Sherlock; the last refusal he'd been able to make. Sherlock understands; his shoulder jerks in my grasp, his teeth grinding together.
"Not too bad, eh?" I say, pressing my lips against his ear, then shove him backward onto the mattress. He lands with a thud, curling toward his left side-- ah. That's right, his ribs. Still hurting him, then. A job well done.
I swallow my chuckle and get his hand resecured before he manages to regain his breath.
Sherlock is watching my face, eyes pale and sharp despite how reddened they are. The virgin, Jim calls him. It's delicious.
Well. Maybe I'll have something of my own, then.
"No need to let them have all the fun."
Sherlock's eyelids flare open briefly in understanding, then he sets his teeth and turns his head away.
"Oh, no." I fist my hand in his hair and force him to turn his head so he's facing me. "That's not how this is going to go. Not at all."
His eyes flick down briefly to my crotch, and-- yes, I could do that, take his mouth or his arse, like this, accompanied by the sounds of Jim fucking his likeness below. But he's wrong, again; about Jim, about us. That's not how this game works.
If he hasn't learned it yet, perhaps it's time for a demonstration.
He's completely soft when I wrap my fist around him, still pinning him by the hair with my other hand, but his whole body jerks at the touch.
"Oh, weren't expecting that, were you?" I say. "You know, everyone always said you were so bloody clever, but you don't seem too clever to me. Not by half."
He closes his eyes as I begin to stroke, so I release his cock and pinch the skin behind his balls, hard. His eyes fly open in surprise, his mouth opening in a choked gasp.
From below, I can hear Jim's voice. "Sherlock." Beautiful.
"Eyes on me," I spit out, and give him two more quick pinches and then half a dozen harsh strokes, too hard to be pleasurable while he's still soft, but even so I can feel the blood beginning to heat his skin.
"Oh, you like that," I hiss, and his eyes close for a second before flying open again. I didn't even have to move my hand, this time.
I don't bother trying to hide my smirk. "Good boy."
I can feel Sherlock straining, fighting with himself, simultaneously trying to stifle his body's reactions to my touch (he's starved for it, of course he is; he hasn't had his hands free in weeks) and fighting both to hear and to ignore the noises he can hear below, wet sounds and gasps of pleasure. He squirms, mouth twisting open in disgust, gasping for air as his body betrays him.
It's beautiful. It's a shame Jim won't be here to see it, but then, there are some things I need to keep for myself.
Sherlock's cock is fully hard now, heated and so full I can feel his pulse through the palm of my hand.
"You need this," I whisper to him, and he tries to turn his head sharply, once to each side, still pinned by my fingers in his hair; a perfunctory negation. The best part is, I'm right and he knows it. His contempt makes it no less true.
There's a tearing sound, a wet gurgle from below, and we've timed this perfectly. Sherlock's brow furrows, but he’s already on the edge and his face contorts into a silent grimace of confused pleasure. Then I hear Jim's groan as he finishes and I pull twice more and Sherlock spills himself over my hand and his own stomach, hot and wet.
I shove my fingers into his mouth, wiping the taste of his shame along the back of his useless tongue until he gags.
From below, I can hear Jim moving around. There's a heavy dripping sound and his footsteps on the stairs, slow and deliberate, heavy with satisfaction. I can already see the scene in my mind's eye: the rapidly-cooling limbs, the blood. The picture Jim's painted for me, evidence of hsi own enjoyment; and here, I've left my own scene for him in exchange, drying against the pale skin of Sherlock's stomach.
Sherlock's eyes grow wide and I twist to look over my shoulder. Jim is still wearing his shirt but otherwise naked, and there's--
Blood. There's blood everywhere, on his cock and thighs, on his cheek, staining the hem of his shirt.
Nobody moves. Sherlock stops breathing; then, he can't seem to breathe enough, his narrow chest heaving.
From below, I can still hear it, slow and steady: drip, drip, drip.
Jim's grin is the brightest thing in the room.
"Next time, Seb," he says. "See if you can find one that looks like the doctor."
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