“So this is your definition of assistence?” said Sherlock, rounding on Mycroft. “A fanatical terrorist, unbroken, in an experimental collar? I wasn't aware that my problem was that I slept too well.”
Mycroft didn't appear perturbed. “If you don't want him, I can put him to some other use.” He glanced at John. “Come along, John. Back to the car.”
John took a step back towards the door and then sniffed in a breath as his implant shot yet another dose of happiness through him. He fisted his hands.
“Wait --what was that,” said Sherlock sharply.
“The collar. When he obeys even the tiniest of orders, it gives him small amount of electrical stimulation to his pleasure centers.”
“Really?” Sherlock squared himself to John. “Look at me.”
John looked at him with stretched patience. To his surprise nothing happened. No pleasure. Of course, Sherlock wasn't his master.
“I haven't signed him over yet. John lift your arm.”
“No,” said John, still staring at Sherlock.
“Heel, John,” said Mycroft, impatiently.
John bit back a scream and leaned against the wall. He nearly tripped on a bundled stack of newspapers. For a second, agony rippled through his flesh. There didn't seem to be a nerve in his body that didn't hurt. Then it was over and he was breathless.
“John,” said Mycroft more patiently. “Lift your arm.”
“No,” said John.
“Heel, John.” Agony. John was sitting on the stack. His heart raced.
“Lift your arm,” said Mycroft.
John lifted his arm. Bliss. He shuddered.
“Stand up.”
John stood.
“At attention. Turn to the left. To the right. Clap your hands.” Mycroft ordered rapid fire. John barely had time to follow one order before the next was given. On and on. All simple things. Meaningless. The pleasure assaulted his brain. Insidious. Addicting.
“Please, stop,” begged John. His muscles were so loose, he feared he was going to collapse.
“Kneel,” said Mycroft.
John fell to his knees. He didn't even feel the bruises over the warmth and well-being that suffused him. All rational thought had long since left. He was practically a puddle.
He felt a hand tenderly stroke his hair, looked up and saw Mycroft's sleeve. “There, there, good boy.”
“I'll take him,” said Sherlock, sharply. “Transfer him to me.”
John dared to look up at him. Sherlock had his chin cupped in his hand and a look of avid interest on his face.
“I thought you might,” said Mycroft. “Just, Sherlock, try not to break him.”
Just found this today and plowed right through it. I got about two paragraphs into it at the top and thought, "This reminds me of a really great... never mind, same author."
But I got to the end and I think my heart was racing as much as John's. I'm thrilled to have more of your work to be reading.
Mycroft didn't appear perturbed. “If you don't want him, I can put him to some other use.” He glanced at John. “Come along, John. Back to the car.”
John took a step back towards the door and then sniffed in a breath as his implant shot yet another dose of happiness through him. He fisted his hands.
“Wait --what was that,” said Sherlock sharply.
“The collar. When he obeys even the tiniest of orders, it gives him small amount of electrical stimulation to his pleasure centers.”
“Really?” Sherlock squared himself to John. “Look at me.”
John looked at him with stretched patience. To his surprise nothing happened. No pleasure. Of course, Sherlock wasn't his master.
“I haven't signed him over yet. John lift your arm.”
“No,” said John, still staring at Sherlock.
“Heel, John,” said Mycroft, impatiently.
John bit back a scream and leaned against the wall. He nearly tripped on a bundled stack of newspapers. For a second, agony rippled through his flesh. There didn't seem to be a nerve in his body that didn't hurt. Then it was over and he was breathless.
“John,” said Mycroft more patiently. “Lift your arm.”
“No,” said John.
“Heel, John.” Agony. John was sitting on the stack. His heart raced.
“Lift your arm,” said Mycroft.
John lifted his arm. Bliss. He shuddered.
“Stand up.”
John stood.
“At attention. Turn to the left. To the right. Clap your hands.” Mycroft ordered rapid fire. John barely had time to follow one order before the next was given. On and on. All simple things. Meaningless. The pleasure assaulted his brain. Insidious. Addicting.
“Please, stop,” begged John. His muscles were so loose, he feared he was going to collapse.
“Kneel,” said Mycroft.
John fell to his knees. He didn't even feel the bruises over the warmth and well-being that suffused him. All rational thought had long since left. He was practically a puddle.
He felt a hand tenderly stroke his hair, looked up and saw Mycroft's sleeve. “There, there, good boy.”
“I'll take him,” said Sherlock, sharply. “Transfer him to me.”
John dared to look up at him. Sherlock had his chin cupped in his hand and a look of avid interest on his face.
“I thought you might,” said Mycroft. “Just, Sherlock, try not to break him.”
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And now I'm worried what Sherlock's going to do to John.
John's going to get addicted to the pleasure chemical isn't he?
Aargh! This fic is addictive! Need more!
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I eagerly await the next installment.
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Addictive. So addictive. More please?
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But I got to the end and I think my heart was racing as much as John's. I'm thrilled to have more of your work to be reading.
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Goosebumps, velvet, goosebumps!
*shudders*
Oh, this is deliciously wrong and dark. Your frequent updates make me all giddy!
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