Apparently I Wrote More (!?) - DarkFic Prequel
anonymous
March 14 2011, 03:05:54 UTC
He always knew there was something a bit off about him. Something different, something twisted, in what he wanted from others.
Normal people, in their normal lives, have things like pride and dignity, arrogance and self-respect; things that prevent them from exposing the soft innards of their personalities, all the disgusting, messy bits. The greed, the fear, the selfishness, the unapologetic self interest gets shoved back and hidden and lied about. Which is unfortunately, really, because that’s his favorite part about humanity. That’s the part that makes him feel a little less malignant
Before he moved into the homicide division, Sergeant Lestrade spent several years with narcotics.
And there was just something about the addicts he met there, their utter and consuming desire for their drug of choice. Like they were human beings at their most honest, in that moment, willing to put forward any sort of payment, so long as it kept them from lock up, kept them intoxicated. Money they didn’t have, threats that held no weight, objects they didn’t own, the poison riddled bodies they did, all laid at the feet of a Sargent who had never been entirely innocent.
It was a heady feeling, to be on the receiving end of it; and that was enough, for a while, to know he held that sort of power but to not wield it.
Until the day it wasn’t.
The day a young man- just a boy, really- with eyes so green, a green that burst out of bloodshot red, offered anything, anything, I swear, I won’t tell anyone, and Lestrade knew he wouldn’t be the first cop to yield to temptation, and he knew he wouldn’t be the last, and so he got himself a blowjob from an uninclined, but not unwilling, participant.
It was clumsy. Messy. He had to remind the boy repeatedly to keep his eyes open, keep your eyes on me, that’s it. Still the best orgasm of his life.
After that it was like an uphill battle, and battle that he wasn’t sure he would win, wasn’t sure if he wanted to win. And he knew it could only end badly. He had seen it end badly, seen it end in shame and disgrace and discharge from the force. So he took the logical route, the safe dull boring insipid route and filed for a transfer, hoped to hide himself behind dead bodies that couldn’t beg for clemency.
Sometimes he wonders if it was fate, or destiny, or the invisible hand of a God more vindictive towards his children than anyone guessed, that led him to Sherlock Holmes. Most of the time he just thinks it coincidence that on his very last drugs bust he found himself in front of the man who saw everything.
Sherlock Holmes is like no other man on earth, of that Lestrade is certain. As an addict he was no different. No begging, no pleading, no offers. Just grey eyes to distract from his pin pricked forearm, and a smirk, a smirk that made Lestrade’s stomach drop the first time he saw it because this man knew, he knew.
“I can get you what you want.”
Because there’s no need to agonize when you know exactly what to offer.
“I prefer blonds.”
“Excellent.” And that smirk grew and changed into something frightening, something familiar, something Lestrade had only seen in mirrors before. “So do I.”
Apparently I Wrote More (!?) - DarkFic Sequel (1a/1)
anonymous
March 14 2011, 03:07:21 UTC
In a way, Sherlock is proud of him.
After all, how many men can claim to have the courage to run away, knowing full and well that tracking them down would be child’s play? To know how futile it was, to know that there would be repercussions, and to strive for freedom anyway, took a certain mixture of valor and hopeless stupidity.
He can be forgiven, in time, Sherlock supposes. John is so unavoidably human, after all.
But not tonight.
Sherlock knows that he loves like an infant: selfishly, greedily, and entirely in his own self interest. He is loath to share John with anything, ever, yet has no trouble ignoring him in favor of his own desires. He knows it is not love, true love, not that thing described as gallant and lovely and equal, but he also knows that this feeling is the closest he will get to it, and it is a fair enough term for his uses.
People in love do not do what he does to John, and he knows this too, and he does not care.
Love does not compel one to confine their object of affection to a bed for over 150 hours. But really, after the first incident that restraints were introduced to their intimate relations, how could John expect his mind not to go down that path? John loves him, after all, real love, true love, and doesn’t that imply a certain knowledge of the person?
Perhaps he is giving John too much credit. It had been an accident, after all.
He simply neglected to release the man when he ran off to pursue Lestrade’s latest case. But it had been such a relief, knowing exactly where John would be upon his return. Such a dramatic easing of tension, knowing John, wonderfully, terribly human John, wouldn’t suddenly realize exactly what he had given his heart to and run away screaming.
Oh, he screamed anyway, but the cheerful red ball gag muffled it amazingly. And it had looked so nice against his skin, Sherlock had decided to keep it there, even after he stopped.
Lestrade is unbearably smug as he prods the wayward man upstairs. Smug and hopeful, and completely obvious in what he wants. It seems that John has yet to regain his voice as he shivers in their sitting room, clearly conflicted on whether to lean towards Sherlock or Lestrade. No choice he makes at this point will end well for him; it is obvious he knows this.
Discordantly, at the moment, all Sherlock can manage is a deep irritation. Logic dictates that he should be feeling exceedingly wroth, and he knows he will, eventually. But the fact of the matter is that all Sherlock wants to do at this very moment is sleep. Between the case provided by Lestrade and John’s appealingly prostrate form, in the last seven days he has gotten less than 30 hours of sleep, none of which occurred in the last 48 hours. It was a regrettable lapse of judgment that led to the release of John’s restraints, but Sherlock couldn’t muster the energy required to lament it, as at the time it was necessary for an appropriate rest.
No doubt, after several hours of sleep, he will be all too keen to show John the error of his ways. But not right now.
Apparently I Wrote More (!?) - DarkFic Sequel (1b/1)
anonymous
March 14 2011, 03:08:26 UTC
A sigh is heaved at the two of them before he leads John to his bedroom. Lestrade saw it fit to handcuff him. Unnecessary, really, as John clearly lacked the ability to do more than shake his head and rasp what may have been words. His lips form ‘Sherlock’ and ‘please’, which, interspersed with the occasional whimper is lovely, really, but Sherlock is in no mood to appreciate it.
To anyone capable of observing, it is obvious that the first floor bedroom had, at one time, been the dining room. This is useless knowledge, except for the fact that directly in the center hung an ornamental hook, which was once intended for an opulent and heavy chandelier, was now intended for something not entirely dissimilar.
John’s whimpers reach a higher pitch when Sherlock removes his belt; his knees visibly rattle and he hits the floor hard. Sherlock makes a mental note to consider some sort of nourishment schedule, but later, later, as he drags John back up to his feet by the chain strung in front of him.
He drapes the belt over the hook, loops it through the chain, and ties it; the hook embedded in the ceiling can hold at least 200 pounds, the belt is leather of supreme quality; it should do for now. John watches him as he dangles there, torn between his two options of standing on the tips of his toes, or hanging from his arms. The first he will tire of eventually, the second will pain him in both his shoulder and his wrists. Sherlock nods once, satisfied, as John’s eyes widen and his breath shortens with fear.
Then he turns to leave.
Lestrade stands awkwardly in the doorway, half unsure whether his presence is welcome, half unwilling to leave. Pausing only to grab an item from the bed, Sherlock approaches Lestrade with stiff, irritated movements.
“I will be sleeping on the couch for the next four hours, at least.” The gag changes hands, John shuffles and wheezes beyond his back, and Lestrade favors him with the grin very few people think him capable of. “Do what you will, but do not, under any circumstances, release him.”
The wheezing turns into syllables, half formed and unintelligible, but once Sherlock closes the door, he can’t hear him at all.
THE END.
I am so sorry for the lack of super-hot-power-play-sex-of-the-non-consenting-variety. It is, sadly, not my forte. I’m still not sure if these other two bits really added anything to the original, but I wrote them, and thought I might as well share them as a sort of thank you to all the lovely people who commented. Thank you!
Re: Apparently I Wrote More (!?) - DarkFic Sequel (1b/1)
anonymous
March 14 2011, 04:06:49 UTC
Oh God. I've read a lot of dark fic, but this... I don't even know. I'm just gaping at the screen. I think I'm a lot more horrified by just the implication of what will happen to John than I would be if you'd written explicit sex.
Well done. I'm going to go find some fluff now, lol.
Re: Apparently I Wrote More (!?) - DarkFic Sequel (1b/1)velvet_maceMarch 14 2011, 22:40:54 UTC
This is amazing. This is incredibly hot as is, but, greedy thing I am, I absolutely love more of it.
By the way, there's a good chance I'm the OP, because the prompt seems awfully familiar and exactly like something I'd write and I kinda remember writing it before dashing off someplace else. The punctuation looks a bit off for me, which is the only reason I hesitate. So I might be wrong and I kinda hate to claim something that isn't actually mine.
Re: Apparently I Wrote More (!?) - DarkFic Sequel (1b/1)stickstockstoneMarch 15 2011, 14:45:02 UTC
Well, no one has cried foul yet, so...
Glad you like it, probably-the-OP! It was a great prompt. I've never written dark!fic before, but it's one of my favorite things to read, so I guess it had to happen eventually. That it was inspired by a prompt from one of my favorite authors is pretty much icing on the cake right now :) Hopefully it fulfilled all your John-vainly-attempting-freedom needs.
Re: Apparently I Wrote More (!?) - DarkFic Sequel (1b/1)
anonymous
March 17 2011, 02:49:31 UTC
Wow. How you managed to capture such a perfect little piece of darkness, I don't know. I could feel John's despair, and goodness I hope you write bunches more in this universe.
Normal people, in their normal lives, have things like pride and dignity, arrogance and self-respect; things that prevent them from exposing the soft innards of their personalities, all the disgusting, messy bits. The greed, the fear, the selfishness, the unapologetic self interest gets shoved back and hidden and lied about. Which is unfortunately, really, because that’s his favorite part about humanity. That’s the part that makes him feel a little less malignant
Before he moved into the homicide division, Sergeant Lestrade spent several years with narcotics.
And there was just something about the addicts he met there, their utter and consuming desire for their drug of choice. Like they were human beings at their most honest, in that moment, willing to put forward any sort of payment, so long as it kept them from lock up, kept them intoxicated. Money they didn’t have, threats that held no weight, objects they didn’t own, the poison riddled bodies they did, all laid at the feet of a Sargent who had never been entirely innocent.
It was a heady feeling, to be on the receiving end of it; and that was enough, for a while, to know he held that sort of power but to not wield it.
Until the day it wasn’t.
The day a young man- just a boy, really- with eyes so green, a green that burst out of bloodshot red, offered anything, anything, I swear, I won’t tell anyone, and Lestrade knew he wouldn’t be the first cop to yield to temptation, and he knew he wouldn’t be the last, and so he got himself a blowjob from an uninclined, but not unwilling, participant.
It was clumsy. Messy. He had to remind the boy repeatedly to keep his eyes open, keep your eyes on me, that’s it. Still the best orgasm of his life.
After that it was like an uphill battle, and battle that he wasn’t sure he would win, wasn’t sure if he wanted to win. And he knew it could only end badly. He had seen it end badly, seen it end in shame and disgrace and discharge from the force. So he took the logical route, the safe dull boring insipid route and filed for a transfer, hoped to hide himself behind dead bodies that couldn’t beg for clemency.
Sometimes he wonders if it was fate, or destiny, or the invisible hand of a God more vindictive towards his children than anyone guessed, that led him to Sherlock Holmes. Most of the time he just thinks it coincidence that on his very last drugs bust he found himself in front of the man who saw everything.
Sherlock Holmes is like no other man on earth, of that Lestrade is certain. As an addict he was no different. No begging, no pleading, no offers. Just grey eyes to distract from his pin pricked forearm, and a smirk, a smirk that made Lestrade’s stomach drop the first time he saw it because this man knew, he knew.
“I can get you what you want.”
Because there’s no need to agonize when you know exactly what to offer.
“I prefer blonds.”
“Excellent.” And that smirk grew and changed into something frightening, something familiar, something Lestrade had only seen in mirrors before. “So do I.”
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After all, how many men can claim to have the courage to run away, knowing full and well that tracking them down would be child’s play? To know how futile it was, to know that there would be repercussions, and to strive for freedom anyway, took a certain mixture of valor and hopeless stupidity.
He can be forgiven, in time, Sherlock supposes. John is so unavoidably human, after all.
But not tonight.
Sherlock knows that he loves like an infant: selfishly, greedily, and entirely in his own self interest. He is loath to share John with anything, ever, yet has no trouble ignoring him in favor of his own desires. He knows it is not love, true love, not that thing described as gallant and lovely and equal, but he also knows that this feeling is the closest he will get to it, and it is a fair enough term for his uses.
People in love do not do what he does to John, and he knows this too, and he does not care.
Love does not compel one to confine their object of affection to a bed for over 150 hours. But really, after the first incident that restraints were introduced to their intimate relations, how could John expect his mind not to go down that path? John loves him, after all, real love, true love, and doesn’t that imply a certain knowledge of the person?
Perhaps he is giving John too much credit. It had been an accident, after all.
He simply neglected to release the man when he ran off to pursue Lestrade’s latest case. But it had been such a relief, knowing exactly where John would be upon his return. Such a dramatic easing of tension, knowing John, wonderfully, terribly human John, wouldn’t suddenly realize exactly what he had given his heart to and run away screaming.
Oh, he screamed anyway, but the cheerful red ball gag muffled it amazingly. And it had looked so nice against his skin, Sherlock had decided to keep it there, even after he stopped.
Lestrade is unbearably smug as he prods the wayward man upstairs. Smug and hopeful, and completely obvious in what he wants. It seems that John has yet to regain his voice as he shivers in their sitting room, clearly conflicted on whether to lean towards Sherlock or Lestrade. No choice he makes at this point will end well for him; it is obvious he knows this.
Discordantly, at the moment, all Sherlock can manage is a deep irritation. Logic dictates that he should be feeling exceedingly wroth, and he knows he will, eventually. But the fact of the matter is that all Sherlock wants to do at this very moment is sleep. Between the case provided by Lestrade and John’s appealingly prostrate form, in the last seven days he has gotten less than 30 hours of sleep, none of which occurred in the last 48 hours. It was a regrettable lapse of judgment that led to the release of John’s restraints, but Sherlock couldn’t muster the energy required to lament it, as at the time it was necessary for an appropriate rest.
No doubt, after several hours of sleep, he will be all too keen to show John the error of his ways. But not right now.
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To anyone capable of observing, it is obvious that the first floor bedroom had, at one time, been the dining room. This is useless knowledge, except for the fact that directly in the center hung an ornamental hook, which was once intended for an opulent and heavy chandelier, was now intended for something not entirely dissimilar.
John’s whimpers reach a higher pitch when Sherlock removes his belt; his knees visibly rattle and he hits the floor hard. Sherlock makes a mental note to consider some sort of nourishment schedule, but later, later, as he drags John back up to his feet by the chain strung in front of him.
He drapes the belt over the hook, loops it through the chain, and ties it; the hook embedded in the ceiling can hold at least 200 pounds, the belt is leather of supreme quality; it should do for now. John watches him as he dangles there, torn between his two options of standing on the tips of his toes, or hanging from his arms. The first he will tire of eventually, the second will pain him in both his shoulder and his wrists. Sherlock nods once, satisfied, as John’s eyes widen and his breath shortens with fear.
Then he turns to leave.
Lestrade stands awkwardly in the doorway, half unsure whether his presence is welcome, half unwilling to leave. Pausing only to grab an item from the bed, Sherlock approaches Lestrade with stiff, irritated movements.
“I will be sleeping on the couch for the next four hours, at least.” The gag changes hands, John shuffles and wheezes beyond his back, and Lestrade favors him with the grin very few people think him capable of. “Do what you will, but do not, under any circumstances, release him.”
The wheezing turns into syllables, half formed and unintelligible, but once Sherlock closes the door, he can’t hear him at all.
THE END.
I am so sorry for the lack of super-hot-power-play-sex-of-the-non-consenting-variety. It is, sadly, not my forte. I’m still not sure if these other two bits really added anything to the original, but I wrote them, and thought I might as well share them as a sort of thank you to all the lovely people who commented. Thank you!
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Jesus.
This is just.
Just, well, fuck. Amazing.
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Well done. I'm going to go find some fluff now, lol.
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For the interested, all three can be found on my journal, complete with titles and slightly better word choice:
Desperate
Desire
Despair
Um. Hope you enjoy it, as much as you can enjoy something this seriously twisted, I guess.
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By the way, there's a good chance I'm the OP, because the prompt seems awfully familiar and exactly like something I'd write and I kinda remember writing it before dashing off someplace else. The punctuation looks a bit off for me, which is the only reason I hesitate. So I might be wrong and I kinda hate to claim something that isn't actually mine.
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Glad you like it, probably-the-OP! It was a great prompt. I've never written dark!fic before, but it's one of my favorite things to read, so I guess it had to happen eventually. That it was inspired by a prompt from one of my favorite authors is pretty much icing on the cake right now :) Hopefully it fulfilled all your John-vainly-attempting-freedom needs.
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Brilliant, stickandstone. Just brilliant.
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