Anon posting is not required, but most definitely allowed. If you think you recognise an anon, keep it to yourself and don’t out them. IP tracking is off, and will remain that way.
Multiple fills are encouraged, and all kinds of fills are accepted! Fic, art,
( Read more... )
Re: Complications Part 2
anonymous
July 20 2014, 00:40:34 UTC
"Carruthers. Martin Carruthers, look on the VIP list." He tried not to be too irritated at how long the stocky bouncer took to find the name out of a relatively short list. Eventually the man gave a gruff nod and lifted the rail to allow him through however, and Sherlock slipped past with an air of haughty confidence that would befit the stature of the man who’s name he routinely borrowed. He left his distinctive coat and scarf at the desk, figuring they cut a far too easily recognisable silhouette and you could never be too careful. Not that he anticipated trouble.. it was just good practice to never take anything for granted.
The club stank of sweat and stale bodies, mixed with alcohol. Sherlock wrinkled his sensitive nose against the repugnant cacophony, wishing that todays ‘big bad’ could have picked a classier establishment to frequent. Alas it wasn’t to be.. could he really have expected anything more of a man dumb enough to kidnap a girl who had already filed a restraining order against him?
He didn’t apologise as he elbowed his way through the crowds, intent on reaching the private lounge where he knew his mark spent most nights gambling at cards and drinking himself into oblivion. There was the distinct possibility of course that after his latest crime, Mr Bert Andrews would be holing up away from the public eye, and this trip would be a wasted journey. Sherlock doubted it though, even a particularly stupid criminal knew that any change to his normal routine so soon after a well publicised crime would throw suspicion immediately over them.
Ah the curse of always being right… there he was. Sherlock was beyond disappointed. It was all far too easy.
His mark was leaning back in his chair, tipping it under his weight as he stared down his opponent. Sherlock could see it was a bluff even from a distance of ten meters, but he doubted his man would be losing, not after having caught a glimpse of the opponents cards. He knew a thing or two about this game himself, and figured it was as good a way as any to gain the confidence of the kidnapper, so he could get him to divulge just where he was hiding his victim. Nobody would thank Sherlock for calling in the boys without first getting the girl to safety.
"Mind if I join?" He pulled a wad of cash from his jeans pocket and flashed it to the two gentleman, knowing they wouldn’t refuse, and invited himself to the table.
Re: Complications Part 3
anonymous
July 20 2014, 00:42:50 UTC
Being scrutinised by piercing gazes of blue and green didn’t strike him as odd given the circumstances. The smirk on his targets face did, but he was too slow to react as he was suddenly seized from behind and smashed face first into the table with hulking force. He hadn’t heard so much as a whisper of cloth to warn him of anyone sneaking up behind him, yet he could tell by the breadth of the calloused hands at his wrists and neck that their owner must be huge. Could it be that he’d actually switched off? Surely nobody would have taken him unaware had he been paying the proper amount of attention to his surroundings. Had he been.. cocky?
Efforts to fight his way out were futile, and he only earned a blow to the back of the head for his troubles. The room momentarily swam, and he felt something warm and sticky trickle down over his forehead. That was going to really smart, probably needed stitches.
"It appears I am at a severe disadvantage. I must confess that I had no idea this game was so exclusive. Sorry for inviting myself, I’ll show myself out if you’d just be kind enough to release me."
His voice came out steady, but muffled thanks to the awkward detail of having his face pressed against the dark oaken table which dominated the space. Laughter greeted his flippant remark, and he strained his neck to try and catch a glimpse of whoever was mocking him. Ah.. he might have known it would be the obviously mentally unbalanced criminal.
"And why would we do that? It took us such a very long time to get the great Sherlock Holmes alone. Wouldn’t it be such an awful shame to throw away such a unique opportunity just because you asked so nicely? The manners are nice though, do keep it up." The man he knew as Bert Andrews circled around into Sherlocks line of view, and paused to light a cigarette. Even at this awkward angle Sherlock could see that the zippo used to light it had been expensive, exquisitely crafted, most likely unique.. in fact it was definitely unique seeing as it had been engraved. Intricate patterns of vines chased each other around the initials S.M, and Sherlock inwardly berated himself for a fool.
Of course this had all seemed too easy.. it /was/ too easy. So easy that he should have known it as a blind, a cover for something much more insidious.
"I see you’ve all been very busy bee’s, and clever ones too to ensnare me in such a perfectly simple trap. Really my hats off to you mister Moran.. although I must inquire into your reasoning for molesting me when you had succeeded in thwarting the efforts of my brother and all his agents to find you. Why risk it? You must know I’ll be missed. People will be looking for me, and they aren’t completely hopeless. What possible gain could be worth the risk it took to get me here alone, when you could have lived like a king on the back of your success with our late friend Moriarty?"
He was surprised to find his inquiries uninterrupted by either the brute force of muscle still pinning him to the table, or his boss. The latter even seemed pleased by Sherlocks questions, and he grinned wolfishly around his cigarette as he leaned in close, breathing smoke into Sherlock’s face on the exhale as he slowly pulled a drag from the burning stick and flicked the ash carelessly into the detectives curly hair.
"Revenge." He spoke that single word in such a low tone that Sherlock had to strain to hear, but he’d never heard two syllables spoken with such malice before now. It chilled him to the bone despite the brave face he was maintaining in the face of this unexpected turn of events, and he had to repress a shudder as he stared into eyes that could have been made of ice for all the cold intent he found within their depths.
With shame he heard his voice waver as he attempted with futility to seem calm. “For who? Not for your late employer? I didn’t think you were quite so sentimental.”
Re: Complications Part 4
anonymous
July 20 2014, 00:43:48 UTC
The slap stung against his cheek, and he hissed out a breath as he felt his skin redden where Sebastians palm had struck. It was the only hint of true emotion he’d seen from his assailant yet, and he knew it was because they both knew what Sherlock was trying to imply. A weakness then.. he filed that away, could be useful. There were unfortunately more immediate problems than getting into Sebastian Moran’s head however, such as escaping his current predicament alive, as he had no doubt his life was in peril while he remained in that room.
"So.. what are you going to do with me then? Torture? Murder? I’d really prefer to know exactly what I’m up against sooner rather than later if it wouldn’t be too much trouble. Better to just get it over with." Keep him talking.. bide his time. He’d told John that he would be out for a few hours, and he’d be beginning to wonder where Sherlock had gotten to by now. His companion was nothing if not reliable, he’d turn up at the last possible second and rescue Sherlock, and they would laugh about his carelessness later when the police reports were filed and his wounds tended to.
Sebastian Moran’s grin didn’t reach his eyes, but if it got any wider his face would split in two. He shook his head in mock sadness, trying to convey pity, although it was purely mocking of course. “Sherlock.. oh man give me a little credit here please, it’s nothing so drab! I’m certainly not planning on boring you to death, as amusing as it would be to watch you suffer under the pain of such unimaginative punishments as what you suggest. Nah.. we’re all gonna have a lot of fun with you. I promise it’s an absolute corker, you’ll love it!”
Here he gave a boyish little giggle which seemed completely at odds with his tall stature, and again Sherlock felt the icy grip of fear clench his heart as he knew to expect something truly hideous. Oddly though it was hard to read anything from the man other than he was anticipating something enjoyable.. he really was losing his touch. This more than anything made him angry, which in turn caused him to be careless. Physical admonishments he could handle, but being mocked this way was really too much.
"What then? For pities sake either let me go or do something! I tire of being subjected to the clawing odour that passes for cologne in your companions opinion. You shouldn’t beat your wife, she would have been honest about how awful you smell if she cared about you." This was directed towards the brute at his back in an effort to rile him up, but instead the whole room erupted into fits of laughter, and Sherlock had to wonder just when they had been joined by several others seeing as yet again he hadn’t heard a thing. He blinked in confusion, and Sebastian noticed once he’s finished chuckling emotionlessly to himself.
"Ahh is the penny finally dropping for you? It’s amazing how easy it can be to dull a mans senses if you know the right concoction, not that you’re a stranger to experimenting with these things I hear. In a crowd it’s just so easy to get close, personal space doesn’t exist, then it’s as easy as one two three. The tiny pinch of a needle, too infinitesimal to notice, and voila. Don’t worry there are no lasting effects, but it was necessary to weaken you slightly if everything was going to run smoothly. It was a dirty trick though, I am so very sorry for the inconvenience. You’ll be feeling a little faint for a few hours yet, so I wouldn’t try any sudden moves."
The pressure on his arms suddenly released at a nod from Sebastian, and Sherlock’s knees nearly gave out as his support was removed. It was revealed at a quick glance that the man who had been restraining him for so long was none other than the bouncer who had been manning the front doors that night, an obvious choice really. He had to admire his strength if nothing else, he’d practically been holding Sherlock up for the last twenty minutes, as evidenced by the effort it took to so much as stand now that he was under his own power. The drugs must have been fast acting, and whatever they’d given him left him weak as a kitten.
Re: Complications Part 5
anonymous
July 20 2014, 00:44:58 UTC
He slowly turned about, leaning heavily on the table for balance as he surveyed the newcomers to the room. A group of ten men, varying ages, nationality, social standing.. it was hard to deduce much more than superficial factors in his addled state, but he could immediately tell one and only one unifying factor amongst them. They were all major players in the sex trafficking ring, all of them known to the police but too clever to get caught. Lestrade and his ilk would give their right arms to put even one of these men behind bars, and now Sherlock had them all. Except he didn’t.. they had him, and he wasn’t even sure what the connection was between them and Sebastian Moran yet. Where exactly did Sherlock factor into all this anyway?
Sebastian gave an answer as though he’d been reading Sherlock’s thoughts, and he did it with barely restrained glee lacing every syllable. “These fine gentleman are your new employers. I trust you’ll work for them with as much enthusiasm as you’ve been working for the illustrious police force all these years. It’ll be like a home away from home I imagine.. certainly the same amount of arse kissing at least, but the work might vary a little from what you’re used to. Or maybe not.. I’ve heard rumours about you and your doctor friend.”
Sherlock felt his jaw go slack as realisation hit him harder than the slap to his face had minutes ago. He’d been boxing champion at university even, but nobody had hit /this/ hard. Bile rose in his throat, he was going to be sick..
"Oh don’t look so glum, it’s really not all that bad. Certainly much better than you deserve. You upset a lot of people when you dismantled Moriarties network you know? It’s just a shame that you weren’t a bit more thorough eh?" The sharp shooter pulled an I phone out of his jacket pocket then, checking the time quickly, and gave Sherlock the most disparaging smile as he turned on his heel to leave.
"Well this is goodbye from me Mister Holmes. I would say until we meet again but.. well.. the life expectancy of your average bed slave doesn’t commit much promise to that statement coming true. Adios then."
Sherlock watched him leave with widened, fearful eyes, frozen like a deer in the headlights. The bouncer remained behind, and flexed his muscled ominously when he noticed Sherlock make a jerky motion forward as though to follow Sebastian out. He was trapped, it was eleven on one and he couldn’t even /think/ his way out of this one. His brain felt like molasses, trickling half formed plans so slowly it was painful, and none of them were even viable whilst he was physically feeble.
He turned his gaze to the gathered semi circle of quietly leering traffickers, pleading with them to reveal it had all been some elaborate joke. Maybe some kind of set up by Anderson and Sally to prove that he wasn’t invincible, to teach him a lesson that he needed them on his side. No such thing happened. Instead one of them, a sallow skinned, swarthy man even taller than Sherlock, stepped forward into his personal space and proceeded to rake over every inch of him with eyes and hands both, weighing him up like a piece of meat. His accent was russian, Sherlock noted dumbly as he uselessly batted at the mans hands groping his buttocks through his jeans.
"You’re a pretty boy, is good we like them pretty, like girls but always tight!" He slapped Sherlocks arse while laughing in a gravelly, licentious tone that made the hair on the back of Sherlocks neck rise. What the hell made this guy think that he could grope anywhere he pleases? It was repulsive!
Re: Complications Part 6
anonymous
July 20 2014, 00:45:45 UTC
'It's what you're going to have to get used to if John doesn't show up right this second.' He thought with a renewed wave of dread.
Time was ticking, and the cavalry still hadn’t arrived. Sherlock was beginning to really panic.
"Fuck off, don’t touch me. You don’t own me. What makes you think I’m going to submit to any of you?"
The russian guy moved like lightning, grabbing a fistful of hair in his neatly manicured hands and ripping some out as he dragged Sherlock to the ground, kicking him in the ankles to further knock him off balance. Sherlock went down like a sack of bricks, helpless in his current state, and cried out at the pain of the blow. Nobody would hear him even if he screamed.. the music was far too loud.
"I not think you will suck and fuck me and all my friends whenever it pleases, I /know/. You think you are first guy to be back talking? You will not think you are smart when you got my friends cock in your mouth and I am taking you behind like a horny ‘cobaka’ eh?" Sherlock tried not to flinch as his assailant dragged his head forwards and rubbed his crotch in his face, making motions as though fucking him in the mouth while his friends jeered. He couldn’t truly believe this was happening. It was one of those horror stories that you heard so many people were subjected to every single day, but couldn’t possibly happen to you, because you were invincible right? This sort of thing didn’t happen to people like him, it just didn’t.
Yet it was. He was currently being laughed at while someone humiliated him in the most vile manner, and this was only the beginning. They hadn’t even gotten started yet. He could only imagine the ways in which they all intended to use him.
"John.. please.." He’d unconsciously whimpered his plea aloud, and the russian cruelly mimicked his words but in a higher pitch, adding a breathlessness to it which made it sound dirty. It was obvious what he was implying, and his friends found it hilarious.
"Come on get up and follow us, we show you a good time. You be forgetting John soon." He was pulled to his feet with surprising tenderness, and might have been fooled into thinking it was a friendly gesture but for the mocking soothing tone, and the way a hand snaked around his waist as he was guided forwards. There wasn’t even a point in resisting, in fact it was probable that pretending to go along meekly was a good idea for now. So long as they took him outside he had a chance at breaking away, and finding someone who could help. It was a slim chance when he was surrounded on all sides, but it was better than nothing.
He staggered along with his gaze locked on the ground beneath his feet, hoping against hope that someone would miraculously come to his rescue before he was broken.
Re: Complications Part 6
anonymous
July 20 2014, 15:21:43 UTC
Author anon here! Holy crap I did not expect anyone to read this seeing as the prompt was posted some time ago, but then I'm used to writing for old/obscure fandoms. It's definitely a very pleasant surprise! I'm going to have another few hours tonight to get writing so maybe expect another few parts later on, unless the muse really takes hold in which case I could very well get it all finished in one go heh. :D
Re: Complications Part 7
anonymous
July 20 2014, 23:06:41 UTC
All hopes of escape had been dashed the moment Sherlock realised he was being taken out of the club via the back entrance. The route went through the cellar, where shelves stacked full of spirits stood silent sentinel, and were only ever disturbed by the few bar staff who used the room. Sherlock wouldn't be surprised if even they were in on this abduction either, so even if someone happened to need a refill right now it probably wouldn't help his case all that much. The bastards had planned everything out with expert precision, perfect to the last detail, and quickly all avenues of escape were closing their doors one by one. It seemed as though the very walls were closing in. Sherlock had never felt so trapped in all his years so far, and he'd been in some tight spots.
They paused only to unlock a heavy duty padlock which was holding the service doors closed, and the detective, in an oddly poetic moment, thought that the sound of chains slithering to the stone floor were rather symbolic of his near future. He didn't have long to amuse himself over cruel ironies however, as he was given a rough shove from behind to keep walking, and was ushered quickly towards a large silver Audi which was waiting in the yard. Three cars in all were waiting with engines already running, and as he was bundled into the Audi he realised that even during the car journey he was to be escorted under the highest security measures. Really the military would have been proud of the precautions these lowlifes had taken. He had to give credit where credit was due.
To his dismay it was the Russian bloke for whom he was fast learning to loathe who got in beside him, leering as the driver smoothly pulled away and into the slow moving London traffic. Sherlock didn't doubt that each of his new 'employers' were as despicable as each other, but so far the man on his right was the only one to have touched him, and for that he gained a special place on Sherlock's revenge list. He could only hope he would live long enough to see the people on that very exclusive list brought to justice.
Nobody spoke a word during the journey, leaving Sherlock free to attempt mentally mapping out the route, for which he was grateful. He knew London like the back of his hand, and there wasn't anywhere they could take him that would disorient his sense of direction should he have the opportunity to leave. Unfortunately for him.. they weren't stopping. After an hours driving, Sherlock had to admit that they had passed way beyond the territory with which he was so intimately familiar. He was lost. Of course it would be easy to find out where he was if he could get hold of a gps phone, or hell.. even a street name, but he'd already lost yet another edge he would otherwise have held over his captors. They were stripping his claws one by one, metaphorically speaking, and the defencelessness left him with a distinct sense of prevailing anxiety, so unfamiliar to his normally emotionless front. Fear.. he didn't care for it.
Finally, after what seemed an age (only made longer by trying and failing to ignore the hand caressing the inside of his thigh), the cars all pulled over as one. They were on a dark country lane, seemingly in the middle of nowhere without a building in sight. Too puzzled to resist, Sherlock allowed himself to be pulled from the car and again marched forcibly ahead of his bouncer friend. His eyes darted swiftly around, roving the ground and surrounding area for clues as to his whereabouts. If he knew that these men intended to murder him outright, then it would seem that a field far out in the country would be a damn good place to do it, but that wasn't their intention at all, and Sherlock had to admit he was little intrigued. There must be something about this particular field they were currently tramping through that was out of the ordinary.
Ahhh of course.. clever. Who would think to look into an old abandoned cow shed? For that matter who would want to?
Re: Complications Part 8
anonymous
July 20 2014, 23:07:55 UTC
((Whoever gets the kneecaps reference is a legend ;P))
"After you Mr Holmes. Please watch your step, I'm afraid it's rather dark on the stairs, but you'll find the interior much nicer than the front door I promise." It was the first time he'd heard the blonde man speak, and he wasn't fooled by the false pleasantries. That one only saw profit when he looked at Sherlock. He heeded the warning though as he descended through the trap door his captor held open, and felt his way along the damp walls for balance as he descended. His captors weren't far behind, of course they knew it was safe to let him go on ahead now, this was their domain. No doubt more of their cronies guarded the route ahead.
The gravity of his situation hit fully when a door swung open at the end of a very dimly lit corridor to reveal what looked, for all intents and purposes, like a prison. Most of the cells were full too, sickly thin men and women staring out from the bars with vacant expressions, all high off their minds to keep them mild. Sherlock knew how this sort of thing went down. He also knew that in their eyes, his future was being reflected, plain as day and terrible beyond measure.
Sherlock planted his feet firmly and refused to budge, even when his followers walked into him thanks to the dimness of the room and cursed loudly. Someone smacked the back of his head while yelling for him to move, and he backed into them with all the strength he could muster, keening pitifully under his breath in an effort not to scream. It was a last ditch effort at freedom, hopeless though it might be, and he threw all his weight into it as he tried to shoulder aside the blockade of people separating him from the door.
"Nu-uh we won't have any of that.. come on Mr Holmes you were doing so well. It's really not all that bad, keep walking." He continued to struggle weakly against the multitude of hands dragging him towards an open cell, and every inch closer brought panic descending like a cloud over his mind. His efforts increased tenfold as though to spite the drugs still coursing through his system, and he flailed, bit and kicked for all he was worth. Teeth sank into the fleshy forearm of the man who's hand was shoving his left shoulder, and suddenly chaos broke loose in the hall. Echoed shouts reverberated painfully off the stone walls, and the inmates, excited by the struggle taking place, added their own voices to the din as they cheered Sherlock on in unison.
"Go on you poor fucker kick him in the nuts!" One shouted with enthusiasm, while another yelled. "Kneecaps go for the knees!" Sherlock, spurred on by the encouragement, was like a wild animal. He viciously tore at the face of his least favourite Russian, feeling his nails rake at the sallow skin and delighted at the hiss of pain it brought forth, and the faint coppery tang in the air which told that he'd drawn blood. Just to satisfy his crowd, he really did kick one where it hurt too, and almost felt elated when said guy crumpled in agony to the floor, clutching his poor bruised crotch as he rolled around whimpering.
Sadly it was a short lived victory. He knew it couldn't last.. and he saw the fist coming at his face as though in slow motion before it landed square on the jaw, and everything went dark.
Re: Complications Part 9
anonymous
July 20 2014, 23:37:11 UTC
'Fuuuck what the fucking fuck my fucking head..'
Sherlock was as stupid as the average man apparently when he was waking up from one hell of a lost fight. He groaned loudly, scrunching his eyes tight against the pain blossoming to life in every nerve ending as he regained consciousness. Everything hurt, especially his head, but he doubted if even being run over by a herd of rampaging rhino's would have left him feeling much worse.
"NnnnggggfuckwhereamI?" The oh so eloquent mumble was penetrated by a low chuckle that seemed to split his already pounding head in two, and he almost considered slipping back into the dark edges of unconsciousness that were beckoning but for the closeness of the sound. Slowly, bits and pieces of the events leading up to his black out were falling into place, and he sat bolt upright with a start as he realised he was in danger.
The lighting was thankfully not too bright, but it did mean the figure sitting hunched against the bars before him was cast into shadow, and he could barely make out their features. Something in his expression must have given away his suspicion, for the woman (yes he could tell from the vague outline that she had feminine curves) held up her hands placatingly.
"Shh it's okay, I'm not going to hurt you. I'm in the same boat as you, I'm not one of them." She spat the word 'them' out harshly with a gesture of the head towards the open space outside their cramped cell, but hushed her tone when Sherlock winced. "Sorry.. you took one hell of a beating, you must be feeling pretty rough. My name's Harriet, I used to be a nurse before.. well before this. Here let me take a look at that."
She crossed to 'his' side of the cell, as he determined it must be judging by the separation between bedrolls, and waited for his permission before settling beside him. He was still guarded, even though her hands were gentle as she carefully felt through his matted curls for the wound. Sherlock heard her make a sympathetic sound as she found where he was bleeding from.
"It's not going to be life threatening but you'll have one hell of a concussion. They won't let you get seriously hurt though.. they'll probably patch you up soon. Until then I'll clean it as best I can with what we have." She made to leave him, but Sherlock stopped her with a hand on her wrist, and she settled back beside him with a questioning glance, imploring him to speak his mind.
Finding the right words was harder than Sherlock anticipated. Harriet, whoever she might be, was the closest thing he was going to have to a friend in here though, and he needed to make the most of that.
"Thank you. My name is Sherlock." A pregnant pause, then his natural curiosity wouldn't allow him to leave it at just gratitude, however inadequately expressed.
"What's going to happen to me.. to us? Do they just hold people here to sell on or.." He left the rest unsaid, knowing from Harriet's downcast eyes all he needed to know.
She lifted her head and levelled him with the most pitying, if genuine smile he'd ever seen, and patted his arm lightly.
"You're going to be okay Sherlock. We all look after each other in a place like this. Now let me clean up this wound for you."
Sherlock nodded, and Harriet left him to tear some of her bedlinen into strips, presumably to use as a makeshift bandage, and he was left wondering just how much more linen they would get though before the week was out. He'd hurt some of his captors badly, no doubt they took that very personally. He was not going to have it easy.
Re: Complications Part 10
anonymous
July 21 2014, 00:23:49 UTC
Thud.. thud.. thud.. thud.. thud.. thud.. thud..
Sherlock thought he might go mad if he heard one.. thud.. more.. thud.. THUD!
"SHUT THE FUCK UP SOME OF US ARE TRYING TO THINK IN HERE!"
The steady sound of what he presumed must be a tennis ball being bounced off the wall of the cell next door came to an abrupt stop, and Sherlock could have sung the praises of any number of deities were it not for the renewed headache his shout had left him with. He could understand that there wasn't much to do when you were locked in a cell for most of the day, but really some people lived to be annoying. Even mutual captivity couldn't inspire Sherlock to conjure any great amount of sympathy for the guy who was, to put it in words John would use, 'getting on his tits'.
Harriet had jumped at his sudden outburst, and was staring wild eyed his way in delirium, having been dozing off before. Sherlock rubbed his face in both palms, clearly irritated, mostly at himself for being a dick if truth be told.
"Sorry, I just.. I'm feeling pretty tense and that stupid noise wasn't helping." He'd been coiled tightly like a spring for the past few hours, waiting for the inevitable sound of footsteps in the hallway that was sure to announce the arrival of his own personal hell. Sherlock had thought for sure they would be keen to exact revenge sooner rather than later, and he knew that /they knew/ he was awake by now. He'd clocked all the security camera's dotted around the cell block, and two were pointing directly at his cell. What were they waiting for?
He sprang to his feet and began pacing up and down, shaking with agitation and mumbling under his breath. "Why aren't they coming what could be holding them up? Unlikely they've been ratted out, would have heard police sirens, not so far underground that it would disguise the sound. No commotion from the door guards either, they would have legged it if something was going on.. not busted then."
Sherlock turned on his heel, gesticulating in the air with his hands as he tried to fathom a reason for the unnecessarily painful delay, when his cell mate halted his progress with a firm hand on his shoulder. He wheeled around on her and snarled like a feral dog. "Where are they! You've been here long enough to know what makes these men tick, where do they get off on leaving me with my fucking over-active imagination?!"
The short, gaunt women leaned away from him, obviously taken aback by the fury in his blue grey eyes, but she was ultimately a healer above all else. She knew deep down that Sherlock's anger was borne of fear... in fact she could see what he was getting at. Better to get it over with when you knew what fate held in store. She was almost motherly then when she guided a shaking Sherlock to his makeshift bed, and with firm pressure got him to sit with her, where she could hug him tight and make soothing noises as she felt him take in a deep, shuddering breath.
Sherlock breathed deep, in through his nose and out through his mouth, ignoring the tears threatening to overspill. His cell mate might be a healer like John, but she wasn't John, and now wasn't the time to go all sentimental and start to really miss his steadfast flatmate.
His head was buried against her shoulder as she rocked him gently, and he breathed in the comforting scent of cinnamon which seemed to cling to her chestnut hair. Calm.. lock it away, revisit it later, sentiment was a weakness...
"When I get out, I'll find a way to take you with me. I'll get all of us out of this place. I know people.. powerful people, who could help. I just.. wish something would happen. I need to be /doing something/ in order to formulate an escape plan, not waiting around in this shit hole cell with nothing to go on. I need.."
They both stilled, ears pricked as they caught the faint echo of a voice from beyond a locked door somewhere beyond their vision, further down along the long row of cages. Footsteps, getting louder, a beeping sound as either a key card or activation code granted access, and the whirring of an electronic lock opening. Creaking as the door was pushed open, and the voices were clearer now. Russian, and a voice he faintly remembered belonging to the blonde man who's ribs he'd punched earlier.
Re: Complications Part 10
anonymous
July 21 2014, 00:24:45 UTC
Harriet felt Sherlock minutely increase his grip on her as the footsteps came closer, and closer.. and she hugged him back just as tightly as she realised their intended destination. Her voice was nothing more than a wavering whisper as she tried to offer what little comfort she could.
"It will be okay, just.. go away in your head. I'll be here when it's all over, I'll look after you. Keep thinking of freedom."
Sherlock felt his pulse jumping erratically as the two bosses came to a halt outside their cell, and glared right at him with hatred blazing in their eyes as they held a tazer level with his chest.
"Lie down on your stomach, hands on your head. You move one muscle and I'll taze you /then/ fuck you. Nice way or hard way, your choice."
The detective chose the nice way, and only clutched desperately to his only lifeline for a moment longer before allowing her to scramble away to the opposite side of their shared living space. He did as instructed, and didn't so much as flinch while they secured Irish eights around his wrists, and dragged him back to his feet.
"Walk. No shit from you this time, you've already got enough to regret."
He shivered, yet his legs felt numb as they carried him forwards, seemingly against his will towards the door that the men had emerged from. The inmates he passed all seemed to shrink away to the backs of their cells before the glum procession, and Sherlock wondered what horrors they had all endured to make them so fearful. Every single one of these people were utterly broken. How does any human being manage to cause that amount of damage in another?
'Won't be long before you know the answer to that, and you'll wish you didn't' his own mind helpfully supplied.
It felt like walking to his own execution. As they passed through the open door into the lavishly furnished room beyond, he knew he'd never go back to the man he was before. One glance at the place, with it's perverse tools of torture all proudly displayed, and he knew he was going to leave with scars. Physically, mental, emotional. A hat trick.
Re: Complications Part 11
anonymous
July 21 2014, 01:20:38 UTC
((Sorry that part was too long so had to split into two. Anyway from here be scenes of very graphic rape and torture, so those of a squeamish disposition look away now.))
The same eleven men who'd been privy to his capture at the club earlier were all present, all with the same hateful expressions which Sherlock knew he at least partly had earned directed towards him. The Russian guy, whom he overheard being referred to as 'Sergei' (so nice to put a name to the face), lead him to the bed that took pride and centre of the room, and backed him into it until his knees hit the edge and he was forced to topple over onto the surprisingly soft mattress. He expected tearing hands then, expected to be ganged up on by all and sundry until they got what they clearly wanted.. but nothing happened.
Instead, Sergei held out his hand for the tazer gun his companion had been wielding, and casually leaned back on a desk (the one bearing all manner of objects that Sherlock preferred not to look at directly) as though bored. There was a hungry spark in his eyes that he couldn't quite disguise however, and Sherlock felt a shudder of loathing run up his spine with the knowledge that this man wanted him. He was about to offer some goading remark out of spite, when the thick tones of his least favourite man in the universe cut him off before he could so much as open his mouth.
"We play a game. We ask you to do things for us, and you obey. You perform good and you get certain.. treats. You perform bad and, well.. " He waved the tazer casually in the air. "We make life very, VERY painful. This is phase one punishment, you don't wanna see phase two. Clear so far?"
"Crystal."
"Ah this is good yes. So treats.. I'm feeling I must elaborate. See.. we own you, we can do anything we are wanting to you and nobody will care, but we treating well who treat /us/ well. If you are good we feed you. If you are good we give medicine when you are sick." Here the Russian's cold blue eyes flashed dangerously, and Sherlock knew he wouldn't like what he was about to hear. "If you are good, we don't all dry fuck you till you bleed out on the carpet."
Oh.. no he certainly hadn't liked that at all. He could feel the blood rushing away from his face leaving him white as a sheet, as he realised just how much pain could be inflicted by the use of bodies alone, never mind the instruments he still couldn't quite pretend didn't exist right there on the desk.
"You strip, I will be unlocking handcuffs but don't you be trying to run now. The door behind me is locked and I will be making you regret trying."
Sherlock swallowed hard, flicked his gaze to each man in turn and saw no pity in a single one of them as Sergei unlocked his cuffs as promised, then sat back to watch as the detective nervously fingered the buttons of his shirt. He knew this would all go easier if he would just comply.. he knew he had to remain in control for as long as possible. Pain made it so difficult to concentrate.
Harriet's words of comfort echoed in his mind 'just.. go away in your head.' He tried to pretend he was at home, in the comfort of his own room at 221b Baker Street, just getting changed. Yeah that was all.. he wasn't being watched by a group of other men as he shed his shirt and his jeans quickly, methodically, trying to be as totally UNsexy as possible. Sherlock felt goosebumps rising all over his skin as he sat perched on the very edge of the bed, totally naked, waiting for further instructions. Shame burned as he felt eyes boring into him like lasers, taking in every millimetre and owning it.
Perhaps now was a bad time to remember that the only sexual experiences he'd had so far to date were all involving his own right hand.
"You /are/ pretty.. pretty as a girl everywhere! I bet you even get all wet for us and everything!" He didn't even know who'd said that, he didn't much care, he just wished they would all have a sudden strike of conscience before going through with this.
Re: Complications Part 12
anonymous
July 21 2014, 01:22:18 UTC
Sergei hummed in approval as he unzipped his flies and pulled his semi erect cock out shamelessly, giving it a few firm tugs and smiling when Sherlock couldn't look away. The man was huge! He felt his jaw go slack as he stared at the engorged cock, quickly darkening with increased blood flow as the Russian casually wanked in front of everyone.
Sergei laughed at his expression, and stood in front of Sherlock then, thrusting his now fully erect penis into the detectives face and holding the back of his head before he could pull away.
"Put your pretty mouth to good use. I am sure you are knowing what to do."
Sherlock panicked as the weeping head of Sergei's cock brushed against his lips, and gagged even as he instinctively wrenched away from his captors grasp. He found that the others had all moved in close behind him, ready to hold him in place however, and he cried out as he was pulled down to the floor and forced onto his knees while Sergei sat in the space he'd vacated, knees either side of Sherlock's head, grinning as Sherlock was pinned mercilessly by the other men. The detective, even in his moment of panic, noticed flashes of white light going off every few seconds, and knew someone was taking pictures. He honestly thought he might cry.
"No.. please no just.. please.. my brother he'll pay you anything you want, just let me g-" Something cold and wet brushed against his backside and he jumped forwards away from the touch, gasping in fear.. and Sergei used the lapse in concentration to force Sherlocks head down, sliding himself past Sherlocks lips and right to the back of his throat, where the detective gagged around the intruding length.
He retched and choked but still the relentless pressure on the back of his head held him steady. Salt and bitter, acrid unpleasantness spread over his tongue, and his senses were invaded by the overpowering musk that seemed to be enveloping his every cell, clinging. He knew that scent wouldn't wash out no matter how hard he scrubbed. The groan as Sergei began thrusting slowly in and out, getting deeper down Sherlock's throat each time, was also something he wouldn't be forgetting. There would be nightmares.. terrible nightmares.. but they would pale in comparison to the living one he was enduring at that moment.
The Russian fucked his throat carelessly, not concerned with the pain it caused his victim, but he never allowed Sherlock to black out from lack of oxygen. Just as his vision began to darken the intrusion would pull out, and he would gasp in great lungfuls of air before being forced back onto the length. It was agony. His throat was raw and bleeding, the fingers in his hair tearing and nails scratching his scalp. The hands holding him still were bruising tight. The slicked up finger probing his entrance was almost nothing compared to the pain he was already going through.. until another was added and he was stretched beyond the level of discomfort.
The club stank of sweat and stale bodies, mixed with alcohol. Sherlock wrinkled his sensitive nose against the repugnant cacophony, wishing that todays ‘big bad’ could have picked a classier establishment to frequent. Alas it wasn’t to be.. could he really have expected anything more of a man dumb enough to kidnap a girl who had already filed a restraining order against him?
He didn’t apologise as he elbowed his way through the crowds, intent on reaching the private lounge where he knew his mark spent most nights gambling at cards and drinking himself into oblivion. There was the distinct possibility of course that after his latest crime, Mr Bert Andrews would be holing up away from the public eye, and this trip would be a wasted journey. Sherlock doubted it though, even a particularly stupid criminal knew that any change to his normal routine so soon after a well publicised crime would throw suspicion immediately over them.
Ah the curse of always being right… there he was. Sherlock was beyond disappointed. It was all far too easy.
His mark was leaning back in his chair, tipping it under his weight as he stared down his opponent. Sherlock could see it was a bluff even from a distance of ten meters, but he doubted his man would be losing, not after having caught a glimpse of the opponents cards. He knew a thing or two about this game himself, and figured it was as good a way as any to gain the confidence of the kidnapper, so he could get him to divulge just where he was hiding his victim. Nobody would thank Sherlock for calling in the boys without first getting the girl to safety.
"Mind if I join?" He pulled a wad of cash from his jeans pocket and flashed it to the two gentleman, knowing they wouldn’t refuse, and invited himself to the table.
Reply
Efforts to fight his way out were futile, and he only earned a blow to the back of the head for his troubles. The room momentarily swam, and he felt something warm and sticky trickle down over his forehead. That was going to really smart, probably needed stitches.
"It appears I am at a severe disadvantage. I must confess that I had no idea this game was so exclusive. Sorry for inviting myself, I’ll show myself out if you’d just be kind enough to release me."
His voice came out steady, but muffled thanks to the awkward detail of having his face pressed against the dark oaken table which dominated the space. Laughter greeted his flippant remark, and he strained his neck to try and catch a glimpse of whoever was mocking him. Ah.. he might have known it would be the obviously mentally unbalanced criminal.
"And why would we do that? It took us such a very long time to get the great Sherlock Holmes alone. Wouldn’t it be such an awful shame to throw away such a unique opportunity just because you asked so nicely? The manners are nice though, do keep it up." The man he knew as Bert Andrews circled around into Sherlocks line of view, and paused to light a cigarette. Even at this awkward angle Sherlock could see that the zippo used to light it had been expensive, exquisitely crafted, most likely unique.. in fact it was definitely unique seeing as it had been engraved. Intricate patterns of vines chased each other around the initials S.M, and Sherlock inwardly berated himself for a fool.
Of course this had all seemed too easy.. it /was/ too easy. So easy that he should have known it as a blind, a cover for something much more insidious.
"I see you’ve all been very busy bee’s, and clever ones too to ensnare me in such a perfectly simple trap. Really my hats off to you mister Moran.. although I must inquire into your reasoning for molesting me when you had succeeded in thwarting the efforts of my brother and all his agents to find you. Why risk it? You must know I’ll be missed. People will be looking for me, and they aren’t completely hopeless. What possible gain could be worth the risk it took to get me here alone, when you could have lived like a king on the back of your success with our late friend Moriarty?"
He was surprised to find his inquiries uninterrupted by either the brute force of muscle still pinning him to the table, or his boss. The latter even seemed pleased by Sherlocks questions, and he grinned wolfishly around his cigarette as he leaned in close, breathing smoke into Sherlock’s face on the exhale as he slowly pulled a drag from the burning stick and flicked the ash carelessly into the detectives curly hair.
"Revenge." He spoke that single word in such a low tone that Sherlock had to strain to hear, but he’d never heard two syllables spoken with such malice before now. It chilled him to the bone despite the brave face he was maintaining in the face of this unexpected turn of events, and he had to repress a shudder as he stared into eyes that could have been made of ice for all the cold intent he found within their depths.
With shame he heard his voice waver as he attempted with futility to seem calm. “For who? Not for your late employer? I didn’t think you were quite so sentimental.”
Reply
"So.. what are you going to do with me then? Torture? Murder? I’d really prefer to know exactly what I’m up against sooner rather than later if it wouldn’t be too much trouble. Better to just get it over with." Keep him talking.. bide his time. He’d told John that he would be out for a few hours, and he’d be beginning to wonder where Sherlock had gotten to by now. His companion was nothing if not reliable, he’d turn up at the last possible second and rescue Sherlock, and they would laugh about his carelessness later when the police reports were filed and his wounds tended to.
Sebastian Moran’s grin didn’t reach his eyes, but if it got any wider his face would split in two. He shook his head in mock sadness, trying to convey pity, although it was purely mocking of course. “Sherlock.. oh man give me a little credit here please, it’s nothing so drab! I’m certainly not planning on boring you to death, as amusing as it would be to watch you suffer under the pain of such unimaginative punishments as what you suggest. Nah.. we’re all gonna have a lot of fun with you. I promise it’s an absolute corker, you’ll love it!”
Here he gave a boyish little giggle which seemed completely at odds with his tall stature, and again Sherlock felt the icy grip of fear clench his heart as he knew to expect something truly hideous. Oddly though it was hard to read anything from the man other than he was anticipating something enjoyable.. he really was losing his touch. This more than anything made him angry, which in turn caused him to be careless. Physical admonishments he could handle, but being mocked this way was really too much.
"What then? For pities sake either let me go or do something! I tire of being subjected to the clawing odour that passes for cologne in your companions opinion. You shouldn’t beat your wife, she would have been honest about how awful you smell if she cared about you." This was directed towards the brute at his back in an effort to rile him up, but instead the whole room erupted into fits of laughter, and Sherlock had to wonder just when they had been joined by several others seeing as yet again he hadn’t heard a thing. He blinked in confusion, and Sebastian noticed once he’s finished chuckling emotionlessly to himself.
"Ahh is the penny finally dropping for you? It’s amazing how easy it can be to dull a mans senses if you know the right concoction, not that you’re a stranger to experimenting with these things I hear. In a crowd it’s just so easy to get close, personal space doesn’t exist, then it’s as easy as one two three. The tiny pinch of a needle, too infinitesimal to notice, and voila. Don’t worry there are no lasting effects, but it was necessary to weaken you slightly if everything was going to run smoothly. It was a dirty trick though, I am so very sorry for the inconvenience. You’ll be feeling a little faint for a few hours yet, so I wouldn’t try any sudden moves."
The pressure on his arms suddenly released at a nod from Sebastian, and Sherlock’s knees nearly gave out as his support was removed. It was revealed at a quick glance that the man who had been restraining him for so long was none other than the bouncer who had been manning the front doors that night, an obvious choice really. He had to admire his strength if nothing else, he’d practically been holding Sherlock up for the last twenty minutes, as evidenced by the effort it took to so much as stand now that he was under his own power. The drugs must have been fast acting, and whatever they’d given him left him weak as a kitten.
Reply
Sebastian gave an answer as though he’d been reading Sherlock’s thoughts, and he did it with barely restrained glee lacing every syllable. “These fine gentleman are your new employers. I trust you’ll work for them with as much enthusiasm as you’ve been working for the illustrious police force all these years. It’ll be like a home away from home I imagine.. certainly the same amount of arse kissing at least, but the work might vary a little from what you’re used to. Or maybe not.. I’ve heard rumours about you and your doctor friend.”
Sherlock felt his jaw go slack as realisation hit him harder than the slap to his face had minutes ago. He’d been boxing champion at university even, but nobody had hit /this/ hard. Bile rose in his throat, he was going to be sick..
"Oh don’t look so glum, it’s really not all that bad. Certainly much better than you deserve. You upset a lot of people when you dismantled Moriarties network you know? It’s just a shame that you weren’t a bit more thorough eh?" The sharp shooter pulled an I phone out of his jacket pocket then, checking the time quickly, and gave Sherlock the most disparaging smile as he turned on his heel to leave.
"Well this is goodbye from me Mister Holmes. I would say until we meet again but.. well.. the life expectancy of your average bed slave doesn’t commit much promise to that statement coming true. Adios then."
Sherlock watched him leave with widened, fearful eyes, frozen like a deer in the headlights. The bouncer remained behind, and flexed his muscled ominously when he noticed Sherlock make a jerky motion forward as though to follow Sebastian out. He was trapped, it was eleven on one and he couldn’t even /think/ his way out of this one. His brain felt like molasses, trickling half formed plans so slowly it was painful, and none of them were even viable whilst he was physically feeble.
He turned his gaze to the gathered semi circle of quietly leering traffickers, pleading with them to reveal it had all been some elaborate joke. Maybe some kind of set up by Anderson and Sally to prove that he wasn’t invincible, to teach him a lesson that he needed them on his side. No such thing happened. Instead one of them, a sallow skinned, swarthy man even taller than Sherlock, stepped forward into his personal space and proceeded to rake over every inch of him with eyes and hands both, weighing him up like a piece of meat. His accent was russian, Sherlock noted dumbly as he uselessly batted at the mans hands groping his buttocks through his jeans.
"You’re a pretty boy, is good we like them pretty, like girls but always tight!" He slapped Sherlocks arse while laughing in a gravelly, licentious tone that made the hair on the back of Sherlocks neck rise. What the hell made this guy think that he could grope anywhere he pleases? It was repulsive!
Reply
Time was ticking, and the cavalry still hadn’t arrived. Sherlock was beginning to really panic.
"Fuck off, don’t touch me. You don’t own me. What makes you think I’m going to submit to any of you?"
The russian guy moved like lightning, grabbing a fistful of hair in his neatly manicured hands and ripping some out as he dragged Sherlock to the ground, kicking him in the ankles to further knock him off balance. Sherlock went down like a sack of bricks, helpless in his current state, and cried out at the pain of the blow. Nobody would hear him even if he screamed.. the music was far too loud.
"I not think you will suck and fuck me and all my friends whenever it pleases, I /know/. You think you are first guy to be back talking? You will not think you are smart when you got my friends cock in your mouth and I am taking you behind like a horny ‘cobaka’ eh?" Sherlock tried not to flinch as his assailant dragged his head forwards and rubbed his crotch in his face, making motions as though fucking him in the mouth while his friends jeered. He couldn’t truly believe this was happening. It was one of those horror stories that you heard so many people were subjected to every single day, but couldn’t possibly happen to you, because you were invincible right? This sort of thing didn’t happen to people like him, it just didn’t.
Yet it was. He was currently being laughed at while someone humiliated him in the most vile manner, and this was only the beginning. They hadn’t even gotten started yet. He could only imagine the ways in which they all intended to use him.
"John.. please.." He’d unconsciously whimpered his plea aloud, and the russian cruelly mimicked his words but in a higher pitch, adding a breathlessness to it which made it sound dirty. It was obvious what he was implying, and his friends found it hilarious.
"Come on get up and follow us, we show you a good time. You be forgetting John soon." He was pulled to his feet with surprising tenderness, and might have been fooled into thinking it was a friendly gesture but for the mocking soothing tone, and the way a hand snaked around his waist as he was guided forwards. There wasn’t even a point in resisting, in fact it was probable that pretending to go along meekly was a good idea for now. So long as they took him outside he had a chance at breaking away, and finding someone who could help. It was a slim chance when he was surrounded on all sides, but it was better than nothing.
He staggered along with his gaze locked on the ground beneath his feet, hoping against hope that someone would miraculously come to his rescue before he was broken.
Reply
Reply
Thank you, please more :))))
Reply
And no thank YOU op for the inspiring prompt.
Reply
Reply
They paused only to unlock a heavy duty padlock which was holding the service doors closed, and the detective, in an oddly poetic moment, thought that the sound of chains slithering to the stone floor were rather symbolic of his near future. He didn't have long to amuse himself over cruel ironies however, as he was given a rough shove from behind to keep walking, and was ushered quickly towards a large silver Audi which was waiting in the yard. Three cars in all were waiting with engines already running, and as he was bundled into the Audi he realised that even during the car journey he was to be escorted under the highest security measures. Really the military would have been proud of the precautions these lowlifes had taken. He had to give credit where credit was due.
To his dismay it was the Russian bloke for whom he was fast learning to loathe who got in beside him, leering as the driver smoothly pulled away and into the slow moving London traffic. Sherlock didn't doubt that each of his new 'employers' were as despicable as each other, but so far the man on his right was the only one to have touched him, and for that he gained a special place on Sherlock's revenge list. He could only hope he would live long enough to see the people on that very exclusive list brought to justice.
Nobody spoke a word during the journey, leaving Sherlock free to attempt mentally mapping out the route, for which he was grateful. He knew London like the back of his hand, and there wasn't anywhere they could take him that would disorient his sense of direction should he have the opportunity to leave. Unfortunately for him.. they weren't stopping. After an hours driving, Sherlock had to admit that they had passed way beyond the territory with which he was so intimately familiar. He was lost. Of course it would be easy to find out where he was if he could get hold of a gps phone, or hell.. even a street name, but he'd already lost yet another edge he would otherwise have held over his captors. They were stripping his claws one by one, metaphorically speaking, and the defencelessness left him with a distinct sense of prevailing anxiety, so unfamiliar to his normally emotionless front. Fear.. he didn't care for it.
Finally, after what seemed an age (only made longer by trying and failing to ignore the hand caressing the inside of his thigh), the cars all pulled over as one. They were on a dark country lane, seemingly in the middle of nowhere without a building in sight. Too puzzled to resist, Sherlock allowed himself to be pulled from the car and again marched forcibly ahead of his bouncer friend. His eyes darted swiftly around, roving the ground and surrounding area for clues as to his whereabouts. If he knew that these men intended to murder him outright, then it would seem that a field far out in the country would be a damn good place to do it, but that wasn't their intention at all, and Sherlock had to admit he was little intrigued. There must be something about this particular field they were currently tramping through that was out of the ordinary.
Ahhh of course.. clever. Who would think to look into an old abandoned cow shed? For that matter who would want to?
Reply
"After you Mr Holmes. Please watch your step, I'm afraid it's rather dark on the stairs, but you'll find the interior much nicer than the front door I promise." It was the first time he'd heard the blonde man speak, and he wasn't fooled by the false pleasantries. That one only saw profit when he looked at Sherlock. He heeded the warning though as he descended through the trap door his captor held open, and felt his way along the damp walls for balance as he descended. His captors weren't far behind, of course they knew it was safe to let him go on ahead now, this was their domain. No doubt more of their cronies guarded the route ahead.
The gravity of his situation hit fully when a door swung open at the end of a very dimly lit corridor to reveal what looked, for all intents and purposes, like a prison. Most of the cells were full too, sickly thin men and women staring out from the bars with vacant expressions, all high off their minds to keep them mild. Sherlock knew how this sort of thing went down. He also knew that in their eyes, his future was being reflected, plain as day and terrible beyond measure.
Sherlock planted his feet firmly and refused to budge, even when his followers walked into him thanks to the dimness of the room and cursed loudly. Someone smacked the back of his head while yelling for him to move, and he backed into them with all the strength he could muster, keening pitifully under his breath in an effort not to scream. It was a last ditch effort at freedom, hopeless though it might be, and he threw all his weight into it as he tried to shoulder aside the blockade of people separating him from the door.
"Nu-uh we won't have any of that.. come on Mr Holmes you were doing so well. It's really not all that bad, keep walking." He continued to struggle weakly against the multitude of hands dragging him towards an open cell, and every inch closer brought panic descending like a cloud over his mind. His efforts increased tenfold as though to spite the drugs still coursing through his system, and he flailed, bit and kicked for all he was worth. Teeth sank into the fleshy forearm of the man who's hand was shoving his left shoulder, and suddenly chaos broke loose in the hall. Echoed shouts reverberated painfully off the stone walls, and the inmates, excited by the struggle taking place, added their own voices to the din as they cheered Sherlock on in unison.
"Go on you poor fucker kick him in the nuts!" One shouted with enthusiasm, while another yelled. "Kneecaps go for the knees!" Sherlock, spurred on by the encouragement, was like a wild animal. He viciously tore at the face of his least favourite Russian, feeling his nails rake at the sallow skin and delighted at the hiss of pain it brought forth, and the faint coppery tang in the air which told that he'd drawn blood. Just to satisfy his crowd, he really did kick one where it hurt too, and almost felt elated when said guy crumpled in agony to the floor, clutching his poor bruised crotch as he rolled around whimpering.
Sadly it was a short lived victory. He knew it couldn't last.. and he saw the fist coming at his face as though in slow motion before it landed square on the jaw, and everything went dark.
Reply
Sherlock was as stupid as the average man apparently when he was waking up from one hell of a lost fight. He groaned loudly, scrunching his eyes tight against the pain blossoming to life in every nerve ending as he regained consciousness. Everything hurt, especially his head, but he doubted if even being run over by a herd of rampaging rhino's would have left him feeling much worse.
"NnnnggggfuckwhereamI?" The oh so eloquent mumble was penetrated by a low chuckle that seemed to split his already pounding head in two, and he almost considered slipping back into the dark edges of unconsciousness that were beckoning but for the closeness of the sound. Slowly, bits and pieces of the events leading up to his black out were falling into place, and he sat bolt upright with a start as he realised he was in danger.
The lighting was thankfully not too bright, but it did mean the figure sitting hunched against the bars before him was cast into shadow, and he could barely make out their features. Something in his expression must have given away his suspicion, for the woman (yes he could tell from the vague outline that she had feminine curves) held up her hands placatingly.
"Shh it's okay, I'm not going to hurt you. I'm in the same boat as you, I'm not one of them." She spat the word 'them' out harshly with a gesture of the head towards the open space outside their cramped cell, but hushed her tone when Sherlock winced. "Sorry.. you took one hell of a beating, you must be feeling pretty rough. My name's Harriet, I used to be a nurse before.. well before this. Here let me take a look at that."
She crossed to 'his' side of the cell, as he determined it must be judging by the separation between bedrolls, and waited for his permission before settling beside him. He was still guarded, even though her hands were gentle as she carefully felt through his matted curls for the wound. Sherlock heard her make a sympathetic sound as she found where he was bleeding from.
"It's not going to be life threatening but you'll have one hell of a concussion. They won't let you get seriously hurt though.. they'll probably patch you up soon. Until then I'll clean it as best I can with what we have." She made to leave him, but Sherlock stopped her with a hand on her wrist, and she settled back beside him with a questioning glance, imploring him to speak his mind.
Finding the right words was harder than Sherlock anticipated. Harriet, whoever she might be, was the closest thing he was going to have to a friend in here though, and he needed to make the most of that.
"Thank you. My name is Sherlock." A pregnant pause, then his natural curiosity wouldn't allow him to leave it at just gratitude, however inadequately expressed.
"What's going to happen to me.. to us? Do they just hold people here to sell on or.." He left the rest unsaid, knowing from Harriet's downcast eyes all he needed to know.
She lifted her head and levelled him with the most pitying, if genuine smile he'd ever seen, and patted his arm lightly.
"You're going to be okay Sherlock. We all look after each other in a place like this. Now let me clean up this wound for you."
Sherlock nodded, and Harriet left him to tear some of her bedlinen into strips, presumably to use as a makeshift bandage, and he was left wondering just how much more linen they would get though before the week was out. He'd hurt some of his captors badly, no doubt they took that very personally. He was not going to have it easy.
Reply
Sherlock thought he might go mad if he heard one.. thud.. more.. thud.. THUD!
"SHUT THE FUCK UP SOME OF US ARE TRYING TO THINK IN HERE!"
The steady sound of what he presumed must be a tennis ball being bounced off the wall of the cell next door came to an abrupt stop, and Sherlock could have sung the praises of any number of deities were it not for the renewed headache his shout had left him with. He could understand that there wasn't much to do when you were locked in a cell for most of the day, but really some people lived to be annoying. Even mutual captivity couldn't inspire Sherlock to conjure any great amount of sympathy for the guy who was, to put it in words John would use, 'getting on his tits'.
Harriet had jumped at his sudden outburst, and was staring wild eyed his way in delirium, having been dozing off before. Sherlock rubbed his face in both palms, clearly irritated, mostly at himself for being a dick if truth be told.
"Sorry, I just.. I'm feeling pretty tense and that stupid noise wasn't helping." He'd been coiled tightly like a spring for the past few hours, waiting for the inevitable sound of footsteps in the hallway that was sure to announce the arrival of his own personal hell. Sherlock had thought for sure they would be keen to exact revenge sooner rather than later, and he knew that /they knew/ he was awake by now. He'd clocked all the security camera's dotted around the cell block, and two were pointing directly at his cell. What were they waiting for?
He sprang to his feet and began pacing up and down, shaking with agitation and mumbling under his breath. "Why aren't they coming what could be holding them up? Unlikely they've been ratted out, would have heard police sirens, not so far underground that it would disguise the sound. No commotion from the door guards either, they would have legged it if something was going on.. not busted then."
Sherlock turned on his heel, gesticulating in the air with his hands as he tried to fathom a reason for the unnecessarily painful delay, when his cell mate halted his progress with a firm hand on his shoulder. He wheeled around on her and snarled like a feral dog. "Where are they! You've been here long enough to know what makes these men tick, where do they get off on leaving me with my fucking over-active imagination?!"
The short, gaunt women leaned away from him, obviously taken aback by the fury in his blue grey eyes, but she was ultimately a healer above all else. She knew deep down that Sherlock's anger was borne of fear... in fact she could see what he was getting at. Better to get it over with when you knew what fate held in store. She was almost motherly then when she guided a shaking Sherlock to his makeshift bed, and with firm pressure got him to sit with her, where she could hug him tight and make soothing noises as she felt him take in a deep, shuddering breath.
Sherlock breathed deep, in through his nose and out through his mouth, ignoring the tears threatening to overspill. His cell mate might be a healer like John, but she wasn't John, and now wasn't the time to go all sentimental and start to really miss his steadfast flatmate.
His head was buried against her shoulder as she rocked him gently, and he breathed in the comforting scent of cinnamon which seemed to cling to her chestnut hair. Calm.. lock it away, revisit it later, sentiment was a weakness...
"When I get out, I'll find a way to take you with me. I'll get all of us out of this place. I know people.. powerful people, who could help. I just.. wish something would happen. I need to be /doing something/ in order to formulate an escape plan, not waiting around in this shit hole cell with nothing to go on. I need.."
They both stilled, ears pricked as they caught the faint echo of a voice from beyond a locked door somewhere beyond their vision, further down along the long row of cages. Footsteps, getting louder, a beeping sound as either a key card or activation code granted access, and the whirring of an electronic lock opening. Creaking as the door was pushed open, and the voices were clearer now. Russian, and a voice he faintly remembered belonging to the blonde man who's ribs he'd punched earlier.
Reply
"It will be okay, just.. go away in your head. I'll be here when it's all over, I'll look after you. Keep thinking of freedom."
Sherlock felt his pulse jumping erratically as the two bosses came to a halt outside their cell, and glared right at him with hatred blazing in their eyes as they held a tazer level with his chest.
"Lie down on your stomach, hands on your head. You move one muscle and I'll taze you /then/ fuck you. Nice way or hard way, your choice."
The detective chose the nice way, and only clutched desperately to his only lifeline for a moment longer before allowing her to scramble away to the opposite side of their shared living space. He did as instructed, and didn't so much as flinch while they secured Irish eights around his wrists, and dragged him back to his feet.
"Walk. No shit from you this time, you've already got enough to regret."
He shivered, yet his legs felt numb as they carried him forwards, seemingly against his will towards the door that the men had emerged from. The inmates he passed all seemed to shrink away to the backs of their cells before the glum procession, and Sherlock wondered what horrors they had all endured to make them so fearful. Every single one of these people were utterly broken. How does any human being manage to cause that amount of damage in another?
'Won't be long before you know the answer to that, and you'll wish you didn't' his own mind helpfully supplied.
It felt like walking to his own execution. As they passed through the open door into the lavishly furnished room beyond, he knew he'd never go back to the man he was before. One glance at the place, with it's perverse tools of torture all proudly displayed, and he knew he was going to leave with scars. Physically, mental, emotional. A hat trick.
Reply
The same eleven men who'd been privy to his capture at the club earlier were all present, all with the same hateful expressions which Sherlock knew he at least partly had earned directed towards him. The Russian guy, whom he overheard being referred to as 'Sergei' (so nice to put a name to the face), lead him to the bed that took pride and centre of the room, and backed him into it until his knees hit the edge and he was forced to topple over onto the surprisingly soft mattress. He expected tearing hands then, expected to be ganged up on by all and sundry until they got what they clearly wanted.. but nothing happened.
Instead, Sergei held out his hand for the tazer gun his companion had been wielding, and casually leaned back on a desk (the one bearing all manner of objects that Sherlock preferred not to look at directly) as though bored. There was a hungry spark in his eyes that he couldn't quite disguise however, and Sherlock felt a shudder of loathing run up his spine with the knowledge that this man wanted him. He was about to offer some goading remark out of spite, when the thick tones of his least favourite man in the universe cut him off before he could so much as open his mouth.
"We play a game. We ask you to do things for us, and you obey. You perform good and you get certain.. treats. You perform bad and, well.. " He waved the tazer casually in the air. "We make life very, VERY painful. This is phase one punishment, you don't wanna see phase two. Clear so far?"
"Crystal."
"Ah this is good yes. So treats.. I'm feeling I must elaborate. See.. we own you, we can do anything we are wanting to you and nobody will care, but we treating well who treat /us/ well. If you are good we feed you. If you are good we give medicine when you are sick." Here the Russian's cold blue eyes flashed dangerously, and Sherlock knew he wouldn't like what he was about to hear. "If you are good, we don't all dry fuck you till you bleed out on the carpet."
Oh.. no he certainly hadn't liked that at all. He could feel the blood rushing away from his face leaving him white as a sheet, as he realised just how much pain could be inflicted by the use of bodies alone, never mind the instruments he still couldn't quite pretend didn't exist right there on the desk.
"You strip, I will be unlocking handcuffs but don't you be trying to run now. The door behind me is locked and I will be making you regret trying."
Sherlock swallowed hard, flicked his gaze to each man in turn and saw no pity in a single one of them as Sergei unlocked his cuffs as promised, then sat back to watch as the detective nervously fingered the buttons of his shirt. He knew this would all go easier if he would just comply.. he knew he had to remain in control for as long as possible. Pain made it so difficult to concentrate.
Harriet's words of comfort echoed in his mind 'just.. go away in your head.' He tried to pretend he was at home, in the comfort of his own room at 221b Baker Street, just getting changed. Yeah that was all.. he wasn't being watched by a group of other men as he shed his shirt and his jeans quickly, methodically, trying to be as totally UNsexy as possible. Sherlock felt goosebumps rising all over his skin as he sat perched on the very edge of the bed, totally naked, waiting for further instructions. Shame burned as he felt eyes boring into him like lasers, taking in every millimetre and owning it.
Perhaps now was a bad time to remember that the only sexual experiences he'd had so far to date were all involving his own right hand.
"You /are/ pretty.. pretty as a girl everywhere! I bet you even get all wet for us and everything!" He didn't even know who'd said that, he didn't much care, he just wished they would all have a sudden strike of conscience before going through with this.
Reply
Sergei laughed at his expression, and stood in front of Sherlock then, thrusting his now fully erect penis into the detectives face and holding the back of his head before he could pull away.
"Put your pretty mouth to good use. I am sure you are knowing what to do."
Sherlock panicked as the weeping head of Sergei's cock brushed against his lips, and gagged even as he instinctively wrenched away from his captors grasp. He found that the others had all moved in close behind him, ready to hold him in place however, and he cried out as he was pulled down to the floor and forced onto his knees while Sergei sat in the space he'd vacated, knees either side of Sherlock's head, grinning as Sherlock was pinned mercilessly by the other men. The detective, even in his moment of panic, noticed flashes of white light going off every few seconds, and knew someone was taking pictures. He honestly thought he might cry.
"No.. please no just.. please.. my brother he'll pay you anything you want, just let me g-" Something cold and wet brushed against his backside and he jumped forwards away from the touch, gasping in fear.. and Sergei used the lapse in concentration to force Sherlocks head down, sliding himself past Sherlocks lips and right to the back of his throat, where the detective gagged around the intruding length.
He retched and choked but still the relentless pressure on the back of his head held him steady. Salt and bitter, acrid unpleasantness spread over his tongue, and his senses were invaded by the overpowering musk that seemed to be enveloping his every cell, clinging. He knew that scent wouldn't wash out no matter how hard he scrubbed. The groan as Sergei began thrusting slowly in and out, getting deeper down Sherlock's throat each time, was also something he wouldn't be forgetting. There would be nightmares.. terrible nightmares.. but they would pale in comparison to the living one he was enduring at that moment.
The Russian fucked his throat carelessly, not concerned with the pain it caused his victim, but he never allowed Sherlock to black out from lack of oxygen. Just as his vision began to darken the intrusion would pull out, and he would gasp in great lungfuls of air before being forced back onto the length. It was agony. His throat was raw and bleeding, the fingers in his hair tearing and nails scratching his scalp. The hands holding him still were bruising tight. The slicked up finger probing his entrance was almost nothing compared to the pain he was already going through.. until another was added and he was stretched beyond the level of discomfort.
Reply
Leave a comment