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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.
Re: Complications Part 13
anonymous
July 21 2014, 01:22:55 UTC
((Short part but the character limit on these posts fucked me over -_- ))
Sherlock felt tears leaking from the corner of his eyes as Sergei picked up his pace, laughing along with his friends as he rammed his cock again and again down his throat, and he couldn't stop himself from crying out. His voice was muffled around the engorged organ he was currently sucking off, and he could tell by the way Sergei hissed under his breath that the vibrations of Sherlock's voice had felt good. That more than anything else made shame twist in Sherlock's guts. The last thing he wanted to do was give Sergei pleasure by choice, even accidentally.
Finally with a shuddering groan the Russian came, shooting hot ropes of thick hot ejaculate down Sherlock's windpipe, and he was finally left to retch out the contents of his stomach onto the carpet as Sergei pulled his head back and away.
"Tut.. that was expensive. Oh well you are worth more, for being such a good lay. I could have you every day and never get bored of that pretty little mouth."
Sherlock tried not to whimper as his cheek was caressed almost tenderly, but wasn't sure he was entirely successful. He wasn't sure of anything any more. Except that it hurt.. it /still/ hurt. Ah.. of course someone was still finger fucking him from behind, that might explain why.
He dropped his head to the edge of the bed and bit the covers as a third finger was added, and he felt his entrance tear. The fingers were well lubricated, but he was a virgin, and nothing even close to relaxed enough to allow that kind of intrusion. It was only going to get worse too Sherlock thought with a groan, especially if Sergei's friends were even half as big as he had been.
'Please dear god let this be over soon' Sherlock pleaded silently.
"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.
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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.
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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.
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"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.
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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.
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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.
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Sherlock felt tears leaking from the corner of his eyes as Sergei picked up his pace, laughing along with his friends as he rammed his cock again and again down his throat, and he couldn't stop himself from crying out. His voice was muffled around the engorged organ he was currently sucking off, and he could tell by the way Sergei hissed under his breath that the vibrations of Sherlock's voice had felt good. That more than anything else made shame twist in Sherlock's guts. The last thing he wanted to do was give Sergei pleasure by choice, even accidentally.
Finally with a shuddering groan the Russian came, shooting hot ropes of thick hot ejaculate down Sherlock's windpipe, and he was finally left to retch out the contents of his stomach onto the carpet as Sergei pulled his head back and away.
"Tut.. that was expensive. Oh well you are worth more, for being such a good lay. I could have you every day and never get bored of that pretty little mouth."
Sherlock tried not to whimper as his cheek was caressed almost tenderly, but wasn't sure he was entirely successful. He wasn't sure of anything any more. Except that it hurt.. it /still/ hurt. Ah.. of course someone was still finger fucking him from behind, that might explain why.
He dropped his head to the edge of the bed and bit the covers as a third finger was added, and he felt his entrance tear. The fingers were well lubricated, but he was a virgin, and nothing even close to relaxed enough to allow that kind of intrusion. It was only going to get worse too Sherlock thought with a groan, especially if Sergei's friends were even half as big as he had been.
'Please dear god let this be over soon' Sherlock pleaded silently.
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Oh Sherlock :(
(admittedly I like all the angst though)
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Yeah.. it's gonna get better for him though I promise! Eventually.. >.>
Things are going to get so much worse before they get better though.
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