Bird's Bone
Title: Bird's Bone
Warnings: Bondage, Graphic Violence, Stockholm Syndrome, Incestuous Themes
Characters: Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Moriarty
Summary: When Sherlock and John are recovered from abduction by an unknown agent, Mycroft goes head to head against Moriarty to uncover the evasive truth about the incident.
Written for an old, old prompt on the kink meme, Sherlock is held captive in a strait jacket by some bad dude.
Bird's Bone, Prologue
It was getting dark, and something in the back of Mycroft's mind alerted him that Mummy would soon notice that Sherlock was missing. Mycroft closed his book, marking the page with one finger, and tilted an ear to the window. It was quiet. It had been for several hours, he realized. When Sherlock studied, he did so in Mycroft's room, and was otherwise generally quite audible. Mycroft set the book on his desk and slowly rose. He left his jacket behind because it was at the other end of the house, and he didn't expect to be out long.
The Holmes lived in a somewhat sparsely populated town on the outskirts of Greater London. There was a park five minutes walking distance from their home, and though Sherlock rarely ventured there, it was where Mycroft headed now. It was deserted this hour, and in the waning light it was a moment before Mycroft was able to pick out Sherlock's footprint among many in the well trodden soil. Mycroft was no adamant tracker, as Sherlock aspired to be, but it was enough to know he had been here, presumably in the company of other children, his own age or slightly older. Those children were generally home by this hour, and it was unlikely he was still with any one of them now.
Yesterday Sherlock had looked up from his studies and queried, "Mycroft, are you odd?"
Mycroft had considered his response. "'Odd' is a subjective term when applied to human behavior. It encompasses a variety of deviations from the accepted norm, and therefore, according to the less precise, I may be considered odd." He had leveled a pointed gaze at his brother. "Such people merely lack the analytical capacity to identify the root of our dissimilarities." Sherlock had eyed him critically for a moment. Then he had thoughtfully returned to his book.
Mycroft sighed deeply and spun in a slow circle, observing the surrounding grounds. Though Sherlock was irregular in his habits, he had lately taken on an aversion to the dark, and Mycroft suspected that in this instance some mitigating force had prevented his timely return home. There was a shadowed copse at the far end of the park, and Mycroft headed towards it. The trees here were small, not much older than twenty years, and bound by the wrists to one of these was Sherlock, his face contorted in fury and drenched with tears. He was no longer struggling, which meant he had been like this for some time. He did not acknowledge Mycroft as he approached.
Livid weals had arisen from the rope at his wrists - bits of shoelace, lengths of matted twine, Mycroft noted. The knots were unsophisticated and had held due to chance rather than any skill on the part of whoever had tied them. Mycroft picked one apart easily, and Sherlock jerked his arm free, hastening to loose the bind on his other wrist. He was sobbing openly, but in that curious, silent manner of his. Mycroft watched him struggle to collect himself.
Sherlock was a considerable scrapper for a boy of seven, and it was unlikely he had been overpowered into this situation. There were mothers and nannies to prevent that sort of open bullying. Therefore, he had acquiesced in the name of some game.
"They're not your friends," Mycroft told him. Sherlock stilled, his face a glistening, tear-stained mess. Without warning, he turned on Mycroft and attacked him ferociously, landing several blows to his legs and stomach before Mycroft was able to grab his wrists. Sherlock resorted to violence when he couldn't verbally express what he was feeling, which was often. Mycroft was trying to break him of this behavior, but now didn't seem the optimal time for a lesson. Sherlock writhed in his grip and then chucked his head forward, into Mycroft's midriff. The impact was unpleasant, but then Sherlock buried his face in Mycroft's shirt, his bony shoulders wracked with silent sobs.
Are you odd? he had asked.
Mycroft had never cared to have friends, but Sherlock was desperately social. He was so poor at it, though, and likely never to get any better. He was leagues ahead of the children his age. Mycroft released Sherlock's hands and wrapped him in a loose embrace. When he had stopped crying, Mycroft stooped down and lifted him up to his hip, as Daddy had used to do.
Sherlock twisted and scrubbed his nose down the length of Mycroft's arm, and Mycroft started for home. Daddy had made it look easy, but Sherlock was quite a bit heavier than one might suppose. Mycroft could smell the dirt on his hair, a wet leaf smell, as well as his skin and a pungent vitality that was curiously distinct. Sherlock tucked his head against Mycroft's neck, and Mycroft tilted his face towards the soft, errant curls. Sherlock was rarely so affectionate, and never this vulnerable. He toyed with the buttons on Mycroft's shirt, and idly traced the checked pattern. Mycroft didn't want to set him down. There was a clutching in his chest that was warm but rather painful, and he held tightly onto his brother, who was so solidly alive and real.
Mycroft approached a bench near the park gate, and had to stop and rest. No sooner had he touched the seat than Sherlock squirmed and slipped away.
"Bird's bones are hollow," he explained, his mind already racing. "But their density is greater than that of mammals', which maximizes stiffness and strength relative to weight, so they only appear to be delicate." He tilted his head back back, spinning to scan the darkened sky. He chattered on, quoting from his ornithology reference book, and Mycroft wrapped his arms across his chest, keenly aware of the deepening chill. It seemed at this moment that he was no longer Sherlock's brother, or friend, or protector. He was merely a person whom Sherlock sometimes knew.
*
It was the worst kind of weather, in Mycroft's opinion; hot and thick. He had taken a subdued breakfast with his mother that morning, and they were seated in the garden. Mycroft observed the pallid figure before him, her hair white and perfectly coiffed, fingers gnarled with rheumatoid arthritis. Mycroft's phone vibrated, and he retrieved it from his pocket.
Found him, the message read.
Mycroft frowned, then slowly rose. "Mummy, I must be going," he said, but her mind was with the music drifting though the open window. It wasn't her own work, but that of a predecessor, a priceless recording on antique vinyl. Her eyes traced the comings and goings of bees in the garden, and she raised one graceful, crippled hand, and waved him off.
Chapter One
Warnings: Bondage, Graphic Violence, Stockholm Syndrome, Incestuous Themes
Characters: Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Moriarty
Summary: When Sherlock and John are recovered from abduction by an unknown agent, Mycroft goes head to head against Moriarty to uncover the evasive truth about the incident.
Written for an old, old prompt on the kink meme, Sherlock is held captive in a strait jacket by some bad dude.
Bird's Bone, Prologue
It was getting dark, and something in the back of Mycroft's mind alerted him that Mummy would soon notice that Sherlock was missing. Mycroft closed his book, marking the page with one finger, and tilted an ear to the window. It was quiet. It had been for several hours, he realized. When Sherlock studied, he did so in Mycroft's room, and was otherwise generally quite audible. Mycroft set the book on his desk and slowly rose. He left his jacket behind because it was at the other end of the house, and he didn't expect to be out long.
The Holmes lived in a somewhat sparsely populated town on the outskirts of Greater London. There was a park five minutes walking distance from their home, and though Sherlock rarely ventured there, it was where Mycroft headed now. It was deserted this hour, and in the waning light it was a moment before Mycroft was able to pick out Sherlock's footprint among many in the well trodden soil. Mycroft was no adamant tracker, as Sherlock aspired to be, but it was enough to know he had been here, presumably in the company of other children, his own age or slightly older. Those children were generally home by this hour, and it was unlikely he was still with any one of them now.
Yesterday Sherlock had looked up from his studies and queried, "Mycroft, are you odd?"
Mycroft had considered his response. "'Odd' is a subjective term when applied to human behavior. It encompasses a variety of deviations from the accepted norm, and therefore, according to the less precise, I may be considered odd." He had leveled a pointed gaze at his brother. "Such people merely lack the analytical capacity to identify the root of our dissimilarities." Sherlock had eyed him critically for a moment. Then he had thoughtfully returned to his book.
Mycroft sighed deeply and spun in a slow circle, observing the surrounding grounds. Though Sherlock was irregular in his habits, he had lately taken on an aversion to the dark, and Mycroft suspected that in this instance some mitigating force had prevented his timely return home. There was a shadowed copse at the far end of the park, and Mycroft headed towards it. The trees here were small, not much older than twenty years, and bound by the wrists to one of these was Sherlock, his face contorted in fury and drenched with tears. He was no longer struggling, which meant he had been like this for some time. He did not acknowledge Mycroft as he approached.
Livid weals had arisen from the rope at his wrists - bits of shoelace, lengths of matted twine, Mycroft noted. The knots were unsophisticated and had held due to chance rather than any skill on the part of whoever had tied them. Mycroft picked one apart easily, and Sherlock jerked his arm free, hastening to loose the bind on his other wrist. He was sobbing openly, but in that curious, silent manner of his. Mycroft watched him struggle to collect himself.
Sherlock was a considerable scrapper for a boy of seven, and it was unlikely he had been overpowered into this situation. There were mothers and nannies to prevent that sort of open bullying. Therefore, he had acquiesced in the name of some game.
"They're not your friends," Mycroft told him. Sherlock stilled, his face a glistening, tear-stained mess. Without warning, he turned on Mycroft and attacked him ferociously, landing several blows to his legs and stomach before Mycroft was able to grab his wrists. Sherlock resorted to violence when he couldn't verbally express what he was feeling, which was often. Mycroft was trying to break him of this behavior, but now didn't seem the optimal time for a lesson. Sherlock writhed in his grip and then chucked his head forward, into Mycroft's midriff. The impact was unpleasant, but then Sherlock buried his face in Mycroft's shirt, his bony shoulders wracked with silent sobs.
Are you odd? he had asked.
Mycroft had never cared to have friends, but Sherlock was desperately social. He was so poor at it, though, and likely never to get any better. He was leagues ahead of the children his age. Mycroft released Sherlock's hands and wrapped him in a loose embrace. When he had stopped crying, Mycroft stooped down and lifted him up to his hip, as Daddy had used to do.
Sherlock twisted and scrubbed his nose down the length of Mycroft's arm, and Mycroft started for home. Daddy had made it look easy, but Sherlock was quite a bit heavier than one might suppose. Mycroft could smell the dirt on his hair, a wet leaf smell, as well as his skin and a pungent vitality that was curiously distinct. Sherlock tucked his head against Mycroft's neck, and Mycroft tilted his face towards the soft, errant curls. Sherlock was rarely so affectionate, and never this vulnerable. He toyed with the buttons on Mycroft's shirt, and idly traced the checked pattern. Mycroft didn't want to set him down. There was a clutching in his chest that was warm but rather painful, and he held tightly onto his brother, who was so solidly alive and real.
Mycroft approached a bench near the park gate, and had to stop and rest. No sooner had he touched the seat than Sherlock squirmed and slipped away.
"Bird's bones are hollow," he explained, his mind already racing. "But their density is greater than that of mammals', which maximizes stiffness and strength relative to weight, so they only appear to be delicate." He tilted his head back back, spinning to scan the darkened sky. He chattered on, quoting from his ornithology reference book, and Mycroft wrapped his arms across his chest, keenly aware of the deepening chill. It seemed at this moment that he was no longer Sherlock's brother, or friend, or protector. He was merely a person whom Sherlock sometimes knew.
*
It was the worst kind of weather, in Mycroft's opinion; hot and thick. He had taken a subdued breakfast with his mother that morning, and they were seated in the garden. Mycroft observed the pallid figure before him, her hair white and perfectly coiffed, fingers gnarled with rheumatoid arthritis. Mycroft's phone vibrated, and he retrieved it from his pocket.
Found him, the message read.
Mycroft frowned, then slowly rose. "Mummy, I must be going," he said, but her mind was with the music drifting though the open window. It wasn't her own work, but that of a predecessor, a priceless recording on antique vinyl. Her eyes traced the comings and goings of bees in the garden, and she raised one graceful, crippled hand, and waved him off.
Chapter One