Sherlock!Rentboy (alternative plot) (Part Fourteen)
A/N: Ah, the darkness in this fic!! I hope it's not too much - hopefully no-one who will actually be triggered by any of the scenes described is going to be reading this...But I'm determined to be (somewhat) realistic, and not suddenly make Sherlock's life easy...Sorry! Please let me know what you think, and if I've committed any Brit!fails! Thanks!
---
Sherlock twisted his neck around to stare at the clock accusingly.
8:59 the digital numbers shone, oblivious to his rage.
They were flickering, and he blinked hard to make sure his eyes were clear.
Impossible. The electrical supply to that clock was flawless, and it was a relatively new purchase. There was no reason for the display to be malfunctioning.
Maybe the light was pulsing at a rate of milliseconds. No, nanoseconds. Then why could he perceive the flickering now? What was happening? Why was time going so slowly, yet his brain going so fast? Was he going to just keep getting faster and faster and faster? There was nothing to slow him down, no friction to decrease the acceleration, he could increase speed indefinitely and what then? What then? Was this how he was going to die?
He inhaled sharply, panic coursing through him all of a sudden, and one of the numbers from the clock display flew across the room, slipped onto the stream of air that he sucked into his lungs. It tickled him with its electricity, causing him to snuffle and cough.
The door to the bedroom opened a crack as Tommy snuck back in, and the beam of light that shone through the small gap was vicious and unforgiving on Sherlock’s pained eyes. He convulsed, curved in on himself, cringing away from further attacks.
The door was closed with minimal care, and the resulting bang was too loud for Sherlock to deal with. He moaned in pain, but his utterance was entirely misinterpreted.
“Oh yes,” Tommy murmured, his twisted smile audible as he stalked across the bed.
Sherlock tried not to catalogue the sounds of the bedsprings creaking as Tommy moved, tried not to perceive the shifting of cloth, but his shields had been lowered by the drug, and he didn’t know where to find them again.
Fortunately - and here he wasn't sure if he'd blacked out somewhat, or if, by some miracle, another wave of the drugs had taken effect - but he was spared the finer details of Tommy's version of wake-up sex. To an extent, of course - Fate wasn’t that generous. Not to him. He was still aware, still able to move, to speak, to feel...but it was all sluggish and wrong.
He felt choked, as though he was floating, and then Tommy slapped him, centring his attention.
“Ungrateful bitch!” he snarled, and Sherlock shivered at the other man's rotten breath, at the feral expression on his face. “Don't you dare fucking go off and sleep! Look, it's morning! Do you think I'm going to go and get some other slut to help me out? Fuck that, that's what I have you for! Sherlock! Wake up, you lazy shit!”
Tommy gave up shaking him finally, letting him drop back against the bed. Sherlock moaned in despair, unable to decide if he'd rather die or throw up.
“Jesus Christ,” Tommy growled, and Sherlock heard the lid of something being prised open. Before he could direct his brain to identify the source of the sound, however, Tommy was positioning him, lifting his knees up, spreading his legs apart, tilting his hips -
“Have to do everything myself, don't I?” Tommy said, the unexpected rage still apparent in every word. “That's okay though, because I know exactly how to get it!” he shouted triumphantly, as he shoved hard - too hard - not prepared - not anticipated - into Sherlock's arse.
Sherlock screamed. He did, didn't he? Did he only think it? Did he just imagine his throat red raw? Was that even possible? Regardless, the simple fact remained. His breath was gone.
Tommy's cock slid right up, and Sherlock, after the stabbing shock of pain, was actually able to thank whatever designer/creator/architect there was out there, that actually fucking a person in half was a physical impossibility, plausible though it seemed right now.
What motivated him to use lube, though? Sherlock's brain fixated on the detail; a topic more bearable than what was happening to his body at the moment. No answer was forthcoming, and the train of thought was knocked off the tracks - utterly shattered to pieces, in fact, when Tommy, apparently having adjusted to the sensation, began to move.
It wasn’t a barbaric scrape in, scrape out, but it was horrible, an obvious display of power, dominance. Sherlock was simply there for use. He was trapped, pained, and his body wasn’t responding properly to his brain’s demands to move, twist out from where he was pinned beneath Tommy, to fight... It was torture, plain and simple, and Sherlock had absolutely no means to make it stop.
He ground his teeth, choked back his sobs, and retreated into his mind, filling it with numbers, with questions, with any distraction possibly available.
He succeeded to such an extent, that he didn’t realise when it happened. But his body did, and the instinctive relaxation of muscles upon the cessation of attack (yet still ready, twitching in anticipation of conflict being resumed) suddenly caught his attention.
“Fucking hell.” Tommy was saying, climbing off Sherlock and moving away. “Talk about a way to ruin the mood.”
“What...?” Sherlock managed through his disorientation, his head still spinning, and every part of his body crying out in pain, not to mention the surrounding environment plundering his senses.
Tommy chucked Sherlock’s phone onto the bed, where it continued playing its tedious default ringtone. Had to reset that. But for now - he picked the phone up with weak, barely-responsive hands, and silently thanked whoever had texted him and thrown Tommy off.
A fumble, and the message displayed on the phone’s screen. His relief meshed with a dash of anger.
The interfering - ! He dropped the phone, and rolled onto his belly with a pained grown, wrapping his arms over his head.
The phone’s screen remained illuminated:
GUM appointment
9.30am Kenton &
Lucas Wing, St
Bart’s. Valerie
will drive you.
it displayed for a few moments, before fading to black.
---
Nothing for it, Sherlock decided, unwrapping from his pose after a moment, and swinging his legs around to propel himself to his feet. He had to stop, steady himself against the wall, and just stop, just wait, until everything in the room decided what size it was going to be, and just - stop moving.
No point in showering, he told himself sourly: Nothing the doctors won’t have seen before. Even if it was something the doctors hadn't seen before, Sherlock wasn't entirely sure that he cared.
He pulled on jeans, not bothered about exactly how clean they were, but a sudden bout of ironic vanity prompted him to choose a particularly nice shirt in a shade of blue that always caught Valerie’s eye.
If he was going to be forced to attend this appointment (as he knew he would be, if he didn’t take the initiative and comply in the first instance), he might as well get the benefit of her squirming uncomfortably during the car journey to Bart’s, as she attempted to maintain the subterfuge that she wasn’t entirely besotted by his appearance in that shirt.
It’s the little things, Sherlock reminded himself, bending over painfully to deal with his shoes. The little things are important.
He dithered over whether to farewell Tommy, or even let him know that he was going to be off for a while, or to tell him to get out of the apartment and never come back - but the distinctive engine of a Mercedes pulling up to the kerb outside, soon decided him on the matter.
He grabbed his smokes and dashed out the door, letting it slam behind him. Whatever. Deal with it later. This issue was more bothersome than Tommy at present, and would only become worse if left alone.
---
“Valerie,” he greeted the immaculately-groomed woman in the back seat, and allowed himself the pride elicited by the warring emotions on her face as she took in his appearance. “I take it my brother is well? Mustn’t be too busy ruling the world, if he’s taking an interest in my business.” he commented, apparently casual, but in fact quite intrigued to learn exactly what information he could garner from the assistant.
Her eyes met his in defiance, and she made a considerable effort not to allow any signs of arousal to be visible. She was certainly more talented in this deception than the average person, however her technique would still have to improve in order for Sherlock not to be able to read her emotions as easily as he could.
“His work is as it always is,” she replied in a clichéd, obvious covering statement that made Sherlock huff out a breath in impatience. “And he always has the same amount of interest in your...business. You should know that.”
Sherlock tutted in reply, slouched back into the seat, and pulled out his cigarettes. He placed one between his lips and offered the packet to Valerie.
She licked her lips unconsciously, and her fingers twitched.
Sherlock took it in, bemused, but didn’t let it show. A reformed smoker. She’ll need something to occupy her hands on a full-time basis if she’s going to stick to that resolution.
“You shouldn’t smoke in here.” she instructed him, but the chastisement fell on deaf ears - as she must have known it would do.
“It’s not as though he can’t afford the cleaning bill.” Sherlock pointed out, a haze of smoke marking his exhalation.
Valerie - it had been Valerie for a while now, hadn’t it? ‘W’ next, of course. Wilhelmina, perhaps. He should suggest it. But he wouldn’t - shook her head reproachfully, and looked out the window of the car rather than continue to meet his gaze.
It would take more to get her to actually break in regards to him, Sherlock concluded, shifting minutely in his seat in an attempt to sit in such a way that was less horrendously uncomfortable. Near-impossible, he was beginning to realise, repressing a grimace.
Thank goodness the appointment was at Bart’s - not too long to spend in the car. Probably an easier distance for Sherlock to be manhandled across, also, had he been less cooperative.
A spark of interest made itself known to Sherlock despite himself. He’d never been inside Bart’s. Walked past it plenty of times, and had always been curious.
In a previous lifetime, he’d have leapt at the chance to study medicines, or toxins, or pursue any of his multitudes of other interests in chemistry and biology to a greater extent.
But - and there was always a “but” when talking about the procession of events in a person’s life. Particularly, it seemed, when that person was Sherlock. But - university had been dull, Mycroft had been too successful, and Mummy and Daddy had been too gushing with their praise of the firstborn.
Overall, it had made Sherlock physically sick.
He’d left in the middle of a family dinner; not an everyday weeknight one, no.
The entire Holmes clan (or as many of them who had deigned to attend, which by no account was a small number), was gathered, and the conversation was rollercoastering, looping down to one reference point, and then off again - how wonderful it was that Mycroft was now carrying out these duties for the country, and wouldn’t it be simply brilliant if Mycroft could go even further with his career? Of course he would, because he was Mycroft, and a Holmes, and nothing but the absolute peak, the pinnacle, would ever do...
Sherlock spent the whole night (at least, the part that he was present for), in a state of agitation:
He wanted to show Daddy an experiment he’d just completed, and get an alternative perspective on the outcome.
He wanted to get Mummy alone, to talk to her, to admit that he’d discovered something new about himself, something that he’d long suspected, and he was scared, but if she could just say that it was fine, then it would be, he could believe it, he could relax.
Most of all, he just wanted Mycroft, with his false modesty, and other obvious, innumerable deceptions in regards to his new work, and the other idiotic Holmeses (were they truly relatives?) to just go away and stop being so distractive, so false, so ridiculously mundane!
It was too much, when a second-cousin said the terrible phrase to him for the nth time that night: “You must be so incredibly proud of your brother.”
Sherlock put down his cutlery (he’d only been morosely pushing everything around the plate for the last hour, anyway), and without a word, stood, and left the table.
No-one called out after him - that would have been undignified - but there were noticeable patches of silence where there should have been conversation, as he stalked out of the room. These were resolved only by a gently dismissive comment from Mummy: “He’s been under so much pressure with his studies of late, poor dear. I believe it’s all simply taken its toll on him.”
Hushed, understanding “ah”s followed, and the night of lavishing praise on Mycroft resumed, sans Sherlock.
He supposed, had he stayed, there would have been some severe reprimands dealt him in private, once everyone had left.
As it was, however, it took Mycroft’s people over six months to locate him - he truly was in the last place they’d looked, after all, and he’d not seen Mummy or Daddy in person for another six months after that (more their issue than his, really - apathy was a paralytic, after all, so he had no fight in him to resist Mycroft organising meet-ups and so forth. Apparently, however, it took Mummy quite a long time to build up the courage to see her son again after such a long time of his having simply vanished - “She thought you’d died, Sherlock!” Mycroft had actually shouted at him at one point, which went a long way to showing just how much his actions had affected them all, he supposed, in an absent, not-too-concerned way - and the news of what he was doing in order to earn a living was quite something for her to come to terms with).
---
“We’re here.” Valerie announced, as the car was smoothly parked. It should have been a needless statement, Sherlock being the overly, vigilantly-observant individual that he was, but it seemed that today was determined to be absolutely unlike any other day of his life.
Next Chapter...
---
Sherlock twisted his neck around to stare at the clock accusingly.
8:59 the digital numbers shone, oblivious to his rage.
They were flickering, and he blinked hard to make sure his eyes were clear.
Impossible. The electrical supply to that clock was flawless, and it was a relatively new purchase. There was no reason for the display to be malfunctioning.
Maybe the light was pulsing at a rate of milliseconds. No, nanoseconds. Then why could he perceive the flickering now? What was happening? Why was time going so slowly, yet his brain going so fast? Was he going to just keep getting faster and faster and faster? There was nothing to slow him down, no friction to decrease the acceleration, he could increase speed indefinitely and what then? What then? Was this how he was going to die?
He inhaled sharply, panic coursing through him all of a sudden, and one of the numbers from the clock display flew across the room, slipped onto the stream of air that he sucked into his lungs. It tickled him with its electricity, causing him to snuffle and cough.
The door to the bedroom opened a crack as Tommy snuck back in, and the beam of light that shone through the small gap was vicious and unforgiving on Sherlock’s pained eyes. He convulsed, curved in on himself, cringing away from further attacks.
The door was closed with minimal care, and the resulting bang was too loud for Sherlock to deal with. He moaned in pain, but his utterance was entirely misinterpreted.
“Oh yes,” Tommy murmured, his twisted smile audible as he stalked across the bed.
Sherlock tried not to catalogue the sounds of the bedsprings creaking as Tommy moved, tried not to perceive the shifting of cloth, but his shields had been lowered by the drug, and he didn’t know where to find them again.
Fortunately - and here he wasn't sure if he'd blacked out somewhat, or if, by some miracle, another wave of the drugs had taken effect - but he was spared the finer details of Tommy's version of wake-up sex. To an extent, of course - Fate wasn’t that generous. Not to him. He was still aware, still able to move, to speak, to feel...but it was all sluggish and wrong.
He felt choked, as though he was floating, and then Tommy slapped him, centring his attention.
“Ungrateful bitch!” he snarled, and Sherlock shivered at the other man's rotten breath, at the feral expression on his face. “Don't you dare fucking go off and sleep! Look, it's morning! Do you think I'm going to go and get some other slut to help me out? Fuck that, that's what I have you for! Sherlock! Wake up, you lazy shit!”
Tommy gave up shaking him finally, letting him drop back against the bed. Sherlock moaned in despair, unable to decide if he'd rather die or throw up.
“Jesus Christ,” Tommy growled, and Sherlock heard the lid of something being prised open. Before he could direct his brain to identify the source of the sound, however, Tommy was positioning him, lifting his knees up, spreading his legs apart, tilting his hips -
“Have to do everything myself, don't I?” Tommy said, the unexpected rage still apparent in every word. “That's okay though, because I know exactly how to get it!” he shouted triumphantly, as he shoved hard - too hard - not prepared - not anticipated - into Sherlock's arse.
Sherlock screamed. He did, didn't he? Did he only think it? Did he just imagine his throat red raw? Was that even possible? Regardless, the simple fact remained. His breath was gone.
Tommy's cock slid right up, and Sherlock, after the stabbing shock of pain, was actually able to thank whatever designer/creator/architect there was out there, that actually fucking a person in half was a physical impossibility, plausible though it seemed right now.
What motivated him to use lube, though? Sherlock's brain fixated on the detail; a topic more bearable than what was happening to his body at the moment. No answer was forthcoming, and the train of thought was knocked off the tracks - utterly shattered to pieces, in fact, when Tommy, apparently having adjusted to the sensation, began to move.
It wasn’t a barbaric scrape in, scrape out, but it was horrible, an obvious display of power, dominance. Sherlock was simply there for use. He was trapped, pained, and his body wasn’t responding properly to his brain’s demands to move, twist out from where he was pinned beneath Tommy, to fight... It was torture, plain and simple, and Sherlock had absolutely no means to make it stop.
He ground his teeth, choked back his sobs, and retreated into his mind, filling it with numbers, with questions, with any distraction possibly available.
He succeeded to such an extent, that he didn’t realise when it happened. But his body did, and the instinctive relaxation of muscles upon the cessation of attack (yet still ready, twitching in anticipation of conflict being resumed) suddenly caught his attention.
“Fucking hell.” Tommy was saying, climbing off Sherlock and moving away. “Talk about a way to ruin the mood.”
“What...?” Sherlock managed through his disorientation, his head still spinning, and every part of his body crying out in pain, not to mention the surrounding environment plundering his senses.
Tommy chucked Sherlock’s phone onto the bed, where it continued playing its tedious default ringtone. Had to reset that. But for now - he picked the phone up with weak, barely-responsive hands, and silently thanked whoever had texted him and thrown Tommy off.
A fumble, and the message displayed on the phone’s screen. His relief meshed with a dash of anger.
The interfering - ! He dropped the phone, and rolled onto his belly with a pained grown, wrapping his arms over his head.
The phone’s screen remained illuminated:
GUM appointment
9.30am Kenton &
Lucas Wing, St
Bart’s. Valerie
will drive you.
it displayed for a few moments, before fading to black.
---
Nothing for it, Sherlock decided, unwrapping from his pose after a moment, and swinging his legs around to propel himself to his feet. He had to stop, steady himself against the wall, and just stop, just wait, until everything in the room decided what size it was going to be, and just - stop moving.
No point in showering, he told himself sourly: Nothing the doctors won’t have seen before. Even if it was something the doctors hadn't seen before, Sherlock wasn't entirely sure that he cared.
He pulled on jeans, not bothered about exactly how clean they were, but a sudden bout of ironic vanity prompted him to choose a particularly nice shirt in a shade of blue that always caught Valerie’s eye.
If he was going to be forced to attend this appointment (as he knew he would be, if he didn’t take the initiative and comply in the first instance), he might as well get the benefit of her squirming uncomfortably during the car journey to Bart’s, as she attempted to maintain the subterfuge that she wasn’t entirely besotted by his appearance in that shirt.
It’s the little things, Sherlock reminded himself, bending over painfully to deal with his shoes. The little things are important.
He dithered over whether to farewell Tommy, or even let him know that he was going to be off for a while, or to tell him to get out of the apartment and never come back - but the distinctive engine of a Mercedes pulling up to the kerb outside, soon decided him on the matter.
He grabbed his smokes and dashed out the door, letting it slam behind him. Whatever. Deal with it later. This issue was more bothersome than Tommy at present, and would only become worse if left alone.
---
“Valerie,” he greeted the immaculately-groomed woman in the back seat, and allowed himself the pride elicited by the warring emotions on her face as she took in his appearance. “I take it my brother is well? Mustn’t be too busy ruling the world, if he’s taking an interest in my business.” he commented, apparently casual, but in fact quite intrigued to learn exactly what information he could garner from the assistant.
Her eyes met his in defiance, and she made a considerable effort not to allow any signs of arousal to be visible. She was certainly more talented in this deception than the average person, however her technique would still have to improve in order for Sherlock not to be able to read her emotions as easily as he could.
“His work is as it always is,” she replied in a clichéd, obvious covering statement that made Sherlock huff out a breath in impatience. “And he always has the same amount of interest in your...business. You should know that.”
Sherlock tutted in reply, slouched back into the seat, and pulled out his cigarettes. He placed one between his lips and offered the packet to Valerie.
She licked her lips unconsciously, and her fingers twitched.
Sherlock took it in, bemused, but didn’t let it show. A reformed smoker. She’ll need something to occupy her hands on a full-time basis if she’s going to stick to that resolution.
“You shouldn’t smoke in here.” she instructed him, but the chastisement fell on deaf ears - as she must have known it would do.
“It’s not as though he can’t afford the cleaning bill.” Sherlock pointed out, a haze of smoke marking his exhalation.
Valerie - it had been Valerie for a while now, hadn’t it? ‘W’ next, of course. Wilhelmina, perhaps. He should suggest it. But he wouldn’t - shook her head reproachfully, and looked out the window of the car rather than continue to meet his gaze.
It would take more to get her to actually break in regards to him, Sherlock concluded, shifting minutely in his seat in an attempt to sit in such a way that was less horrendously uncomfortable. Near-impossible, he was beginning to realise, repressing a grimace.
Thank goodness the appointment was at Bart’s - not too long to spend in the car. Probably an easier distance for Sherlock to be manhandled across, also, had he been less cooperative.
A spark of interest made itself known to Sherlock despite himself. He’d never been inside Bart’s. Walked past it plenty of times, and had always been curious.
In a previous lifetime, he’d have leapt at the chance to study medicines, or toxins, or pursue any of his multitudes of other interests in chemistry and biology to a greater extent.
But - and there was always a “but” when talking about the procession of events in a person’s life. Particularly, it seemed, when that person was Sherlock. But - university had been dull, Mycroft had been too successful, and Mummy and Daddy had been too gushing with their praise of the firstborn.
Overall, it had made Sherlock physically sick.
He’d left in the middle of a family dinner; not an everyday weeknight one, no.
The entire Holmes clan (or as many of them who had deigned to attend, which by no account was a small number), was gathered, and the conversation was rollercoastering, looping down to one reference point, and then off again - how wonderful it was that Mycroft was now carrying out these duties for the country, and wouldn’t it be simply brilliant if Mycroft could go even further with his career? Of course he would, because he was Mycroft, and a Holmes, and nothing but the absolute peak, the pinnacle, would ever do...
Sherlock spent the whole night (at least, the part that he was present for), in a state of agitation:
He wanted to show Daddy an experiment he’d just completed, and get an alternative perspective on the outcome.
He wanted to get Mummy alone, to talk to her, to admit that he’d discovered something new about himself, something that he’d long suspected, and he was scared, but if she could just say that it was fine, then it would be, he could believe it, he could relax.
Most of all, he just wanted Mycroft, with his false modesty, and other obvious, innumerable deceptions in regards to his new work, and the other idiotic Holmeses (were they truly relatives?) to just go away and stop being so distractive, so false, so ridiculously mundane!
It was too much, when a second-cousin said the terrible phrase to him for the nth time that night: “You must be so incredibly proud of your brother.”
Sherlock put down his cutlery (he’d only been morosely pushing everything around the plate for the last hour, anyway), and without a word, stood, and left the table.
No-one called out after him - that would have been undignified - but there were noticeable patches of silence where there should have been conversation, as he stalked out of the room. These were resolved only by a gently dismissive comment from Mummy: “He’s been under so much pressure with his studies of late, poor dear. I believe it’s all simply taken its toll on him.”
Hushed, understanding “ah”s followed, and the night of lavishing praise on Mycroft resumed, sans Sherlock.
He supposed, had he stayed, there would have been some severe reprimands dealt him in private, once everyone had left.
As it was, however, it took Mycroft’s people over six months to locate him - he truly was in the last place they’d looked, after all, and he’d not seen Mummy or Daddy in person for another six months after that (more their issue than his, really - apathy was a paralytic, after all, so he had no fight in him to resist Mycroft organising meet-ups and so forth. Apparently, however, it took Mummy quite a long time to build up the courage to see her son again after such a long time of his having simply vanished - “She thought you’d died, Sherlock!” Mycroft had actually shouted at him at one point, which went a long way to showing just how much his actions had affected them all, he supposed, in an absent, not-too-concerned way - and the news of what he was doing in order to earn a living was quite something for her to come to terms with).
---
“We’re here.” Valerie announced, as the car was smoothly parked. It should have been a needless statement, Sherlock being the overly, vigilantly-observant individual that he was, but it seemed that today was determined to be absolutely unlike any other day of his life.
Next Chapter...