Holmes fic: Greater Purpose 3/?
Title: Greater Purpose 3/?
Rating: R overall, R for this part
Characters: Holmes, Blackwood, Watson, OFC
Wordcount: 2,176 this part; ~20,000 overall
Summary: Blackwood discovers a way to use Holmes' uniqueness to his own advantage.
Warning: rape/non-con
A/N: Written for the shkinkmeme prompt: Set in a Blackwood wins senario, Blackwood forces Holmes to carry his child.
I should note that, while I do research, anything in my fics should be taken with a grain of salt as I often tweak things for plot purposes.
This also fills my hc_bingo square for "forced to participate in illegal/hurtful activity".
Part 1
Part 2
Holmes was lying on the chaise when he woke. He was alone, confused, and rather hungry. He was also naked, except for the symbols and lines that had been painted upon him with wax and semen. It itched terribly.
He slowly sat up and picked up the first morsel of food within reach--a pretty little teacake--and consumed it in one gulp. Another half dozen followed before the sharp edge of his hunger was eased and he could apply his mind more methodically to his situation.
His head pounded as if he'd been drunk, though he knew the only thing he'd had was that strange cordial. That pitcher was now gone, replaced with water. He rose and swiftly gulped two tumblers down, his stomach churning uneasily under the sudden onslaught of food and drink, but his mind cleared just a bit more.
His groin ached; he vaguely remembered being stroked off and penetrated twice, but it was more than that. He reached down and found there was an object nestled firmly within him.
The door opened abruptly and he whirled around to see the nurse-woman from before marching in, a basin of water in hand and towels draped over her arm. "Ah, good, you're awake. Sit. How do you feel?"
Holmes could only shrug and shift uncomfortably as sitting moved the object in him.
"Lie back and I'll take that out," she directed firmly. He complied, bending his knees as directed and trying not to squirm at being touched there by a strange woman. It pulled a bit as it was withdrawn, then there was a warm trickle, which she efficiently mopped up with a small towel.
As he sat up again, he asked cautiously, "What was the purpose of that . . . thing?"
She glanced at him as she wetted another towel. "It keeps the semen where it's most useful, increasing the chance of conception."
"I beg your pardon?"
She had reached toward him with the wet towel, but stopped and gave him a strange look. "You did not realise? The ritual was one for fertility. It has been used successfully on numerous occasions for procreation within the Order. Henry was born as the result of one such occasion."
Holmes' mind raced with the implications of having been on the receiving end of a fertility ritual. "And it is thought that I could . . ." he could not bring himself to say it.
"Bear a child? Yes, it is possible. You seem to have the capability despite your male appearance. You really are a most unique individual, Mr. Holmes."
The unease in his stomach doubled and he swallowed with difficulty. "How do you know this?" he demanded, hysteria creeping into his voice despite his effort to hide it.
"I am a midwife, dear. Should you conceive, I will be assisting you through your pregnancy."
He must have paled visibly, for she quickly retrieved a pail from somewhere and thrust it at him just in time for the teacakes to reappear.
She said nothing about it afterward, merely handed him a glass of water and began scrubbing the markings from his torso. He said nothing either, his mind still spinning with what Blackwood intended for him. Part of him cried out that it was impossible; at the very least, he did not bleed like a woman did.
But then his memory reminded him that there was a time when he did, before the cocaine and the vigorous exercise and the irregular meals. And women older than he had given birth. That he was a man did, of course, complicate matters. Yet there was nothing conclusive to say it was impossible, merely improbable.
That was not a comforting thought.
Holmes was returned to the cell by the same quartet that had fetched him from it. He had been blindfolded and turned about to disorient him before leaving the chaise-room; he was fairly certain that they also took a different route back than they had taken to arrive. When he was pushed into the cell--Watson had to steady him when he stumbled--all he could say for sure was that the three small rooms he'd seen were on the same corridor and, by the absence of windows, were likely in the interior of the building.
It was not much to go on. And he still could not be certain where their cell was located on the periphery of the building, the tiny barred window too high to allow for peering out, even from atop Watson's shoulders (they'd tried). How regrettable that he had considered the layout of prisons not worthy of study.
"Holmes?" Watson asked, his voice raised as if he were repeating the query.
"I am fine," Holmes said abruptly, brushing Watson's hand from his shoulder and turning away. He cast the robe he had been given in place of his jacket--it was the robe he'd worn for the 'ritual'--on his bunk and impatiently pushed up his shirt sleeves. Both trousers and shirt were too large for him, far too long in the sleeve and legs and allowing for the girth of a man twice his size; he felt like a child playing dress-up in Mycroft's clothes and suspected this farce was intended to mock him. As if the humiliation of his whole predicament weren't enough.
"What happened? You were gone nearly a day."
Holmes began pacing the cell, his head down, studiously not looking at Watson. "It is unclear. I was drugged." It wasn't wholly a lie.
"Are you certain you're all right? That you don't need a doctor?" Watson persisted.
"I am unharmed."
"If you don't remember what happened and you aren't hurt, what has you so bothered? You even got to bathe and shave!"
"We are captives of Blackwood, holed away somewhere in Pentonville and subject to his whims while he and his deluded band attempt to take over the world. Perhaps the better question is why you aren't bothered."
Watson held up his hands in mock surrender. "All right, all right, I'll leave you to your snit."
"It's not a snit," Holmes huffed, dragging one hand through his hair.
"Right," Watson said, crossing his arms over his chest and settling back on his bunk to watch Holmes pace.
It was just starting to look like there would be blessed silence when Watson spoke again. "So what about Moriarty?"
"What about him?"
"You said Blackwood is trying to take over the world. Is Moriarty going along with that? He doesn't strike me as the joining type."
"Fortunately, he is not, or Blackwood would be much further along just now." Finally, a topic that didn't have to do with him. "Truthfully, I may have aided one or two of his schemes before my untimely capture."
"The enemy of my enemy is my friend."
Holmes stopped and gazed curiously at him. "Indeed. And now it seems our hopes may rest on Moriarty. And Mycroft."
Watson said nothing more, and Holmes returned to his earlier ruminations.
Holmes had a week to think things over before he was again retrieved from the cell. This time, the midwife accompanied the four guards; somehow, her presence prompted him to say, "I'll come quietly if you will promise Watson here can have a bath and a shave."
He met her even gaze, her grey eyes calculating. He added, "His mustache is growing ragged and it bothers me."
This made her quirk a smile and she nodded. "I will see to it, Mr. Holmes. Now come."
Watson watched the exchange, gaping. "Holmes, what- who-" he spluttered, but Holmes waved it away.
"Later, Watson," he said as he obediently stepped through the open door.
Hooded and guided on all sides, Holmes was led to the chaise-room. The sounds of their footsteps provided a few tidbits of information, as did the presence of some stairs and ramps, but he still had very little idea of the prison's configuration.
The midwife began chanting even before the hood was removed; Holmes heard the guards leave as soon as she began, and found himself alone with her when he could see. He opened his mouth to speak, but could manage no words. She shook her head and touched her fingers to his lips, signalling that he should not talk even as she continued her incantation.
She took him by the hand and led him to the chaise. Holmes noted distractedly that the plates of food were gone, though a pitcher and flask of some kind remained. She gently guided him to lie back and close his eyes; he obeyed without resistance even while a part of his mind cried out in futile dismay. It was curious, how he wanted, desired, to obey her every command despite the folly of doing so. Or was it truly folly to cooperate when there was no ready alternative?
His body felt heavy and, when he tried to move, he could feel his muscles quiver but fail to budge. Then the door opened and another voice joined the midwife's. "Is he ready, Mother?"
"He is. He cannot move or speak, but he is aware and will feel everything. And I thought I would leave the undressing to you this time."
"You are too kind." It was Blackwood, and he sounded . . . pleased.
"You need to have more faith in the ritual, Henry."
"I do have faith, Mother. This is about power."
"Hmm." She didn't sound convinced. "Call if you need anything." Her footsteps retreated, and the door opened and closed again.
There was a weight on the edge of the chaise that made him shift in that direction. "Hello, Holmes," Blackwood said smoothly, running his fingers over Holmes' stubbled cheek. "I thought you and I should have some time alone, particularly since you will be providing my heir."
Holmes opened his eyes at that, though he could not form the expression he might have wished. But it was enough, for Blackwood laughed. "I see horror in your eyes. Good. I have found the purpose you are meant to serve, and I will see that it is fulfilled.
"You are the ideal carrier for my child: something more than a woman, so you are not subject to the emotional fits common to the females of our race. Your above-average intelligence and my power will combine to create the ideal child to carry on my name and reign."
He carried on in this fashion for some time while Holmes fumed inwardly at the insults being casually tossed his direction. 'Above-average intelligence', indeed!
"Your pregnancy will prove to all who knew you that you are not what they believed you to be. The man they hoped to be their salvation from my tyranny will be a parent to the heir of the regime. And all will shun you for the freak of nature you are."
Blackwood's hands were on his clothes, unfastening and removing them, until he lay bare and exposed. Blackwood ran his hands possessively over Holmes' torso, then he discarded his own trousers and knelt between Holmes' legs.
Holmes wished he could disconnect his mind and memory for what happened afterward.
Blackwood was eager, so the violation did not last long, but Holmes could feel every thrust, could feel Blackwood spending inside him, could imagine the seed seeping deep within, and he felt dirty. When Blackwood stood, modestly covering himself with the shirt he never took off, Holmes thought it was over.
He was wrong.
Evidently it was not enough for Blackwood to assault his female parts, he also had to assault him in the usual manner that occurred between two men. The flask Holmes saw earlier contained oil, which Blackwood applied liberally; it was a small mercy, and one that would allow him to keep all this from Watson.
It was awkward and painful and slow; Holmes spent part of the time idly wondering why anyone would do this willingly, particularly when a prison sentence could be the result. Then he wondered if Blackwood had dispensed with that part of British law, or if his Order agreed with it in principle. Teaching one's enemies a lesson could obviously be an exception.
This mental meandering carried him through until he was left sprawled on the chaise while Blackwood cleaned himself up. He wasn't sorry to see Blackwood leave, even when the midwife returned. She tutted and arranged him into a more natural position. "Henry isn't always careful with his things," she said indulgently as she wetted a cloth and wiped up the mess left on Holmes' body.
He found that if he really concentrated, he could make his fingers twitch. So he did this as she redressed him and murmured over him. When she stepped back, he could sit up by himself and move his limbs again.
Holmes was convinced she had somehow drugged him and it had worn off, for there was no way any incantation could have such power over him.
He was still trying to reason out how that could work hours after he was taken back to Watson and their cell.
Continued
Rating: R overall, R for this part
Characters: Holmes, Blackwood, Watson, OFC
Wordcount: 2,176 this part; ~20,000 overall
Summary: Blackwood discovers a way to use Holmes' uniqueness to his own advantage.
Warning: rape/non-con
A/N: Written for the shkinkmeme prompt: Set in a Blackwood wins senario, Blackwood forces Holmes to carry his child.
I should note that, while I do research, anything in my fics should be taken with a grain of salt as I often tweak things for plot purposes.
This also fills my hc_bingo square for "forced to participate in illegal/hurtful activity".
Part 1
Part 2
Holmes was lying on the chaise when he woke. He was alone, confused, and rather hungry. He was also naked, except for the symbols and lines that had been painted upon him with wax and semen. It itched terribly.
He slowly sat up and picked up the first morsel of food within reach--a pretty little teacake--and consumed it in one gulp. Another half dozen followed before the sharp edge of his hunger was eased and he could apply his mind more methodically to his situation.
His head pounded as if he'd been drunk, though he knew the only thing he'd had was that strange cordial. That pitcher was now gone, replaced with water. He rose and swiftly gulped two tumblers down, his stomach churning uneasily under the sudden onslaught of food and drink, but his mind cleared just a bit more.
His groin ached; he vaguely remembered being stroked off and penetrated twice, but it was more than that. He reached down and found there was an object nestled firmly within him.
The door opened abruptly and he whirled around to see the nurse-woman from before marching in, a basin of water in hand and towels draped over her arm. "Ah, good, you're awake. Sit. How do you feel?"
Holmes could only shrug and shift uncomfortably as sitting moved the object in him.
"Lie back and I'll take that out," she directed firmly. He complied, bending his knees as directed and trying not to squirm at being touched there by a strange woman. It pulled a bit as it was withdrawn, then there was a warm trickle, which she efficiently mopped up with a small towel.
As he sat up again, he asked cautiously, "What was the purpose of that . . . thing?"
She glanced at him as she wetted another towel. "It keeps the semen where it's most useful, increasing the chance of conception."
"I beg your pardon?"
She had reached toward him with the wet towel, but stopped and gave him a strange look. "You did not realise? The ritual was one for fertility. It has been used successfully on numerous occasions for procreation within the Order. Henry was born as the result of one such occasion."
Holmes' mind raced with the implications of having been on the receiving end of a fertility ritual. "And it is thought that I could . . ." he could not bring himself to say it.
"Bear a child? Yes, it is possible. You seem to have the capability despite your male appearance. You really are a most unique individual, Mr. Holmes."
The unease in his stomach doubled and he swallowed with difficulty. "How do you know this?" he demanded, hysteria creeping into his voice despite his effort to hide it.
"I am a midwife, dear. Should you conceive, I will be assisting you through your pregnancy."
He must have paled visibly, for she quickly retrieved a pail from somewhere and thrust it at him just in time for the teacakes to reappear.
She said nothing about it afterward, merely handed him a glass of water and began scrubbing the markings from his torso. He said nothing either, his mind still spinning with what Blackwood intended for him. Part of him cried out that it was impossible; at the very least, he did not bleed like a woman did.
But then his memory reminded him that there was a time when he did, before the cocaine and the vigorous exercise and the irregular meals. And women older than he had given birth. That he was a man did, of course, complicate matters. Yet there was nothing conclusive to say it was impossible, merely improbable.
That was not a comforting thought.
Holmes was returned to the cell by the same quartet that had fetched him from it. He had been blindfolded and turned about to disorient him before leaving the chaise-room; he was fairly certain that they also took a different route back than they had taken to arrive. When he was pushed into the cell--Watson had to steady him when he stumbled--all he could say for sure was that the three small rooms he'd seen were on the same corridor and, by the absence of windows, were likely in the interior of the building.
It was not much to go on. And he still could not be certain where their cell was located on the periphery of the building, the tiny barred window too high to allow for peering out, even from atop Watson's shoulders (they'd tried). How regrettable that he had considered the layout of prisons not worthy of study.
"Holmes?" Watson asked, his voice raised as if he were repeating the query.
"I am fine," Holmes said abruptly, brushing Watson's hand from his shoulder and turning away. He cast the robe he had been given in place of his jacket--it was the robe he'd worn for the 'ritual'--on his bunk and impatiently pushed up his shirt sleeves. Both trousers and shirt were too large for him, far too long in the sleeve and legs and allowing for the girth of a man twice his size; he felt like a child playing dress-up in Mycroft's clothes and suspected this farce was intended to mock him. As if the humiliation of his whole predicament weren't enough.
"What happened? You were gone nearly a day."
Holmes began pacing the cell, his head down, studiously not looking at Watson. "It is unclear. I was drugged." It wasn't wholly a lie.
"Are you certain you're all right? That you don't need a doctor?" Watson persisted.
"I am unharmed."
"If you don't remember what happened and you aren't hurt, what has you so bothered? You even got to bathe and shave!"
"We are captives of Blackwood, holed away somewhere in Pentonville and subject to his whims while he and his deluded band attempt to take over the world. Perhaps the better question is why you aren't bothered."
Watson held up his hands in mock surrender. "All right, all right, I'll leave you to your snit."
"It's not a snit," Holmes huffed, dragging one hand through his hair.
"Right," Watson said, crossing his arms over his chest and settling back on his bunk to watch Holmes pace.
It was just starting to look like there would be blessed silence when Watson spoke again. "So what about Moriarty?"
"What about him?"
"You said Blackwood is trying to take over the world. Is Moriarty going along with that? He doesn't strike me as the joining type."
"Fortunately, he is not, or Blackwood would be much further along just now." Finally, a topic that didn't have to do with him. "Truthfully, I may have aided one or two of his schemes before my untimely capture."
"The enemy of my enemy is my friend."
Holmes stopped and gazed curiously at him. "Indeed. And now it seems our hopes may rest on Moriarty. And Mycroft."
Watson said nothing more, and Holmes returned to his earlier ruminations.
Holmes had a week to think things over before he was again retrieved from the cell. This time, the midwife accompanied the four guards; somehow, her presence prompted him to say, "I'll come quietly if you will promise Watson here can have a bath and a shave."
He met her even gaze, her grey eyes calculating. He added, "His mustache is growing ragged and it bothers me."
This made her quirk a smile and she nodded. "I will see to it, Mr. Holmes. Now come."
Watson watched the exchange, gaping. "Holmes, what- who-" he spluttered, but Holmes waved it away.
"Later, Watson," he said as he obediently stepped through the open door.
Hooded and guided on all sides, Holmes was led to the chaise-room. The sounds of their footsteps provided a few tidbits of information, as did the presence of some stairs and ramps, but he still had very little idea of the prison's configuration.
The midwife began chanting even before the hood was removed; Holmes heard the guards leave as soon as she began, and found himself alone with her when he could see. He opened his mouth to speak, but could manage no words. She shook her head and touched her fingers to his lips, signalling that he should not talk even as she continued her incantation.
She took him by the hand and led him to the chaise. Holmes noted distractedly that the plates of food were gone, though a pitcher and flask of some kind remained. She gently guided him to lie back and close his eyes; he obeyed without resistance even while a part of his mind cried out in futile dismay. It was curious, how he wanted, desired, to obey her every command despite the folly of doing so. Or was it truly folly to cooperate when there was no ready alternative?
His body felt heavy and, when he tried to move, he could feel his muscles quiver but fail to budge. Then the door opened and another voice joined the midwife's. "Is he ready, Mother?"
"He is. He cannot move or speak, but he is aware and will feel everything. And I thought I would leave the undressing to you this time."
"You are too kind." It was Blackwood, and he sounded . . . pleased.
"You need to have more faith in the ritual, Henry."
"I do have faith, Mother. This is about power."
"Hmm." She didn't sound convinced. "Call if you need anything." Her footsteps retreated, and the door opened and closed again.
There was a weight on the edge of the chaise that made him shift in that direction. "Hello, Holmes," Blackwood said smoothly, running his fingers over Holmes' stubbled cheek. "I thought you and I should have some time alone, particularly since you will be providing my heir."
Holmes opened his eyes at that, though he could not form the expression he might have wished. But it was enough, for Blackwood laughed. "I see horror in your eyes. Good. I have found the purpose you are meant to serve, and I will see that it is fulfilled.
"You are the ideal carrier for my child: something more than a woman, so you are not subject to the emotional fits common to the females of our race. Your above-average intelligence and my power will combine to create the ideal child to carry on my name and reign."
He carried on in this fashion for some time while Holmes fumed inwardly at the insults being casually tossed his direction. 'Above-average intelligence', indeed!
"Your pregnancy will prove to all who knew you that you are not what they believed you to be. The man they hoped to be their salvation from my tyranny will be a parent to the heir of the regime. And all will shun you for the freak of nature you are."
Blackwood's hands were on his clothes, unfastening and removing them, until he lay bare and exposed. Blackwood ran his hands possessively over Holmes' torso, then he discarded his own trousers and knelt between Holmes' legs.
Holmes wished he could disconnect his mind and memory for what happened afterward.
Blackwood was eager, so the violation did not last long, but Holmes could feel every thrust, could feel Blackwood spending inside him, could imagine the seed seeping deep within, and he felt dirty. When Blackwood stood, modestly covering himself with the shirt he never took off, Holmes thought it was over.
He was wrong.
Evidently it was not enough for Blackwood to assault his female parts, he also had to assault him in the usual manner that occurred between two men. The flask Holmes saw earlier contained oil, which Blackwood applied liberally; it was a small mercy, and one that would allow him to keep all this from Watson.
It was awkward and painful and slow; Holmes spent part of the time idly wondering why anyone would do this willingly, particularly when a prison sentence could be the result. Then he wondered if Blackwood had dispensed with that part of British law, or if his Order agreed with it in principle. Teaching one's enemies a lesson could obviously be an exception.
This mental meandering carried him through until he was left sprawled on the chaise while Blackwood cleaned himself up. He wasn't sorry to see Blackwood leave, even when the midwife returned. She tutted and arranged him into a more natural position. "Henry isn't always careful with his things," she said indulgently as she wetted a cloth and wiped up the mess left on Holmes' body.
He found that if he really concentrated, he could make his fingers twitch. So he did this as she redressed him and murmured over him. When she stepped back, he could sit up by himself and move his limbs again.
Holmes was convinced she had somehow drugged him and it had worn off, for there was no way any incantation could have such power over him.
He was still trying to reason out how that could work hours after he was taken back to Watson and their cell.
Continued