Mad, Bad and Dangerous, a Frankenstein Tribute. Chapter Six.
Title: Mad, Bad and Dangerous, a Frankenstein Tribute. Chapter Six (I Hate To Say I Told You So).
Author: ghislainem70
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2400
Warnings: Explicit sex, BDSM scenarios, graphic depictions of violence, torture, non-con (entire work)
Summary: Sherlock, John and Irene are cast in a realtiy show depicting the "Haunted Summer" in which Mary Shelly wrote 'Frankenstein.'
Note: This case!fic/mashup stands alone, but is the fourth in an ongoing series of adventures.
Do what I want cause I can and if I don't -- because I wanna --
...
Spit and retrieve cause I give and receive
because I wanna - - -
...
Hate to say I told you so --
(All right -
Come on --)
I do believe I told you so --
Now it's all out and you knew (cause I wanted to --)
...
No need for me --- to wait --
because I wanna --
No need two, three -- too late --
because I'm gonna --
Lyrics "Hate to Say I ToldYou So," all rights reserved The Hives
Sherlock laughed at the broken doll’s head. His doppelganger.
"Clever! Perhaps the eyes are not quite right." He went to the valet and handed him the broken pieces; the man was apoplectic at the John's destruction of the mannequin's Sherlock-head.
"We will see your master now, I think." And the doors to the salon flew open.
"The Marquis de Roel," announced the valet.
A tall, tanned gentleman entered. He was attired in impeccable and extravagant 18th century costume, black and silver; a long silvery white curled wig; powdered and patched. He carried an ebony cane tipped with silver. The man advanced upon the party, eyes only for Sherlock.
Sherlock very insolently paused before making him a stiff and low bow, but refusing to lower his eyes; the Marquis was the highest ranking among them, higher than a Baron.
"Lord Byron, please forgive the imprudence of a sincere admirer. Your friend, Doctor Polidori, I perceive, is offended at my little joke. We revere your poetry here at Maison Riveaux, sir. We are fortunate to have a copy of your Albanian portrait, from which I was able to have this simple toy modeled," http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Lord_Byron_in_Albanian_dress.jpg
He drew aside a curtain and here indeed was a huge oil painting of Lord Byron, wearing an Albanian costume (hence his nickname, "Albe"). The painting was actually rather new-looking, Sherlock thought, although it was a very competent copy. It, too, however, bore an identical likeness to Sherlock.
"I would rather have modeled the writer, there," Sherlock pointed to the automation bent over his sheet of poetry. "But no, sir; upon my word I believe you are quite right, after all. I have been tiresome to the world, of late; a proper exile, indeed. No-one cares for my verses, perhaps; the critics would pay more, I'll warrant, to see my head struck off for my sins; than for the next Canto of my Childe Harold." He smiled at the Marquis, a sinister smile it was. Which the Marquis did not return. He was caressing his ebony cane and inspecting Sherlock as though he were for sale.
"I hope the executioner here will not attempt to strike me in the flesh," Sherlock continued meaningfully. "Although the valiant Doctor has had the better of me, this very day," Sherlock now turned and bowed low to John, quite respectful and proper; "believe me when I say that no other sword than his will be permitted to mark my person. I pray you may accept this little scruple of mine in the spirit in which it is meant, sir. As we understood you to be - indisposed, we bid you good day."
Sherlock held his hand out to the Marquis, who stretched out his own hand, at first to stay them, but seeing Sherlock’s determination to withdraw, to shake Sherlock’s in farewell. The Marquis’ frosty blue eyes lit with fury when Sherlock's long fingers deliberately crushed his, cruelly, in their grasp.
* * *
The party returned to Villa Diodati. Everyone asked Sherlock about the mysterious Marquis de Roel, how he knew the man, but he shook his head and would not answer more than, "You are mistaken, I do not know him. But - I know his voice." He refused to elaborate, and everyone retired to their rooms for the night.
John did not follow Sherlock to his room, but turned at the top of the stair and went for the first time to his own assigned room, and closed the door. After a moment of hesitation, he bolted the lock.
After pacing a bit, he finally flung himself on the bed, looking out the window over the lake. Sherlock’s bleeding hand was all that he could see, or think of. But was that really true? If he was honest with himself, didn’t he have darker visions, other desires? He pounded his fists into the mattress to banish them, then noticed that his own hand was spotted with a little of Sherlock’s blood.
"No," he said to himself.
***
Of course John was still wide awake, tossing, when after a few hours, a key turned in the lock. His hand went to his gun, hidden under the mattress. Sherlock was entering on silent feet.
He had somehow contrived to hold back the Turkish robe and was wearing that, and nothing else. He looked somehow geisha-like, feminine and yet not. He crept silently to the side of the bed where John was sitting up, and looked into John’s face. It was full of rage. He dropped to his knees before John.
This infuriated John further, and he pulled the robe down from Sherlock’s shoulders, shaking him a little. "No, Sherlock," he said, his voice shaking. Sherlock refused to pull back. And he smiled wickedly at John. "I know you like it. Like me. Like this. Remember the first time?" He put his bandaged hand between John’s legs, boldly stroking him. He didn’t need to. John was already there, all the way there.
John tore the hand away roughly, holding up the bandage to Sherlock’s face. The bandage was leaking blood even now. "Is this it, Sherlock, is this what you want? You want me to cut you, to hurt you?" His anger was towering now and he was afraid he might ---
Sherlock pulled John’s resisting hand down between his own legs, to feel his own hardness now. In the moonlight the bandage glowed white; the bloody stains, black. They struggled as Sherlock tried to force John to stroke him, "John, John, I know you want to, don’t try to hide from me, I know you," his whisper insanely seductive, wicked.
"God," John exploded, "As if - as if I can ever -"
"- Ever stop thinking about it," Sherlock whispered as he assaulted John’s mouth with his tongue. And suddenly John had him down on the floor, the robe now torn and ruined, raping him just with his mouth and tongue against Sherlock’s own unresisting mouth.
John slowly removed the sash of the robe and tied Sherlock’s hands very securely to the bed post, first kissing the bloody palm then returning his bloodied lips hungrily to Sherlock’s own. Whose head was thrown back in anticipation, eyes closed in ecstasy. John began stroking him fast and rough, until Sherlock said, "John, wait, wait, not yet -" but it was too much, he was going to come, he was on the very edge.
Except that John stopped, and stood back, even as Sherlock strained up to try and capture his lips with his own. Now it was Sherlock’s eyes that darkened, a little angry.
"No," John said. "No, Sherlock."
He waited a long minute while Sherlock processed this, panting, writhing. Finally he was calmer, looking up at John with fascination. And John sat beside him on the bed, caressing him everywhere except his cock. He took his time, until Sherlock was desperate for it, moaning, then he roughly started to bring him off again. And stopped, this time walking away from the bed and pressing his forehead against the cold glass of the window. And tried to ignore Sherlock whispering, begging a little now, "John, don’t, John." He could hear in Sherlock’s voice that he thought it was a game. Still.
He had a lot to learn.
He knelt over Sherlock, stroking his hair, putting his fingers between his lips and letting him suck.
"How do you think he felt, today?" John asked, voice even as he felt the electric thrill just from Sherlock’s tongue against his fingertips. The sensation went straight to his cock. "You know what I mean. Shelley. You were teasing him."
Sherlock’s chin jutted up just a little. As if he were proud of himself.
"He was gagging for it, you know it, don’t you." John was stroking Sherlock’s cock a little now, just lightly, and watched him bite his lips to stop from begging. If he begged, he knew John would stop. "Didn’t you think I could see that? Did you think for a minute I would let him lay a finger on you? Did you?" Sherlock’s eyes opened, and John could see his brain working light-speed, trying to decide if John was serious or if this was part of the game. And John could see that Sherlock really couldn’t tell.
This was good.
"Because I thought we understood each other. You’re mine."
Sherlock was thrusting into his hand now, and he was so beautiful, so debauched in his longing that John almost relented. But he stopped. Sherlock’s cock was straining now, swollen. John contented himself with gently caressing his balls now, ever so softly, while Sherlock sighed and moaned, whispering little urges for him let please let him come, now.
But John wouldn’t. He turned him over on his side, and released one of Sherlock’s hands from the restraint. "So you can hold yourself steady, love. But don’t touch yourself, or I’ll stop again. Do you understand." Sherlock shuddered and nodded, holding himself against the edge of the mattress as John slicked his own cock and slowly nudged it against his rim. Sherlock tried to melt back against him, to embrace his cock but John drew back, teasing. Over and over he pressed his entrance, just barely about to breach it and enter him, and always withdrawing. He kept a firm grip on Sherlock’s hips so that he could not try and control the rhythm. It almost drove him mad to deny himself.
After more than two hours of this relentless teasing Sherlock was almost delirious, sweat drenching his skin, his entire body becoming one plea for release. Finally John was at his own limit and whispered, "I’m going to come in you now. But if you start to come with me inside you, I will stop and it will be over. Don’t move at all." Sherlock nodded, his hair damply clinging to his neck. He grabbed a handful of sheet with his free hand, and John slowly pressed his throbbing cock deep, letting him feel every inch. Sherlock shivered and his swollen cock leaped, leaking beads at the tip.
John paused there, agonized, poised on his own brink and holding Sherlock steady. There was a roaring in his ears and he could not even hear their mingled panting, as though they had run a marathon. He could feel Sherlock’s quivering desire to thrust back onto his cock and the effort it was costing him to lay still for John. He kissed the back of Sherlock’s slicked neck. "That’s very good, love," he soothed him, as he rocked steady now, and a violent cascade of orgasm shook him, blinded him, and spilled hot into Sherlock.
Sherlock was shaking like a leaf as he felt John shrink inside him while he remained unsatisfied; but he did not try to move. John could see that he was biting his lips, hard. John reached around and just touched the tip of his head with his fingers, rubbing the slit delicately, making Sherlock groan with desperation. And just like that, John was getting hard again, and he started thrusting into Sherlock again, slow and hard, getting fuller and harder; but this time, letting him have a little friction from his hands also, bringing Sherlock to the brink twice more before he whispered against his ear, "Come for me, now," and ramming into him while twisting hard with his hand, which felt Sherlock’s massive orgasm, covering his hand with come in wave after wave, and John covered his mouth to muffle his scream.
When it was over he kissed Sherlock gently, over and over, and licked and sucked his cock to comfort it after the torture of denial, letting Sherlock come again down his throat until he too was exhausted, and they fell back against the sheets, arms and legs entangled.
"Yours," Sherlock whispered drowsily. "Mine," John agreed.
* * *
De Roel entered the darkened room where the bandaged figure was kept. He gestured to the nurse and she obediently began unwrapping the extensive bandages, and loosened the supporting braces on the arms and legs. It was a fully equipped hospital suite, and there was an IV drip attached to one of the figure’s arms. It held a little button attached to the IV unit between its bandaged fingers.
"How much today?"
"Two centimetres," the nurse said, consulting her chart.
"Leave us," de Roel said. The door closed behind her.
The figure's eyes grew wide through its facial bandages as he heard de Roel’s voice.
"Now, Eric, I've been informed of your little escapade of last night. You didn't think I would not know, did you?"
Eric hung his head, and a few tears dropped onto the sheets.
"I am very shocked. You have never, ever disobeyed me before. The doctor tells me that you have been consuming an unhealthy amount of the painkillers, and that you may have been hallucinating. If so, tell me now."
Eric mumbled through his bandages.
"No, don't strain your voice. The vocal cords are not healed. Use your keyboard."
Eric pecked a few words on a little bluetooth keyboard. De Roel read from his mobile.
"Very well. I am not an unreasonable man, I hope. And I have come to far to stop now, not this time. And I have a solution to both of our problems.
"You will skip the next dose of pain medication. You will not get any more, until I permit it."
Eric nodded submissively.
"And, I myself will make the next adjustment. I think we need to be more -- aggressive."
Eric's hands would have gripped the bars of the bed if he had been able, but each finger was splinted. He merely shrank back against the pillows, bracing himself.
De Roel removed the IV drip that supplied Eric's pain meds on demand. He gently removed the pain pump from his useless fingers.
De Roel pulled aside the bandages and examined Eric’s exposed upper thigh.
There was a long, thin open wound here, with a metal device separating the precisely severed edges of surgically broken femur. There was a small silver screw here, which, when turned, widened the gap between the severed bones, permitting new growth to occur.
Prudent surgical practice for cosmetic bone lengthening was for no more than 1 millimeter per day.
De Roel turned the screw, and Eric screamed.
To be continued . .
back: Five next: Seven.