For His Lord, a sherlock holmes fanfic

Dear all persons: I am sorry.

That being said and out of the way, I truly considered not posting this, but shit happened, so here you go. This was written as a gift for my buddy known currently as That's LEON. I'm posting it in order to encourage more from other people, because reading is so much easier than writing. So if you will, please.

O Sanctus Sanctorum

For his Lord, anything.

He would play his part in that elaborate ruse perfectly, obediently, unquestioningly. He would kneel and drink and sacrifice his blood, would sing the praises to his Lord as the blade sliced through his skin. He would put his own life at risk for the purpose of serving his Lord.

Likewise, he would lower himself to his knees and happily sate his master. He would welcome his Lord into his body, take the abuse without complaint, loving the pleasure and the pain in equal measure as his Lord violently thrust in and out of him. The joy of pleasing his Lord was far superior to the pleasures of his flesh.

And so he blissfully sucked and licked and swallowed, swelling with pride when he sensed his master's approval. He moaned softly each time the back of his throat was struck, responding to every brutalization with increasing fervor, his Lord's fingers in his hair tightening which could only mean He was enjoying it, and that gave Lord Coward every reason to be happy.

He turned his head slightly, used his tongue to trace over the base, smiled around his master's length when he was rewarded with a sound of pleasure—of approval, he thought warmly, and he coaxed his master to release.

The hot white manifestation of his master's passion flooded his mouth—a river breaking a dam—and he eagerly took it down his throat. A benevolent master awarding His most faithful servant with a sample of the essence of His greatness. Out of the corner of his mouth, a small quantity of this liquid—his ambrosia—trickled down. Drawing back, he collected it with an upward stroke of his finger, sucking it off the fingertip and looking up at his master coyly.

That simple, calculated gesture was all it took. His Lord seized him, lowered him to the floor with lust apparent in his eyes.

To Coward, Lord Blackwood's eyes were those of God himself.

His Lord's body collapsed onto his own smaller one with satisfaction. He spread his legs shamelessly, tremors undulating through his body as his master fingered him, beloved fingers pushing deep into his tight heat, expertly manipulating the sensations of his body. Lord Coward released a breathy moan, raised hips moving in small circles, pushing back to aid his master's blessed intrusion.

His rhythmic motion continued for as long as his master remained content, stopping only when those fingers swiftly pulled out of him, evoking a gasp from Lord Coward. And the benevolent god, ever attentive to the needs of his servant, immediately filled him again.

Upon the first forceful thrust, Lord Coward's back arched gloriously, his legs wrapped around Lord Blackwood's waist, always, always longing for closeness to his Lord. He threw his head back, lips parted in a grateful moan, eyes dilated in ecstasy as his Lord pushed him closer to heavenly oblivion.

Gradually, Lord Coward's moans retrograded into tiny cries of pain—his insufficiently lubricated entrance stretched to limits that threatened to break him; he felt trace amounts of blood drip to the floor. And oh, how much more glorious it was to feel pain inflicted by his Lord, to offer so great a sacrifice as pleasure to his master. He slowly forced his eyes open and met his master's gaze. Those dark, intense eyes burned into his own, and Lord Coward held his gaze, his innocent eyes brimming with adoration and respect.

Then, the hand of God stroked his face, curling around to the back of his neck, and Lord Coward's eyes brightened to see his Lord leaning toward him, face growing closer and closer until their lips touched, melded, and parted chastely. Lord Blackwood pulled away and peered back down at his servant's desperate, pleading face, those pretty lips risking a request to the one to whom he had given himself completely: "Again. Please, my Lord..."

Yes, God rewarded the faithful.

Lord Blackwood thrust again, harder this time, causing Coward's lips to part in a gasp, and the adoring servant found his Lord sealing His lips over his mortal own. Coward moaned blissfully, closing his eyes as the kiss deepened and his Lord's tongue slipped none-too-gently into his mouth. Enchanted, Lord Coward met the gesture with equal fervor, his arms encircling his god in a tender plea for affection.

It was selfish, he knew, to desire to be given the full attention of his Lord. Even if the dark powers were fake, even if the Dark Lord was nothing but a myth, the power and influence Lord Blackwood exhibited over people, especially Lord Coward, was real. And if God was just a faceless, illusory entity, then why couldn't that role be filled by Lord Blackwood?

It was the only logical conclusion. Never otherwise had he submitted himself so wholly and so happily to the will of another, nor did he respect anyone else enough to pledge loyalty of heart and body to him. No, and his feelings for Lord Blackwood alone transcended love, transcended infatuation, transcended desire. Coward worshipped Lord Blackwood. Needed Him—no, needed to serve Him, needed to please Him, and infinitely wanted to be loved by Him. Who but a god could have such intoxicating power over him?

The passion in their kiss was tamed; Lord Blackwood began to push Himself away from the smaller body beneath him, and Coward reluctantly loosened his embrace and unresistingly slid his arms off of his beloved Lord and down to the floor. Lord Blackwood's hands found grip on Coward's waist, fingertips digging into the sensitive flesh in a way that made Coward cherish the pain. And the final thrusts came deep and hard and rough, moans grew louder and longer, Coward's back arched painfully as their passion reached its climax. Coward cried out, his orgasm coating their bodies, sweet, sinful release dizzying him before his legs clamped tighter around Lord Blackwood's waist and his infallible god filled him violently, pushing him over the edge.

"Lord Blackwood!" he cried, reaching deliriously for his Lord, and the benevolent god indulged him, allowing Coward to engage Him in another embrace and even gracing him by returning it.

The last of Lord Blackwood's seed was sown in Coward, and, much to Coward's discontent, their crushing hold on each other was broken.

Coward lay on the floor, panting, his tired eyes sparkling with bliss. He emitted a soft groan when Blackwood pulled out of him, all formality and regality and with none of the devoted passion that Coward felt toward Lord Blackwood.

But what else can one expect from a god?

His legs untangled from his master's waist to lie limply on either side of Him. Exhaustion overtaking him, he returned his glance to his Lord, the fondness in them undisguised. Lord Blackwood regarded him impassively, the silence growing heavy. Eventually Coward lowered his eyes, a bit disheartened by Lord Blackwood's inertness (though he had no right to be).

However, his master's hand reached down and caught his chin, lifting his face up. They made eye contact. Lord Blackwood said to him, "Coward... You are useful to me." And He smiled.

Lord Coward's eyes filled with emotion. He took his Lord's hand into his two own, kissed it, and said, "Thank you, my Lord."

After which the denouement proceeded, bringing this dalliance to a close. And, he knew, basking in the aftermath of so holy a ceremony, never had Lord Coward felt so happy to be owned, to be possessed, to submit, to give himself in full to his master, mind, body, and soul.

For his Lord, anything.