Title: Strange Behavior
Pairing: Sherlock/John/Ball Gag
Length: 3,481
Genre: Dark!Romance
Warnings: None
Rating: R
Beta: Mink
Summary: John did not seem terribly interested in explanations or penance at present. He seemed far more focused on the fine sweat he could feel forming at the top of his hairline, the tensing of every muscle in his body and the harsh, ragged quality of his breathing behind the gag.
Could someone please explain the reason for this strange behavior? – Duran Duran Skin Trade
Sherlock was lying on his bed with his costly trousers wound tight around his knees.
It all made damnably perfect sense, given more than ample time to dwell on things. The band of professionals whom had broken into his flat had only been after one thing. They'd reclaimed what was theirs, found where he'd hidden it, and left him inconveniently immobile to reflect deeply on his sins. It didn't take them long after an infuriating frisk. Tugged his trousers down (he'd known better than to hope), ripped the bundle of opiates from the duct tape around his inner thigh. That left a mark. He'd commented on it. They'd ordered him to shut up.
Oddly, that was the least of it.
He sighed with the very recent and distressing memory of his struggle against the thick metal cuffs binding his arms painfully above his head.
Events preceding his now compromised state were not, of course, in any way subversive or even unique. He'd overlooked crucial details, drugs did that to most people. That it should have had the same effect on him was aggravating. The crippling need for the vice that kept his keen sense of observation and intellect preserved was more often than not obtained at risky prices from risky characters. He'd procured it, hidden it and a dangerous inquiring few had been dispatched to retrieve it from him. It could be significant to mention that "obtained" meant "stolen" in this case.
"This is a proper stash," the man said, much too close to Sherlock's face. "Shopping round all over, yeah?"
Sherlock glanced at the small cellophane bag on the floor and sighed again. Money wasted. What was even worse was that theses despicable men didn't seem to want to leave.
"Wouldn't be civil like to dash without giving yer a taste, would it Mr. Holmes?" The man's breath smelled of some cloying mega-mint chewing gum. Unbearable. "Just to leave things friendly like."
Sherlock choked back a snarl, turning his face away. "Not the best idea." He muttered. "I could seize up, go raving mad if you dose me, might even alert someone- nnh!" His sleeve had been wrenched up, a thick needle slid hard into the inside of his elbow. He let out a soft moan when it hit, starting in his chest and then flooding warmth and subtlety everywhere else. The haze hit him with a vague sickening nausea, his eyes rolling back and the curious catch and ragged draw of air in his throat.
"Completely…necessary."
"We've taken all that into account, my love." Sherlock could see the outline of the man's grin from behind the knitted ski mask. "Now let's tuck you away, shall we?"
He'd put up a fight then, twisted violently from side to side as hands grabbed his neck from behind, holding him immobile. Something was secured around his head, jaws pried open. His mouth was stretched appallingly, his eyes watering as the leather bit forced his tongue back.. He choked against the hardness of the plastic gag, eyes squeezing shut at its foul taste and unrelenting invasive pressure against the back of his throat.
"You'll wanna keep real calm, love. Asphyxiate and then we won't have any more of you. Period. Might we help you along, then?"
The man was tapping the bubbles out of another syringe. Ready to dose him again. If he'd been able to talk, he might have objected. There came the sting, then another flood of heat. Too much. His heart stuttered in his chest, the room went gauzy and then there was nothing more.
Jerking awake to the sound of angry shouting sent his limbs into a convulsive fit. The din of furniture against walls pounded intensely in his brain. The TV fell victim, rolling against the carpeted floor. The standing lamp was being used as a weapon. The crash of his experiments, glass containers of various functions shattering, liquids soaking into the carpet, bookshelves collapsing.
Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to focus on one thing.
A fist connected unmercifully with bone. The startling thud of a limp body hitting the floor. John was calling his name.
John…. His mind screamed what it could not voice. Thank god…
There were gaps. Severe gaps. Several if he wanted to be exact. Sherlock gradually became aware of his brain congealing into something more like consciousness and blinked out at the world.
He felt drowsy and slightly feverish, the drugs still coursing in his system. The back of his throat burned and his neck felt clammy. Perspiration. He shuddered faintly when a breeze from the open window wafted over him. Noises from the street outside were muted, droning in and out like some aural kaleidoscope. Weakly, he attempted to clear his throat and found that he could not.
He sighed in irritation. He'd forgotten the gag.
Eyes shut against the pounding in his head. He focused on relaxing his muscles as best he could through the restraints.
The ache behind his shoulder blades was no longer a background annoyance but searing agony, protesting at the prolonged forced position. He hurt in new places. What a thankless Tuesday this was turning out to be.
Shivering that had been slight intensified up his spine and through his arms and legs. The window glass from last month's disaster still hadn't been replaced, the entire room open to the chill air outside. Sherlock watched his breath mist around him, goosebumps rising on his bare skin. He had been at the mercy of more things than he liked to be in a day, even the elements were conspiring against him.
Unexpected silence. Sherlock frowned, taking in his surroundings. No sound from his captors. Had they gone? His eyes narrowed on a figure sitting calmly across from him on the bed.
John, still wearing his clothes from outside, was flipping through a tabloid with his outdoor gloves still on. Sherlock read the cover. TIMES. Dated current. John must have picked it up off the stoop when he'd come in.
Sherlock made an audible show of agitation. Muted behind the gag, he knew perfectly well articulation was unnecessary in this case. Nonetheless, he put forth his best effort.
"Jhhhhhn!"
John looked up, nodded briefly at him, and with a loud snap of the paper continued reading.
Blinking, Sherlock processed John's behavior. He was obviously in uncharacteristically demonstrative temper. Why? Left out of the loop as usual, obliged to come stampeding in like cavalry. Off day at work. Relegated to the Lie-low again. Missed his daytime soap on telly. Alright. Rational enough however infuriating. He was getting comeuppance for his less than clever ways. HA HA. Jolly good.
John kept reading, oblivious to his distress.
Mystifying. Chilling. As deeper realization settled in his jellylike brain. Sherlock flew into as much of a rage as his drugged body would allow. He tried shouting or what he could accomplish of it. Snarling. Swearing. Twisting and thrashing against the mattress, tugging at the cuffs again and again and again until he was left a panting, sweaty, half sane mess.
Regrettably, the show couldn't be maintained as his stamina faded and he was eventually forced to resign himself to petulance and foul glares.
Finally, John spoke.
"So who are your friends then?" Hint of boredom in his tone, flat facial expression. Eloquent tantrum, indeed.
Sherlock's thoughts turned suddenly to the men sent to do him in. He made an urgent noise, eyes flicking in the direction of the living room.
John replied from behind the paper. "No worries. They've been…er-" He paused to clear his throat. "-managed. You're perfectly safe."
Sherlock's gaze shifted to the small taped-up bundle of narcotics on the night table.
Oh. Bollocks.
Exasperated, Sherlock flung himself onto his side on the bed, ignoring the painful twist of the cuffs on his wrist.
Sherlock pretended he wasn't waiting for John to sigh and stand up. The rustle of the magazine hitting the floor was not enough to send him into a fit of hysterical relief. John's footsteps against the floor were heavy as he made his way to the side of the bed. Sherlock had not completely forgiven him but soon, he supposed, all would be explained and amended. He was tired, having spent the better part of an afternoon drugged and unable to move. His throat was scratchy and painfully dry, the drugs and gag both worsening an already raging thirst
He waited as John's gloved fingers moved around his head, looking for the clasp holding that wretched bit in his mouth. Sherlock felt himself sag in exhaustion, eager to be rid of it, breathe normally again, and speak for the love of hell.
Alarmingly, John stopped, his touch disappearing from his scalp.
Sherlock's head snapped in confusion from the headboard to stare at John.
What in bloody hell are you on about? Sherlock's mind screamed. Put off this childish temper and help me!
John's hands were now threaded under his chin, studying him. Crouched down beside the bed, eyes on level with Sherlock's heaving body. He was staring in a very deliberate way not unlike the way he appraised a victim, putting all the pieces together.
Sherlock felt the first pangs of anxiety in his chest and then felt his face redden when he remembered his trousers.
For an eternity of exactly four minutes and thirty six seconds, John simply looked and breathed and looked some more while Sherlock agonized. The silence was obscene. Sherlock could feel himself unraveling with each thud of his doped-up heart. He forced his senses to gather, began counting the threads in John's jumper (what he could see of it) so as not to fall victim to panic.
He could not help his breathing but perhaps that reflex was not panic at all.
Still absorbed in his fabricated distraction, he jolted at the touch of John's gloved fingers suddenly on the raised welts along his inner thigh.
Sherlock blinked uncertainly. John's gaze and hand stayed fixed where they were.
Oh hell….Sherlock closed his eyes tightly, shuddering when John pressed down on the enflamed skin where the tape had been ripped so violently. He'd secured the stash there to hide it but he'd been rushed. Even a layman could have seen it. John pushed harder on the irritation, as though pressing down on the error itself, making Sherlock swallow in pain.
"Drugs again, Sherlock." John sounded tired. "Really."
Sherlock smirked at the ceiling because it really was amusing every time John spoke his name the same way he would a dirty word.
"Bloody terrible, tape burn." The neutrality in John's voice was startling. "Be there for weeks."
Sherlock made more than a few sound conclusions.
This was not the John Watson of 221 B Baker Street formerly of Afghanistan. This was not the reasonable chap who would more likely have said: "Oh, what's this? Tape burns. Why? Let's see if we can deduce this, let's try to put our thinking caps on. Everyone together now, BLOODY DRUGS!"
Nor, he found with not a little surprise, was this revenge. Not yet, anyway.
John did not seem terribly interested in explanations or penance at present. He seemed far more focused on the fine sweat he could feel forming at the top of his hairline, the tensing of every muscle in his body and the harsh, ragged quality of his breathing behind the gag.
Teeth clamped down on the smallest finger of his leather glove and tore it away. Bare, dry fingers now touched his thigh, traveling up and further beneath the front tails of his shirt. John's breathing had changed, deeper now, his features hardening into something like concentration.
Sherlock waited and panted and sweated.
Now John's eyes hovered over the flesh of his throat. The skin there was flushed, he knew-a symptom of the drugs and this new potential. The flutter of his pulse was exposed and Sherlock went taut, inhaling sharply through his nose when John leaned down to press his fingers against it. No emotion behind the gesture at all. Sherlock pulled back in annoyance, the most resistance he could possibly have achieved. John ignored him, one hand resting on his quaking belly, pausing for a moment before tracing each curved ridge of his ribs with his thumb. Gliding smoothly from left to right across each one before meeting on the hard plate of his sternum. As though he were gauging something. Sherlock glanced down uncomfortably, watching the uneven rise and fall of John's hand against his stomach.
He was still coming off the drugs. His heart was palpitating. Worrisome. Certainly John could feel that. Was he checking him? Why then, this delay? Surely, John would be concerned enough to untie him, to give him medical attention?
Frustrated, he twisted on the mattress, rattling the bedframe as hard as he could, trying to shake free of John's unwelcome touch. John shifted, started by the sudden explosion but quickly repositioned himself, his other arm pressing firmly down on Sherlock's chest, keeping him still.
Colors swam in his vision and he gave up.
"There." John's breath was hot on his face. "All done?"
It was harder to breathe through the bit. Sherlock's eyes met John's, nostrils flaring. This was beyond discomfort, beyond pettiness or reason. This was madness.
Sherlock didn't do remorse. John was to involve himself on command, not pry into his affairs., Should have known better. This had nothing to do with John. The wrecked apartment, the questionable characters, the drugs on the night table.
They'd spelled danger and here he was.
Sherlock narrowed his gaze, trying to pin down even a fragment of something that would stay still in his mind. His thoughts were vibrating, one solid, frenzied mass of sensation clashing against data. He knew the kinetic buzz of cocaine waltzing with a barbituate, the dangerous games heroin played with the bowels. Miniature seizures in the hippocampus, fine tremors that made even his tongue twitch and dance soundlessly in his mouth.
John had done this. To him. John, who was never cryptic, never shaded or mysterious. Sherlock was staring at a Not John and somewhere behind the thrill of panic, he was intrigued.
"Shhhh…" John whispered.
Sherlock willed his body to relax, to permit John's hands and eyes on him. His muscles unclenched, his jaw went slack. Between his legs, the drugs and physical contact were causing a sensation riot. A nuisance at best but he was not in a position to care overmuch. Not until, that is, John slid his hand between his thighs and brushed the throbbing heat restrained in his boxers.
Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. Oh!
This was a turn. Given his vulnerable state, however, not completely shocking or without some interest. Though ill timed, Sherlock had to admit the gesture wasn't unwelcome. Carpe diem, dear John. When else would he find such occasion? So his formerly benign flatmate had harbored curiosities of a carnal nature. Well done. He'd sift through the mental repercussions later perhaps. As soon as he was able to lower his arms…
John's hand lingered about his waistline, applying gradual but firm pressure to the pulsing ache now spreading in his groin. How sublime, Sherlock thought as his back arched involuntarily, to let him think he has the upper hand. An upper hand he was now writhing beneath. Where his other hand was, he could not be bothered to guess. So long as John kept up this form of "torture". He would just lie back, relax and-
It took only a minute to notice the occupation of John's other hand on his body. Not probing, not massaging, not stroking. A concerted effort was being conducted through the twist of trousers around his knees.
The hard black plastic of his own cell phone slipped into view, nestled in John's triumphant palm.
Sherlock nearly choked. Now what…?
The heat of John's hand on his crotch was now more distracting than enchanting. Sherlock watched John's face light up as he manipulated the smart phone with his other hand, thumb flipping through the list of contacts until he found the right one.
"Sorry Sherlock." John squinted at the screen, his face illuminated. "I don't have keys for these cuffs. But I know just the bloke who will?"
Sherlock closed his eyes and wished suddenly he were still unconscious. John could not possibly be serious. He would not dare. But John could and he DID dare. He was even obliging enough to show him the text message for appraisal before hitting send.
Lestrade. In a bind. Come to 221 B now. Bring keys. Much obliged.
Sherlock found his screams were well stifled by the gag.
John was already busy sending another text. He was benevolent enough, however, to explain his actions this time.
"Anderson will be along shortly to run bloodwork . You'll oblige him, won't you? Do it meself but MAN U is up against Belfast and I can't be arsed."
Sherlock's body was alive again, gnashing his teeth against the obstruction clenched between them, rocking his torso from side to side. He could not get enough air, chest heaving rapidly. The indignity had reached comical—no, criminal proportions!
"Now hush. Just need to be sure there's nothing left in your system to war on about should those gents come back. Right…now am I missing anyone? Oh yes!"
Something ugly and primal flared in Sherlock's chest. Was it bloodlust or tears? He was deeply intrigued (disturbed?) to realize he could not immediately tell.
"Mycroft." John was already flipping through his contact list again. "He'll be pleased to know of this."
Sherlock started banging his skull against the headboard in desperation.
"Mrs. Hudson takes her hearing aids out promptly at eight. She can't hear you."
"Right." John spared him the details as he sent off a final incriminating text to his brother. Neatly clipping the phone shut, he tucked it securely back into Sherlock's trouser pocket with a pat. "There. Now everyone will be astounded by the mystery of how you managed to send off three texts with your hands cuffed. Don't say I don't think of you."
The piercing shriek of a kettle whistle from outside took the place of Sherlock's intended response.
"Well, I'm for a cuppa!" John stretched and groaned as he stood, ignoring Sherlock's feeble attempts to flail and kick him. The shuffling, panicked noises behind the gag were ludicrous to Sherlock's ears but he could hardly help making them. John rolled his eyes but bent over, lowering his upper body to Sherlock's level of vision. Eye contact was made, fleeting but purposeful. Dry, chapped lips pressed against the gag, an honest kiss, meaningful if not in the least bit remorseful. Sherlock's lashes fluttered, the echo of this new insult throbbing against his numb mouth long after John turned around and shut the door.
"Behave, next time."