On the Sunday morning of January 26, 2014, John stepped out of his miniscule flat and made way towards his office. His meager strides and pitiful posture made him slow of speed. He stopped by Speedy's after making it just over halfway to his destination, and grabbed a sandwich. It was his usual morning ritual, a habit he'd held for more than two years. He said hello to the old lady in the shop, , and continued his way to work. He worked at a small doctor's office near Baker Street and was content with his job. He was just about to turn the corner when he noticed a shadow in the corner of his eye, immediately his military training immersed his thoughts and was made apparent by his change in stance. Even though John's swift preparation took mere seconds it didn't stop the aforementioned shadow from attacking him from behind. Wrapping their arms so tight around him that John could barely move. Before he could think of getting out of the iron hold, he felt a gun pressed against the small of his back and suddenly the deepest voice he had ever heard was murmuring into his ear.
"This wont hurt a bit" said the person (no longer a shadow).
|John let out a strangled yell when his captor viciously stabbed a syringe into his neck. He could feel the warmth of his body trickle down the skin of his clavicle. John knew he was bleeding. He soon realized his body began to shut down. Whatever substance was injected into his body had already taken effect long before the needle found it's way out of his neck.
"Let me get that for you" growled out the unimaginably deep voice
John barely felt the man's tongue press against his bleeding neck; it's warmth almost parallel to his blood. Although hazy and uncoordinated, John struggled to free himself from his captor's grip. Had he been sober he might have held a lasting chance, but in his current condition he could scarcely even muster the strength to stand.
"You. Will. Not. Move." He growled out. John unwittingly complied.
Within moments of the man detaching his mouth from his wound, John's body had fully realized the effects of the drug. John passed out.
John woke up in a bed, obviously not his own, feeling relatively normal. His recollection of the events prior to his awakening were extremely sharp. He tried to check the wound on his neck, but all attempts to do so were quickly forgotten when he realized he was restrained. John began to panic; his chest sharply rose and fell with each breath of struggle before understanding his situation. He needed to pull himself together. He took a few deep breaths before testing his movement and found that each extension of his body had been securely fastened to the bed. His arms were linked over his head and legs were sprawled across the sheets. Puzzled, John took a quick glance at his turned his head to the side and noticed a small nightstand with multiple objects on it. Each object covered by a small sheet of fabric of some sort and all he could make out were the numerous shapes.
"I see that you're awake" said his kidnapper
John remained silent and carefully observed the approaching man.
"You may as well speak now that you're awake."
As the sentence grew the voice came nearer, John turned his head and was met with a fairly unexpected sight. A man, clad in black leather pants and a purple v-neck t-shirt, whose pale eyes observed him from beneath a tree bark brown mess of gasped under his breath when his eyes met his captors. He, of course, wasn't gay, but those eyes were filled with hues of gold, blue, green, and other unidentifiable colors. In his hand he held a strip of cloth. John lacked the words to speak and simply stared at the stranger.
"Alright fine, my name is Sherlock Holmes, and you, are John Hamish Watson previous Captain of the Royal Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. You are currently employed as a physician at your local Doctor's office. You have a sibling and are extremely lacking in a social life. This is probably due to your feelings of inadequacy and your limp, purely psychosomatic I might add."
John stopped breathing for a moment and stared wide eyed at the man.
"H-How" he stammered out
"I observed." he smirked and leaned down
"I've been watching you John" he whispered, his lips practically molesting his ear.
John visibly blushed but managed to speak
"Like a stalker? Is that what you are then? A stal-" John stopped talking because the man had swung himself onto the bed in one swift movement and pinned John to the bed.
"I advise you to stop talking" Sherlock said, his breath ghosting over John's lips. His body was impossibly close and John realized the other man was about to kiss him.
"I-Im not gay" John managed to push out and froze when the man leaned down and nipped at his neck
"Not a problem" Sherlock answered as he roughly thrusted himself against John.
John felt himself reacting and he started to panic:
"Oh god, Im not gay, this isnt happening. Im going to get raped, what the hell is happening. Im at home, i'm in bed, this isn't happening."
The man started sucking on his neck and thrusted against him twice more before looking up.
"Shut up." he said with such demand that John's mind went completely blank for the next 5 minutes. Not long had passed before John felt his body react. He now sported an erection and so did the other man. When he felt the need to start moaning he started talking, if only to preserve his sexuality.
"Before, I-I wasn-" he was cut off when the man pushed himself up and hovered above him on all-fours, he felt his body rebel against his mind and ache for the man now above him.
"You are thinking too loud." He said in a now bored and seemingly apathetic, "And I believe I should inform you of the fact that you are not having a dream."
A sense of relief filled John when the lean man dismounted him.. Maybe he was going to leave him alone.
"I am not done with you yet, if that's what you were thinking."
John struggled once more against the restraints as his captor looked down at him, his long face parted in something almost resembling a smile.
"Now, now," Sherlock continued, "don't strain yourself-the leather will burn your skin."
He was toying with him. John looked up and saw the enjoyment in his eyes. The man was getting off on his wriggling labor and it sickened him. Swallowing back, the adam's apple rising in his throat, the shorter man stopped and closed his eyes, forcing himself to relax as well as he could with his bare skin exposed and no way to cover himself. When he opened his eyes again, Sherlock's face was directly above his. Gasping to himself, his calm was broken and he started struggling again. Sherlock was bringing his hands to his face. "Oh god oh god," he was going to hyperventilate, and then something was covering his eyes. He ripped his neck from side to side until Sherlock pinched his nipple, leaving him limp. Biting back the tears that had surfaced, he closed his eyes tight. Sherlock put the cloth back to his face-over his eyes-and pulled it tight behind his hair. He was being blindfolded-no he was blindfolded.
No longer feeling Sherlock's presence directly above him, the prisoner, he certainly felt like a prisoner, twisted his head, searching for sounds to let him know what was going on. There was a small rustling to his left and then he felt the bed dip under him, letting him know Sherlock had rejoined him.
"Alright now John," he breathed, closer than John had thought him, "this won't hurt a bit."
That heavy voice was laced with lies, venomous lies, and the light haired man steeled himself for the coming pain, but then there was none. Instead there was something soft, cold, light. It was small and then a long piece snaked over his neck. John felt the muscles there contract, protruding bones shivering. It came back again and John would have wondered if it was an actual snake had its shape not twisted under itself.
John hadn't realized he was feeling Sherlock's breath on his cheek until it disappeared and his presence moved away from his face. The snake followed, less of it this time trailing its way down John's torso. Suddenly hyper-aware of being in his skin and of the fabric trailing down lighter and lighter until it was a mere tickle down his belly, his stomach to writhed up and down up and down, flipping over itself.
"So sensitive aren't you, John," Sherlock said, this time trailing his finger down the other man's stomach.
"I have to tell you John, I don't normally pleasure myself under the sexual influences of others. I have much more important things to tend to; my body doesn't require much. But when I saw you dear John, back from the war, trying to understand once more the normalcy of English life…"
The fabric twisted farther down, past his still hardened penis and slid around his thigh, Sherlock pulling it around and around. John shivered underneath it, silent.
"...You got a flat. You got a job. Seeing you try so hard every day."
Sherlock was back by his face again, leaning ever closer, the fabric abandoned at the end of the bed.
"I can see it in your eyes though-your face-even now John. You miss the war. You wish to see more blood and hear the screaming. The war touched you in ways you couldn't possibly understand and I just had to have you." His voice had been picking up speed, gathering power until it spilt over and John felt those indescribable lips on his again.
John was determined not to let his captor in, but then Sherlock bit his lip hard enough to make him whimper and that was enough for him to slip his tongue in. The wet muscle knows its work though and entangles the end of his tongue with John's, teasing him. Sherlock pulled his tongue away and sucked at John's swollen lower lip, nipping with the edges of his teeth.
John is then devoid of the soft flesh, but it soon comes back. He wishes he could see-wishes he could know when things were going to happen. Of course that was the point of the blindfold, he knew that. Short sticky kisses left their way from the edges of John's mouth down his jawline and down his neck. At the base Sherlock nibbled a little, sucking on the compliant flesh.
Another gasp escaped the smaller man, his fists clenching into fists so tight he could feel his fingernails break the first layer of his skin. Sherlock had clamped down on his neck, biting harder and harder until finally he couldn't take it anymore. John cried out, the sound somewhere between a sob and a whine. Only now does the dark haired man let go, kissing the skin on either side of the fresh bruise before licking it with the tip of his tongue. John's stomach flips again, rising up against a touch that's not there.
Sherlock trailed his tongue down John's collarbone, a snail's trail forming down his chest, around his nipple. John bites his already bitten lips, silencing himself once more even though his hot breath is pounding out of his lungs like a steam engine. Sherlock sucks and nibbles until finally biting sharp and solid around the hardened skin. John catches himself until his captor does it a second time at a different angle, a whimper flying out of him.
"Good boy, good John," Sherlock mumbles, though his voice is still self-assured.
Suddenly John is overcome with a sense of dizziness and he can't tell where Sherlock is until he feels his fingers tickling their way down his stomach down until they find John's penis. There he feels them gently caress the topside, feeling their way down his length and brushing precum almost casually over the end. The sensation John feels as something wet, Sherlock's tongue yes, feels its way up the underside swirling around the erect tip is something that John can't describe. The strain against him and the heightened feeling he gets from his blindness is strange and foreign, unwelcome.
"Stop-" he said, then again, "Stop this. Sherlock."
Much to his dismay, his voice is wobbly and cracks under his words.
"And why would I do that John?"
"This is rape. You...you are raping me."
"You're enjoying it John. I can see that. You can feel that."
"M-my body does not decide what I enjoy."
Sherlock didn't answer though and in a minute John understands why. Something cold is squeezed onto his stomach, a lone finger spreading it around in a slow circle. John's captor doesn't say anything; he doesn't have to,for in a few more seconds John understands.
"No-" he begs, not even ashamed anymore, "no."
The smaller man yanks against his restraints again. He knew it was going to come here of course he knew, but somehow he still thought maybe...
A cold sweat had broken out on his forehead; there is nothing he can do. The loss of hope he feels is draining and he lets out a quiet sob. He can imagine that man's face, his lips turning up, peeling into shadow of a smile, enjoying John like an ant squirming under a microscope-an experiment.
He hears Sherlock undo his belt, a tiny jingle, and then the bed creaks under as he moves across it. He imagines his captor rubbing himself as a small grunt escapes him. John doesn't want to hear. A dip in the bed, closer to him lets John know Sherlock has moved down by his legs again.
His legs are already spread, pulled back from the leather ropes, but that doesn't stop him from chafing his ankles when he feels Sherlock spread a lube around his asshole. In another second he feels a slick finger push inside of him. He feels himself tighten, then loosen as Sherlock forces a second finger in before he is ready.
Another whimper escapes him, quieter, effort falling from under him.
Sherlock twists his fingers, scissoring them up again and again until John is more compliable. At last he sticks a third finger in and then pulls them all out.
John is dreading what comes next and the anxiety of waiting is almost too much for him when he feels his captor swing a leg over him and line himself up with John. He thinks for just a moment about begging again, but the thought is gone as soon as he is pushed into.
Sherlock is not kind to his prisoner, shoving almost all of himself into John without a second thought. This forces a cry from the man under him who tries to twist free despite himself. Taking no note to the man's discomfort other than to move a little slower, Sherlock begins to slide his way back and forth into the man. John is filled with terror when he feels the other grab his cock at the base and begins to rub him along the hard length. He tries to correlate a rhythm between his hips and his hand, John can feel that, trying to push them both at the same time and much to John's dismay it's working. His body moves against the straps, digging into his appendages with a fresh raw furver. He feels it spreading through his whole body, warm, a forced ecstasy that bursts from his mouth as he comes over himself. He shudders and feels tears spring behind eyelids still pressed tight from the blindfold and when Sherlock releases himself inside the man, John cries again.
He is tired, numb, everything drained so he hardly notices when Sherlock pulls out of him and leaves the bed.
"Now then John-"
John is hardly listening.
"I will take care of everything."
Another needle slides into his neck, barely a pinprick in comparison to everything else, and John feels his mind grow heavy. In another second he is asleep.
The next time John woke up, he was in his own bed; he could almost write off the past events as a horrible dream, but the ache between his legs and his chafed wrists and ankles proved otherwise. He decided to lay there for the rest of the day coming to terms with what exactly had happened last night. Eventually he got up, the idea of a hot shower beckoned his sore body only to lure him to a sticky note centered on his mirror. Dread, and strange trace amounts of anticipation, shined through as he grabbed the note and read it:
"I have programmed my number into your mobile phone, I know you won't bother going to the police because I can give you something you want. -SH"
John feels his heart thump around in his chest and practically jumps 6 feet into the air when he feels his mobile give off a ding. The shower driven out of his memory, he retrieves his mobile phone from under his pillow and checks his messages. His bright mobile screen reveals one new message:
"Thursday 10 P.M. 221B Baker Street. Come if convenient. -SH"
He reads it twice, not being able to fully comprehend what the hell this man is playing at. His mobile dings again.
"If inconvenient, come anyway. -SH"
John drops his phone on the bed and realises the man is right, he won't call the cops, he can't. But on the subject of whether he was going or not; it would have to wait for Thursday. He slowly walks towards his bathroom again, intent on taking a shower his mind on autopilot.
A while away Sherlock Holmes twirls his phone in his hands and smirks. Thursday is sure to be eventful.