A/N: I asked on my tumblr for my followers to give me prompts for bbc-sherlock fanfictions. This is the first one I recieved, and therefore the first I will attempt to fill.
"Holmes, blindfolded, driving his kidnapper to violence by deducing stuff about him (or her)."
Sherlock Holmes and John Watson both belong to my hero, Sir Arthur Conan-Doyle, and the BBC for their modern adaptation of the classic Holmes adventures. The captor is a figment of my imagination; he has no name. And now that's all out of the way, I'll start with the story.
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"Untitled."
A Sherlock prompt, filled by Ruby Willis-Powell.
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Milk. Sherlock thought from his position on the floor as he moved his hands experimentally, wincing through the blackness as he felt rope bite into the soft flesh of his wrists. His vision was obscured by a strip of cheap black fabric that scratched against his skin. It started with milk. How odd.
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The outlook of the day had been fair to good, cirrus clouds streaking pastel sky; white horses on the waves of the atmosphere. The sun spangled the streets, causing flecks of light to jump across his face and he resisted the urge to waggle his fingers in a patronizing manner as he passed a CCTV camera, accutely aware that somewhere Mycroft would be watching.
John had refused to go and buy the milk, complaining about the row with the chip and pin machine and telling Sherlock to go because he needed to get out for some fresh air, that he needed to try the goddamn machine for himself to see that it wasn't as easy as it seemed. Strangely Sherlock had complied, the levels of boredom obviously peaking to a crescendo, and he had thrown his coat on and swished through the door, smirking happily at the look of shock plastered across John's face.
The buying of the milk had been easy enough, he recalls. Locate it in the correct section, take it to the machine, enter the pin, take the milk away (really, what had John found so hard?). It was when he was returning home, passing the old alleyways where he had pulled John in for a surprise kiss on many an occasion, that things started to go wrong. The sun was still shining, the streaks of light still cutting swathes over his angular features, but something had changed and he couldn't work out what.
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"Sherlock Holmes." The voice was cold, the hand on his shoulder that accompanied it colder. He could feel breath against his cheek, and the voice spoke again, words dancing in the shell of his ear. "Oh, this is perfect, absolutely perfect! I can't tell you how long I've been wanting to meet you."
Sherlock's lips twitched and he closed his eyes, focusing on the voice in front of him. "Male. Softer vowels, harder consonants, lyricized inflection, all of which are mostly hidden behind an english accent. Oh, that means you've lived here, here in London, for a few months now.. maybe a year? You're Irish though, just like Moriarty. What is it with Irish people wanting to kill me?"
"Shut up." The words are quiet, dangerous. The hand on his shoulder tightens, and the breathing in his ear quickens. "Shut up, Holmes."
"Oh, we're onto surnames now, are we? Just a moment ago you were calling me 'Sherlock'. When did that change, hmm? From the way your footfalls sound, and the echo of the building, your feet are around a size 8 and we are in an abandoned factory. The smells suggests ammonia, so a chemical plant used to make cleaning products. It must have been a big deal when it went out of business, all over the papers if I remember correctly. I do know where I am, you know."
The sharp crack as a hand collides with his cheek reverberates through his entire body, bouncing through his bones and down through layers of deep tissue. He sways slightly in shock, and laughter washes over him. "You thought I was above hitting you? Sherlock, darling," the voice sneers, "I am not above anything. I will do whatever it takes to get you out of the way. To get him to notice me again."
"Jim Moriarty," Sherlock breathes, raising an eyebrow and peering through the blackness of his blindfold. "You are.. no, you were, his lover. Before he became fascinated with me. You want me out of the way so he can be yours again."
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He didn't notice the footsteps behind him; he was too consumed in thoughts, wondering when his next case would unfold - when his nemesis would once again rise from the shadows of the criminal underworld to 'burn the heart' out of him. From there, his thoughts flitted from how he hated Anderson, to how incompetent Lestrade could be, to how best please John tonight. It was the latter that was eating away at his brain when strong hands wrapped around his neck and mouth, pulling him into an alleyway and down into unconsciousness as he fought for air.
There had been no security cameras there, nobody could possibly know where he was; John thought he was at the little co-op, probably thinking his lateness was cause of the bloody chip and pin.
He remembered nothing about his journey, nor how he came to be blindfolded, tied up or knelt on the floor.
He just knew nothing could help him and nobody could save him.
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Harsh laughter, weight on his knees. Whomever this was wanted him to suffer.
"You took him from me. Now I will take you from him, I will rip you from this world, Sherlock Holmes. I'm going to kill you. But first, I'm going to do what I want to you."
The hands of the voice are gripping his chin, forcing his head up. Oh, god. He's going to kiss you. He's going to fucking kiss you. No no no no, only John. Nobody else. Only John kisses yo- Nails dig into his cheek, the keratin appendages raking and cutting into his skin, leaving a dull pain blossoming across them, and his thoughts are cut off. He's not going to kiss him yet. No, he's certain that will come later. Once his body has been bruised, and cut, and marked with this person's fingers and mouth and fists and size-8 feet.
The snick of a blade being flicked makes his head snap to the side, his eyes wide beneath their mask. Talking, deducing, is his distraction from what is happening. So he talks, even though he is aware it will not help as his captor slices his shirt open, the buttons popping and rolling across the cold floor. "Your fingers are rough. They feel like John's. You've also worked with your hands, perhaps in the army as well. Wait, no. No, no. Musical instrument. Guitar. You play the guitar." Pain blooms across his shoulder as the knife licks across the flesh, blood trickling down his chest. Then there is a mouth on the wound, sucking the blood up, making him shiver.
The blade is resting against his neck, warning him that any movement will lead to the steel severing the tissue. He can feel hot tears pricking in his eyes, but he forces himself to stay calm. The mouth is removed, and he can feel lazy kisses being placed across his collarbone, and then the lips biting his ear. "Sherlock, I'm going to carve my initials into you. You're going to feel the lettering of the man who kills you."
Sherlock's voice was level as he forced the words from his too-dry throat. "I'm afraid someone else has already marked me as theirs."
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It had been a Sunday evening (Sherlock remembered because 'Being Human' had been on that night). Sherlock had been too busy experimenting with fingers in the toaster, much to John's disgust, to pay attention to anything, and it was only when a cool hand slipped under his shirt and over his chest, and lips pressed to his jaw that he drew away from the research.
"J-John! Not now."
The answering nip at his neck caused shudders to dance up his spine, and the argument he had been preparing to fall apart at the seams. He melted at John's touch, leaning his head against his lover's shoulder as the ex-military man's calloused fingers worked spells over Sherlock's skin and body, making him writhe in pleasure.
They'd ended up fucking against the kitchen counter top; Sherlock sat on the cold granite, his impossibly long legs wrapped around John's waist as they rocked together in a sea of pleasure, their orgasms hitting them like a storm, leaving them drowning in love. Sherlock had left scratches down John's back, and Sherlock himself had multiple bruises across his neck, shoulders and collarbones from the force of John's mouth against his skin.
He had touched slim fingers to John's mouth gently, running them over his bottom lip. His voice was little more than a whisper.
"John.. can you.. can you mark me as yours. So n-nobody forgets. So everyone knows? And can I m-mark you?" It was surprising how easily John had agreed, his brow furrowed in concentration as he fought back the whimpers Sherlock was producing as he carefully etched a small, simple 'SH' on John's hip bone with a safety pin he found in a drawer. He pressed a kiss to John's shoulder, murmuring softly as his Doctor began to do the same.
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The hiss that sounded in the man's voice was that of rage. "Where. Where did he..? JW? You are damaged goods, Holmes. Why would he want YOU?" He was unprepared for the blow as a fist connected with his lip, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth.
A small whimper, one word. "John."
Laughter, then. Hands pulling his hair painfully, yanking at the curls that John had so often threaded his fingers through as they kissed. Holding his head up as a knee collided with his ribcage, knocking him short of breath. His head throbbed, the cut on his shoulder was still bleeding profusely, blood from the scratches on his cheek trickling down his jaw as it mingled with tears.
John john john john where are you I need you. I need you, John. John.. JOHN. Don't let him kill me, don't make me leave you. I can't leave you. I love you John john john john.. His thoughts were racing, his breaths coming out in wheezing gasps. I'm going to die. I'm going to lose. I'm not invincible and I need help.
"How sweet," his captor drawled, chuckling as he kicked him once more; the groin this time. He relished the look on Sherlock's face - the grimace across it, the light hitting those cheekbones as he writhes on the floor.
This must be how John felt with the semtex bomb vest. Sherlock thought, trying to force the pain from his head. Like he was going to die. Only I saved him. It's a shame John can't save me.
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"You turned your phone's GPS off again, didn't you Sherlock?" Mycroft had been so angry about that. John hadn't been too pleased either. In fact, he'd forced him to put it on again. He'd password locked it too. John's newest password, one that Sherlock hadn't managed to crack yet. He'd been to busy with cases and had forgotten about it completely. Mycroft could track his location. John would have informed him by now. He wasn't going to die. Not yet. Not like this.
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"I want to see your face as I kill you."
It was a simple statement, one that shocked Sherlock back into reality. He made no complaints as his blindfold was ripped from him, closing his eyes as the harsh light streamed across his face. When he opened them, his vision was fuzzy around the edges. He was kicked over onto his back, each collision sending spirals of pain through his ribs and up every nerve ending, making him feel like his body was on fire. He choked out then, wrists rubbed raw from the rope, watching as the man who had beaten and bruised him leant over, his lips curling into a smile.
"Ah, you're really quite beautiful, Sherlock. It's a shame I have to dispose of you. There's so much I could do to you.. so much I want to do to you. But I don't handle damaged stock."
Blood streams from his nose, the product of one of those damn size-8 feet slamming down onto his face. Then the whole world goes black as he passes out.
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"Broken: one nose, several ribs, mental stability, cocky attitude.
Damaged: two wrists, one shoulder, one cheek, three fingers, one eye, lips.
Prognosis: a trip to hospital, two months of therapy, although he will refuse the latter. If he makes it out of this." Mycroft's voice.
They'd found him, albeit just in time. GPS tracking. One shot through his captor's heart, made by Sherlock's own heart. Brave, loyal John. Crack-shot. Fantastic.
"No, you're not dying on me, Sherlock Holmes. I've not gone through all this for you to leave me, you complete bastard."
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He wakes to kisses on his temples. Hand still in his. He aches all over, every movement sending the same shocks of pain through his system. John's face swims into view, concern laced through every aspect of it. His lips crack into a weak smile as Sherlock's eyes flutter open. Sherlock waggles his fingers weakly at the security camera this time, knowing Mycroft is definitely watching now, and under John's instructions mouths a forced 'thank you'.
Sunlight streams in through a window behind John, illuminating his hair and face; making the world behind him seem like it was burning, the golden light creating a halo around his head. And John, his angel, looks down on him. "You bloody nutter," he says, and kisses him. It's sweet, and soft and gentle, the terrors of his adventures are diminished by the feel of John's lips on his.
He is home.
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