Title: Amplification Part Three
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Rating: NC17
Warnings: References to past rape
Sequel to 'Sherlock's Bane' (link here .net/s/6705082/1/Sherlocks_Bane).
Disclaimer: Belong to the brilliant minds of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss & Stephen Moffat. I'm simply borrowing…
Summary: Six months on, Sherlock and John are still dealing with the repercussions of Sherlock's attack, when new revelations force it all to the surface once more.
Author's Notes: Apologies for the long delay. Have been incredibly busy. Enjoy!
John had to admit, he was beyond impressed. Surely, Sherlock had now set a record for the shortest amount of time to solve a case. Indeed, within minutes of arriving at the grand homestead, just outside of York, he had given substantial evidence pointing to the groundskeeper as the murderer. Then, he had simply turned to John and told him they would be going back home, much to the chagrin of the local detective.
Certainly, John knew what was really going on. Sherlock was obviously keen to solve the murder of the man on the train. As soon as they informed the conductor of the body, they had been instantly whisked out of their carriage and onto a waiting bus. Sherlock had insisted on staying to investigate but had been flatly refused.
"You have to admit, it is odd." John turned to Sherlock, London scenery flying past the window, as the taxi turned into Baker Street.
"No… I know what's going on." Sherlock was evasive as ever.
The taxi pulled up to the curb alongside 221 and Sherlock departed the vehicle, leaving John to pay. Frowning, he took out his wallet and fished around for the correct money.
He jumped out of the vehicle and closed the door, racing up the stairs to find the door to 221b already open. Sherlock was already inside.
And he wasn't alone.
Not that John was entirely surprised to see Mycroft seated at the kitchen table, sipping tea.
"Ah John. I was hoping you could talk some sense into my impertinent brother."
Sherlock had slumped down into the armchair, arms folded, a distinct frown about his delicate features.
"I understand there was a bit of bother on your train today. I was just telling Sherlock that there is no need for him to investigate-"
"What's going on here?"
Something flashed in Mycroft's eyes, confirming to John that he knew something. "I already have it under control."
"Who was that man?"
"No one that concerns either of you."
"Well, he certainly seemed to know Sherlock."
Mycroft took another sip of his tea. "As I said it will be cleared up. No need to be involved."
John glanced to the silent Sherlock once more. "Don't you think that's up to Sherlock to decide? Particularly as it seems to involve him?"
Mycroft abruptly stood up. "I will hear no more on the subject. Sherlock…" His face softened imperceptibly. "I'm doing this to protect you."
"Why did he know about my…. Attack?" Sherlock finally swung his head around to face Mycroft. "He mentioned details."
Mycroft appeared stunned. "I don't know anything about that, Sherlock."
The room was silent a long moment.
"I'll take my leave."
John waited until the door closed before joining Sherlock on the couch and taking his hand.
"He's lying."
"Of course he's lying! Bloody families never tell the damned truth!" John's mind went to the circular arguments that were the cornerstone of his relationship with his sister.
"No matter." Sherlock lifted John's hand and kissed it, then jumped up. "Let's see what we can find out about this mystery man. Now, where did you last put your laptop?"
###
Moriarty deliberately drew out watching the tape in his possession. He enjoyed a long luxuriant bubble bath, and then took his time dressing, then arranging his viewing position. It had to be the correct angle, with just the right champagne to accompany.
After all, it wasn't every day that one was privy to the utter humiliation of one's arch-nemesis.
He settled himself into the fluffy couch and reached for his glass in one hand, while pointing the remote at the television with the other, pressing the play button.
There was static a long moment, before a black and white image appeared on the screen of the laboratory in which he and Sherlock first met. Moriarty took a sip of his champagne, relishing the soft bubbles fall down his throat. For a few minutes, the only image was the top of Sherlock's curly hair, as he peered into the microscope. Then Toll walked into view. Sherlock looked up from the microscope, appeared to be talking to him. No sound, however issued from the footage. Moriarty watched silently as the man started to beat Sherlock. He was amused to see that the great detective did, indeed possess some fighting skills. However he was soon overpowered. For a long moment, Sherlock lay on the ground, as the other's bald shiny head loomed his body, blocking what was happening.
"Move!" Moriarty whispered.
Then the man did move. He lifted the apparently unconscious Sherlock up and slammed him down onto the bench, handcuffing his hands over his head, and then moving away. Sherlock was attempting to converse. Even from the high angle, Moriarty cold see the terror in every line of his being. He could not take his eyes off the screen, both disgusted and aroused, as the man tore open Sherlock's shirt. Again, Sherlock was attempting to talk to him. The man returned with a scarf, tying it around his head. Moriarty felt the knot in his stomach tighten, as the man tore off Sherlock's remaining shoes and clothes.
For a moment, Sherlock's naked body was in full view of the camera. Despite, or perhaps even because of his nemesis' complete shame and humiliation, Moriarty felt his body respond, a low yearning overcoming his anger. Indeed, Sherlock was all lean muscle and long lines.
Then the other man leant forward, covering the view of the body as he lifted Sherlock's legs over his head. Moriarty felt the disgust return, as the man's obese bottom started to pump up and down, his head covering Sherlock's own. Then, his head turned to the side and Moriarty momentarily caught Sherlock's face. It was turned to the side, eyes closed, and mouth open in a silent scream.
I screamed too. I screamed and screamed and they just laughed and laughed.
The rape continued. Occasionally, the man would slow down, and then would speed up. Moriarty watched it all. He figured he owed Sherlock that much. Finally, the man quivered, his head pulled up as he roared towards the camera.
Then he collapsed, head seemingly buried in Sherlock's neck. The detective was staring up at the camera. Eyes blank. Mouth slightly agape.
Moriarty drew his hand down to his crotch, a little perplexed to find himself erect.
So, a part of him had enjoyed it.
Why else did you want the tape to begin with? He asked himself. You wanted to see what he's been giving to John for free every night.
No, it made no sense. What he had just seen was horrifying and disgusting and wrong. He knew first hand just how horrible it was.
But if it was me on top of Sherlock, he wouldn't be screaming.
Yes, that's it. Moriarty told himself. We belong together and he knows it.
He suddenly saw himself on top of the great detective, pictured Sherlock's long legs wrapping around his waist, his eyes alight with want and need…. Yes, wanting it… begging for it….
Rape was for the weak, the unimaginative. There were better ways to destroy a man. If he were to seduce Sherlock to his side…
No one knows ourselves like each other. You'll discover that, Sherlock, in time.
Tbc…
