I would like to take this time to formally apologize to the BBC's fictional characterization of Sherlock Holmes. From here on out, this story gets dark - and not just standard dark, but things that aren't for people who are easily squeamish.

sarahlucylu, DON'T LEAVE ME! (v) People drop out, but I really hope you'll stick it out. (^ ^*) It'll be worth it in the long run!

4

Mouth of Madness

There was the sound of metal against metal.

The chain that had once connected the shackles to the d-rings on the floor around the chair was now connected to the L-shaped bend of the pipes near the mattress, which was roughly three-feet from the floor. On the opposite end of the chain was Sherlock, who was facing the pipes with his hands restrained behind his back, keeping his upper body from the mattress and arms twisted at an odd angle as his knees dug into broken springs. The way he was chained, if he dropped his body, both shoulders would dislocate, forcing him to hold tension. The dislocated knee was bent awkwardly, causing a shooting pain any time he shifted even slightly or any form of pressure was placed upon it; but it was a pain he could easily block out.

Behind him, the American was setting up a camera on a tripod, the same camera utilized during the prior waterboarding. The body of the man who had been shot was still in the room, left on the floor where his body had made a thud of finality. A pool of blood was around his head on the floor, the blood having already coagulated around the hole in his forehead.

A buzz emanated from the American's pocket and Sherlock could hear the man's fingers make contact with the screen as he responded to whatever text he had received. After a sigh, he went back to messing with the camera.

"It's so hard to find good help these days," he said, though he sounded as though he was talking to himself. "Think you could recommend a reliable plumber, Sherlock? Don't know who I can trust in my apartment in the damned city."

The phrasing had Sherlock file the information away.

He was still within the limits of City of Westminster.

Where was left to be determined.

"Charnock Plumbing is decent from what I've heard," Sherlock said, to which the man made a verbal acknowledgement. "A bit expensive, but I doubt that'd be much of a problem. All Trades London is a bit cheaper, if you'd rather."

Though he did not see it, the man smiled.

"Thank you. I really do appreciate that."

"Well, given the crime rate in London these days, I completely understand distrust towards strangers." The man chuckled as Sherlock shifted, causing the chain to clink.

"You know, I really do like you, Sherlock Holmes. Which is more than I can say for most people we've had visit." He released an airy breath. "I may actually feel remorse later on down the road."

"We can't have that, now can we?"

"Well, most people are horrible conversationalists. They tend to scream and cry too much, and that just annoys me. But you," he walked over to Sherlock and crouched down to hold his chin and have him look up, the detective's expression ever unchanging. "You're collected – calm. Under different circumstances, you'd probably be my type."

Sherlock sneered. "If only," his voice was filled with sarcasm, to which the American laughed.

Without any prompting, the man brought their mouths together; reactionary response had Sherlock clenching his jaw. The American spent a few moments trying to get Sherlock to open his mouth, which he had to force by pressing his fingers into Sherlock's cheeks. The moment there was slack, he sucked the genius's tongue between his teeth before biting down, garnering a muffled shout as Sherlock's tongue retracted from reflex. The man pulled back, grinning as he licked Sherlock's blood from his own lip.

"How about we have some personal time before everyone else joins in?" He ran his hand through Sherlock's hair and stood up. He unbuckled his belt and undid the button and zipper to his jeans. Sherlock adverted his gaze to staring back down at the mattress, his jaw tightening. It was only a moment before his hair was gripped and he was forced to turn his head towards the length now staring him in the face. "C'mon, show me what else that mouth can do," his voice came out slow, nearly in a moan as he rubbed the head on Sherlock's lips. "And don't bite. It wouldn't end well for either of us."

Going against his better judgement, Sherlock found himself parting his lips, giving the man entry. The moment it pressed against his uvula, he gagged, causing the man to extract himself as Sherlock fell into a round of coughing and gagging. Once he inhaled a full breath, his head was grabbed and he was forced to take the man's length once again. This time, when his uvula was passed, the man held Sherlock's head still, groaning as the detective's throat closed around him, choking. He pulled back, before driving his knob into the back of the detective's throat.

He moaned with each thrust, groaning in particular whenever Sherlock gagged.

"Oh, you're amazing, Sherlock," he moaned as he held Sherlock's head in place, thrusting in and out.

Anytime Sherlock would cough or gag, the man would release a low-pitted moan, but would give no reprieve, instead holding the position longer. It did not take long before the thrusts got harder and faster, hitting the back of the young genius's throat. Despite attempting to pull away, he was held firmly in place as the man released his seed into his throat and mouth, releasing a loud grunt as he did.

Sherlock's reaction was to pull his head away, but it was merely a failed attempt. "Swallow it," the voice came out in a raspy command as fingers trailed through his hair. With the motion he was able, Sherlock's head jarred, his breath releasing from his nasal passages. "Oh, Sherlock…it wasn't a request." His nose was pinched shut while the man grabbed the back of his head and forced his length down his throat. Sherlock could only refrain for so long before his throat contracted and he swallowed, the bitter aftertaste left on the back of his tongue.

When the man retracted himself, some of his liquid followed, leaving a trail down Sherlock's chin. Sherlock tried to wipe it on his shirt, but even with his chin lowered, he could not reach to his shoulder. His hair was grabbed and, once more, a flash went off in his face.

His head was dropped and he heard the tapping as the man began another text message, along with the sound of a zipper as the man tucked himself back into his designer jeans.

Despite knowing what happened was unavoidable, Sherlock's subconscious was understanding disgust – not just with the man, but himself. Rationalization took over, but the back of his mind refused to silence itself. He shut his eyes, drawing his attention to anything but the current situation. He began visualizing everything leading up to his position – from John convincing him to go to dinner, leaving the flat, the man on his mobile, the red-haired fan – all to waking up and seeing the residue on the man's boots.

Wait.

The dirt on his boots had been wet at one point, meaning he was in a location with mud. Given that it had not rained in the last few days, and that the man clearly took care in his appearance, logic concluded he was near water.

Near water.

Still in the City of Westminster.

Enclosed structure.

He was by the river.

Most likely one of the abandoned buildings along the south end or a possible port, though the latter seemed unlikely given everyone's carefree demeanour.

There was the sound of heavy footsteps coming from the hallway as Sherlock heard three sets of boots enter through the door from the hall. One of the strides he recognized as the man who wore the black tank-top. He subconsciously tensed, his spine going straight. The American had already returned to his position behind the camera, acting as though nothing had occurred. Sherlock could hear the man tapping away on the screen to his mobile, but, much the same, tried to not react to the newcomers.

"Took y'all long enough," the American spoke casually without looking up from his phone.

There was a scoff, followed by close steps and a hand on Sherlock's left buttock. Through his slacks, fingers ran from the bass of his scrotum to his rectum, making his body tense against his will. It was followed up with the band of his pants being gripped before a hand slipped into the band, where the flesh of fingertips began running down his buttocks to his entrance. An unwillingly grunt escaped him as an index finger pressed against him before crossing his boundary. He attempted to block the foreign sensation, yet his body clenched against his will, squeezing the man's finger.

A whimper escaped when another digit entered, which he muffled by biting the inside of his mouth.

"He's tight," the voice of the black-tank-topped man came out. "Hope Mycroft's always wanted to see you railed, Sherlock," he said, a low laugh escaping his throat. "Dreln, get a close-up on his arse – I want Mycroft to see every inch of his little brother."

The American laughed as the other man gripped the band of Sherlock's trousers and pulled, ripping the seam and exposing the young genius's behind.

His bare flesh suddenly exposed to the cold air of the room had chill bumps form on his skin, and he found himself tugging at the chains, which only garnered a sharp pain down his back. When his buttocks were spread, his brain began trying to find anything else to focus on. It decided focusing on the previous night was the best situation.

While John was gone for the day, he had continually searched for something to do – something to solve within the city. An older lady had come to the flat, requesting his help about her husband, who she said would disappear in the middle of the night while he thought she was asleep. The obvious answer of an affair had not sat well with her and she called him several obscenities before storming out, not even bothering to close the door as her heels pounded down the stairs. Afterwards, he had gone back to scouring the papers, occasionally asking John if he had anything, despite the soldier being no where near the flat. When nothing came up, he had gone back to reading, managing several books before John returned that evening.

His thoughts were interrupted as a hand hit hard across his rear, followed by a hissing sound as two thumbs pressed into him.

His body tensed from reflex.

An unwilling grunt fell from his throat as his hole was spread, albeit small.

"I need something, then," came an unfamiliar voice to a prior statement Sherlock had not been paying attention.

"You've got spit, don't you?" was the sarcastic response of the American.

There was an audible growl.

There was only a moment's pause before two fingers were inserted, the dryness causing friction and skin skipping on skin as the pressed in further. Once both of the man's fingers were completely inside him, he began making a scissor-like motion, gaining muffled grunts and from the detective. He felt something wet at his entrance as the man allowed his saliva to drip at the base of his fingers. He had only coated the entrance before extracting his fingers.

Sherlock tried to prepare himself for what was coming next.

Tried to get his mind right.

To focus on something – anything.

But it was foregone as he felt the tip of the man's prick against his rectal cavity, pressing in slowly. After the sound of the man spitting, the man pushed into him, groaning as he did. Despite knowing tensing would only make it hurt, his sphincter contracted against his will, causing him to release a low cry.

"Gods, he's tight," the man said as he pulled out and pushed back in, getting the same response. "Feels so good," his voice came out in a moan.

Sherlock's mind travelled, his spine tingling.

He found himself in Mycroft's office, his older brother sitting behind his desk as his eyes traced along the papers in a folder. Sherlock looked around the room, moving from the two metal chairs in front of the desk to the portrait of Queen Elizabeth II on the wall.

"All this going on and you come to see me?" Mycroft asked, closing the folder as he drew his gaze to Sherlock. Sherlock knitted his brows in curiosity. "Brother Mine, what could you possibly hope for me to tell you that you don't already know?" Sherlock cocked his head, his expression unchanging. "Are you wanting me to tell you everything will be all right? You and I both know how that will go."

"Mycroft…I'm…scared," Sherlock came out with, his face overwrought with confusion.

Even as the words escaped him, he failed to understand them.

The last time he recalled being scared, he was under the influence of a drug on Dartmoor in Devon. Prior to that was when while he was still with his parents, Mycroft had returned home from University and his brother had—

"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft spoke in a sigh. "Pretend it's someone you love. It will help."

The younger genius felt his eyes begin to burn as his head shook.

An electric jolt shot down his lower spine as an unwanted shout was released from his vocal chords.

The man had switched angles, pounding inside him at an awkward position, feeling as though it was ramming into the side of his wall. It was not long before the man released a grunt, spilling his seed into Sherlock. He performed a few more thrusts, pumping the white liquid inside him before retracting himself.

Feeling the semen seep out of him, vomit rose in Sherlock's throat. He swallowed it down, keeping his eyes shut as he attempted to return the palace he had called comfort.

Even with his eyelids shut, he could see the flash of the American's phone shine on the wall.

As much as I love Sherlock, you'd never guess by the stuff I put him through.

Please review with your thoughts! (^ ^)