John started to go for the bags in Nick's arms, surely chock full of more food and Sunday treat, but he flinched when Sherlock leapt up to try and get through Door only to be kicked in the stomach and hip until he was down on Floor.

"Stay down!" Nick said, and John flinched. That red flush in Nick's face and high pitch creeping into his voice was never a good sign. Sherlock probably didn't know that though, so it was up to John to make it better.

He took the bag from Nick. "Thank you," he said, keeping his head down. "This looks like a generous amount, I appreciate it." Nick was still growling at a hunched over Sherlock, also not a good sign. John started to unload the contents, desperately hoping for something to distract them all. "Hey look, more muffins! The Telly store must have been having a sale."

"We don't want muffins." Sherlock had gotten to his feet. "What we want is to get out of here." He faced Nick. "Listen to me. The police and the British government are already looking for me, and I know them personally. If you let us go, I can get you a reduced sentence and better prison conditions."

Nick took slow steps forward, getting so close to Sherlock that John covered his eyes. "And if I don't?" he asked in a low voice.

"Then I look forward to them giving you the longest sentence possible and finding the dirtiest, ugliest, moldiest prison cell for them to shove your dirty, ugly, shitty excuse for a—"

Crack. John screamed. It happened so fast, just like in his dream about the lady who had been in Room. Sherlock fell back, though thankfully he put his hands out in time to keep from hitting his head. His cheek was the reddest red John had ever seen, and he thought he could see the imprint of Nick's hand.

"I know what you did to Jane Watson!" Sherlock yelled. "I'll tell them everything. You can't hope to get away with what you've done. When I came here, I was tracking my location to the police in real time." Nick had been advancing forward, then stopped. "Oh yes, they know where I was the minute I disappeared and are more than likely procuring a search warrant now. It's only a matter of time before they come here. Letting us go now is your only hope."

Nick stood there, thinking. John peeked through his fingers. He wasn't sure what Sherlock was on about, but if it made Nick stop in his tracks, it had to be important. All of Room was silent, and John was almost shaking with nervousness. Then Nick laughed.

It began with a chuckle, then he threw back his head and laughed hard and long. John retreated into a corner. He rarely heard Nick's happy laugh, but he knew this wasn't it.

"You think you're real clever, ain't you, little fag? For a second there, I almost believed your bullshit." He stomped on Sherlock's fingers, making him cry out and John wince. He wanted to beg Nick to stop, but he knew from his own beatings that it didn't work. "I saw the news, you dumb fuck. The cops said themselves they don't know where you are." He stomped on Sherlock's other hand. "I have your phone, and ain't nothing been happening on it." He stomped on Sherlock's hair, with each blow punctuated by a cry or scream. "You are a lying—stupid—sack of—shit! You ever threaten me again," He crushed Sherlock's entire body with his feet, leaving ugly bruises. Sherlock had tried to get up or swing a punch a few times, but each time Nick had kicked him down or twisted his arm behind his back. "Stay down and stay out of my way."

He turned to John. "As for you," he was coming fast at John. Before he could move, Nick had an iron grip on his arm. "Why ain't you in bed where you're supposed to be? Huh?" He grabbed a fistful of John's hair and yanked it back. "Ain't you grateful for all I've done? Or do you just like not having any food to eat?"

"I'm sorry!" John whimpered. "I'll get in right now, I promise." He needn't have bothered, Nick was already pushing and pulling him toward Bed and throwing him onto it. John's back had barely touched the sheets before he had the breath knocked out of him as Nick dropped on top of him and forced his legs apart as wide as they would go. He pinned John's wrists above his head with one hand in a grip that John knew would leave fingernail marks the next day. With his other hand, he pushed John's shirt up and stroked his belly before dipping into his pants and grinding his body against John's.

John shut his eyes. A few seconds later, Nick's tongue was in his mouth, and his belt buckle was pressing painfully into John's belly while his fingers moved all over the place. This was his angry kind of taking some and John hated it. Nick was so heavy and close that John could barely breathe, and he smelled like he'd been drinking something bad. It was only a matter of minutes before he would take so hard and fast that it would hurt worse than usual and hurt to walk and sit tomorrow. John's wrists and arms ached from being held in the same position, and he felt sick with shame as Nick pushed his fingers inside him and gripped his dick to make it grow. You dirty faggotty slut, he always said. You like this, don'cha. Makes you feel real good, huh?

His whole life, John couldn't figure it out. He never enjoyed giving some, ever. But there were some moments, like when his dick was swollen, that he felt a little good. Why? He wasn't supposed to feel good. This was supposed to make Nick feel good so he could keep bringing John food and Sunday treat.

It had happened the first time one day when John was twelve. He had been alone in Room, and he woke up to find it standing up, swollen, and throbbing, and sometimes it looked like there was fluid coming out of it. It was so sensitive that it hurt to touch and to use Toilet. He had cried all day, scared to death and hoping Nick would know what it meant and what to do. When he finally came in that night, he had been disgusted.

"That shit is gross, I don't want to see that," he said, shoving John away. "Just rub it, for god's sake. Should be ashamed of yourself."

John was ashamed, but what he didn't understand was that when Nick was taking some, like now, he seemed to want it to happen. He was alternating between fondling it and pushing his fingers inside John, while the latter struggled to breathe, partly because Nick's weight was crushing him and partly because his wet, angry tongue was still pushing so far back into his mouth that John was afraid he'd throw up. That had happened once. Nick had made him eat it.

He whimpered pitifully. Please let me breathe. His chest was getting tighter and tighter, and his heart was pounding, and he just wanted Nick to take some already and get it over with. He was about to burst when suddenly all of it was gone. Nick's tongue was pulled out, his belt buckle lifted from John's belly, and his hands, which were still wrapped around John's wrists and dick, were starting to pull him forward until they let go, and John flopped back onto Bed, panting. Nick had been dragged backwards off Bed by the back of his shirt until his head hit Floor and Sherlock was stamping on it as Nick had done to him.

Now free to move, John crawled to the foot of Bed and watched in shock as Sherlock continued to stamp on Nick's face and neck in rage. Until Nick caught his leg, tripped him in midair, and pinned him down by lying on top of him and holding his wrists behind him. His face was almost purple it was so red, and his veins were bulging bigger than John had ever seen.

"You," he snarled, and John trembled. "Get me the chains." When John didn't move right away, he screamed, "NOW!"

The chains were for when John was especially bad. A few times he had protested giving some or he'd hit Nick because Nick was hitting him, and that was when Nick brought them out. There were all kinds of things he could do with chains. Sometimes he hit John with them, or tied him up and left him that way for a long time, or used them to make taking some worse, or a combination of the three. Two occasions stuck out in John's mind.

One was when at the age of around eight or ten, he couldn't remember which, he had tried, out of curiosity, to see Door's passcode. He just wanted to know what numbers made the beeping sound, and he had almost gotten close enough to see when Nick caught him and roared. After a thorough beating, he had chained John tightly to Table, put a cover over Skylight so that Room was completely dark, and left him there for two days. They were the longest of John's life, stuck lying on his empty and starving belly on that hard surface, bored and ashamed, crying and wetting himself because he couldn't use Toilet. He could only turn his head a little ways from side to side, unable to see anything in the dark, and the rest of him couldn't move at all. He had gotten so hungry and thirsty and panicked that Nick would leave him like this forever. John had been so grateful to see him come back, he had cried and taken off his clothes as soon as he was free. That's more like it, Nick had growled approvingly, kissing him roughly. I wouldn't have to do this if you didn't make me mad. You only got yourself to blame, sonny.

The second time was when Nick had started to take some one night. It was one of those weird days John never knew how to stop, when his dick was growing and throbbing for no reason, but it had been in the early stages, so he had been able to hide it when Nick came in. But then Nick had rubbed against him and run his hands all over, and suddenly all the fluid was coming out, only instead of going into Toilet like it was supposed to, it was all over Nick's face. Some of it had gotten in his eyes, and John had apologized over and over again through tears, but the next thing he knew, Nick had chained his arms and ankles together and put them both around Nick and over his back, so that John was extra tight when Nick took him. That had been the worst giving John had ever done, it hurt so bad he was bleeding afterward.

As he retrieved them from under Bed with shaking hands, he wondered which one Nick was going to do to Sherlock. He soon had his answer as Nick chained Sherlock's hands behind him as tightly as possible, shoved a dirty handkerchief into his mouth, and chained his ankles.

Nick looked at John one last time. He nodded to the bulge in his pants, which was shrinking but still there. "Get rid of that," he said. "And stay out of my way." John stepped aside and began to rub, ducking down so Nick wouldn't have to see it, and turned his head as Nick threw Sherlock onto the bed, ripping both their clothes off.

"Open up," Nick said, and John braced himself and shut his eyes.

Sherlock screamed, and John burst into silent tears.

The next morning Nick left early, but not before demanding John bend over Table so Nick could take a little from behind. Surprisingly, it wasn't as bad as he expected. All the anger must have been used up last night. He finished in minutes rather than hours and didn't take any of the food or the extra drawing paper-John's latest Sunday treat-away. Much better than the stuff he had started to do last night.

John stretched and dressed, wincing at his sore backside, and went to check on Sherlock. Nick had taken the handkerchief out of his mouth and removed the chains, but he was still naked. He hadn't spoken or moved from his position since Nick had finished, and his eyes were so wide and red John doubted he had slept. Some of his blood had gotten on the sheets.

He might be strange, but he had saved John from an awful experience. John didn't know how to feel about that. He was relieved that it wasn't him that had to give like that, but he didn't like that it happened to Sherlock either. Maybe he could at least make up for it by helping Sherlock feel better now.

"You all right?" he asked softly. Nothing. "A bath usually helps. And I can make you some breakfast." He got an idea and crossed Room to open Wardrobe. "Nick got me this by accident one time because the size on it was wrong, but I think it might fit you." He placed the pajama trousers and shirt next to Sherlock on Bed, along with one of his bigger pairs of pants that had been cleaned.

A tear slid down Sherlock's cheek. John tried to wipe it away, but Sherlock flinched and turned pale even at the slightest touch. "The soreness goes away after a while," John said sadly. "I promise."

Still no response. John stood there and watched him for a while. Now that he was naked, John could see that Sherlock was quite attractive. In spite of the bruises, his skin almost glowed, and he had a nice little curve at the hip. For some reason, John had a strong urge to run his hand over it. The more he looked, the more he had an odd tingle in his belly. He licked his lips. He was—oh no, not again.

John turned away and sighed. What was the matter with him? He was so filthy it was happening twice in two days. He got rid of it and decided he'd better not look at Sherlock anymore for a while. Instead, he busied himself by finally putting away the food that had sat out all night, making and then having breakfast and taking a bath. He tried to coax Sherlock into eating, but no dice. Night finally came again, and when John couldn't fight the tiredness anymore, he reluctantly slid into bed next to Sherlock, who screamed.

"Stop! Stop!" His hands went wild, pushing an imaginary Nick as tears streamed down his face. John gently held his hand. "Sherlock, it's okay. Wake up, you're dreaming!" After shaking him, he finally got Sherlock to wake up. He was heaving with sobs, and John's heart ached.

"Hey, it'll be okay," he said, and carefully put his arms around him. He was surprised when Sherlock leaned into him. He hugged him shyly. "Thank you, for last night. For trying to save me."

Sherlock squeezed his hand and shook his head. "I can't believe you lived with that for nineteen years." His voice was cracking. "I've been here one night, and I already wish I were dead."

"Don't say that!" John said, cupping his cheek. "You'll be all right, really. It's rough sometimes, but it's not all bad. You just have to do what Nick says, and he won't be as rough. Sometimes if you're really good, he'll bring you nice things."

Sherlock's face dropped. John had meant to cheer him up, but he only cried more. "Is that my life now?" Sherlock whispered, probably to himself. "Worship and serve the man who ruined both our lives?" He turned over. John settled in uneasily.

He was almost asleep when he heard Sherlock whisper something else. "No. Fuck that," he said. "I'll see his arse in jail if it's the last thing I do."