PART IV

JUNE 1996

The first week and a half of June passed in a blur. Sherlock continued his barely passable facade of wandering into the library in hopes of seeing Victor, pleased that on five out of six visits, he did end up running into him there — though thankfully no longer literally. He had begun to wonder how someone with so much obvious talent and quiet confidence was so very physically uncoordinated. Victor, though proving to actually (thankfully) be brilliant, and had a charmingly earnest and kind personality, couldn't seem to walk more than a few feet without clipping the corner of a shelf, or stumbling over thin air. Sherlock wondered if he was always like this, or if it was something about their interactions that threw Victor so off guard. He wasn't sure which was the answer he was hoping for

It had also been a blessed respite from appointments with Liam's various associates. Sherlock enjoyed the quiet evenings in their flat. When it was just him and Liam, they sat together on the sofa, reading in silence, or ordered takeaway, and watched telly. It was all very domestic. And the sex was wonderfully intimate; it had been some time since Sherlock had been fucked by just Liam, without having to concern himself with putting on a show for anyone else. He revelled in the ease and simplicity of it.

On the other nights, when it was just him alone in the flat, he spent his time curled up in bed, reading the books he borrowed from the library when he met Victor there. He and Victor had spent many days wandering the shelves. He recommended several texts to Victor about different scientific studies he was interested in at that time, and it surprised him to no end when Victor would return a few days later, and ask Sherlock about various elements of the experiments, and how it directly related to Sherlock's interest. For someone who was a self-proclaimed scientific novice, Victor was very rapidly becoming well-versed in chemistry and biology, and Sherlock suspected he was doing it just for him. The thought caused a warm glow deep in his belly, though he didn't quite understand why.

As a return favour, Sherlock accepted any recommendation of books that Victor had to offer, though he admitted to preferring fiction and fantasy, which to Sherlock all seemed bizarre and fanciful. Growing up, he had adored the classics, such as Treasure Island, or Robinson Caruso, or King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, but that all seemed like it could be fit into a historical context — they were stories of believable people in believable circumstances, having imaginative, but believable adventures. When Victor recommended the Lord of the Rings to Sherlock, he had picked up the thick volume with trepidation, and flipped through, confusion knitting his brows together.

('I don't understand,' he said, 'Why would this grand council entrust the world's most powerful piece of jewellery to a creature that is three feet high? Wouldn't they worry a full size human would just pick the halfling up with one hand, and carry it to wherever they wanted to put it in the end?')

However, Victor was forcing himself to stumble over chemical compounds, and rate of decay, and homeostasis, and thermodynamics, so Sherlock supposed he could suffer through wizardry, volcanos, and an undead, ghostly army.

Finally, it was the night before Victor's art show, and when he left the library with Sherlock, he reminded Sherlock of the event with what could only be called sheepishness, again giving Sherlock the opportunity to decline the invitation. Sherlock actually laughed at the idea that he could have forgotten, and assured Victor he would meet him at the library at half five, and they could venture to the cafe together. Victor broke into a broad smile at the sound of Sherlock's laughter, and quickly agreed to the plan, and then they parted ways, Sherlock stealing glances over his shoulder to keep an eye on Victor's retreating form.

So pleased was Sherlock with the way he left things with Victor, that it took him a moment for his brain to catch up to his eyes when he entered his flat. He almost walked past Liam and the other man lounging in their sitting room until Liam spoke.

'Sherlock!' He called sharply, 'Don't be rude.'

Sherlock started, and turned, regarding Liam and his associate with dismay. He went to sit next two Liam on the sofa, and eyed the stranger in the armchair cautiously. He was considerably older than both Sherlock and Liam, probably closer to his mid-forties. He was dressed in sharp, but casual clothes, and held himself like someone who was accustomed to being accommodated. He did not seem too impressed with Sherlock's lack of social graces.

'Sorry, Liam,' Sherlock apologised, biting his lip, 'It wasn't intentional; I wasn't paying attention.'

'Dreaming up some mad new experiment, I bet,' Liam replied condescendingly, stroking Sherlock's hair like a parent soothing an unruly child. He turned to the other man, and explained, 'Sherlock seems to think he's going to be the next Albert Einstein with all these little experiments and lab notes. He spends hours in the chemistry lab doing Lord knows what, hiding away from the rest of humanity. I keep telling him he needs to spend more time with actual human beings, and less time mixing chemicals, and dissecting frogs. Honestly, I don't know what kind of person would be happy spending all their time in a dirty lab.'

'You used to spend quite a bit of time there with me when we first started dating,' Sherlock replied before he could help himself. Liam's fingers tightened on his hair, and he winced slightly. He didn't dare turn to look at Liam, and just stayed silent and still until Liam released him, and resumed his patronising petting of Sherlock's head.

'Well, love,' he said with a smile that didn't quite meet his eyes, 'That was when I was trying to win you over. Now I have you, so I don't need to sit through endless lectures on tobacco ash, or deer anatomy, or whatever other bullshit strikes your fancy at any given time.' His tone was teasing, but Sherlock could hear the underlying hardness of his words, and lowered his gaze to the ground.

'Right,' he said quietly, and swallowed hard, hurt piercing his chest.

The stranger spoke up then, with a laughter that might have been genuine, but the for cutting words that followed. He snorted and said, 'Well, now that you have him, what do you intend to do with him, Harrington?'

Sherlock darted a glance his way, and tried to block out the way the other man was leering at him. He leaned into Liam's side slightly, as if to hide, but Liam shrugged roughly, dropped his hand from Sherlock's head, and stood up with a laugh.

'Funny you should ask,' he said, and turned to rummage in something on the floor beside the sofa out of Sherlock's sight, 'Because, Sherlock, I arranged a bit of a surprise for you tonight. I know we talked some time ago about exploring some other, ah, interests, and Phillip here was kind enough to make some arrangements for a whole new experience for you.'

Sherlock's heart sank, but he tried his best not to show it.

'What kind of experience?' He asked reluctantly. Liam turned swiftly, and glared at him when he heard his less than enthusiastic tone, and shoved what appeared to be a large duffle into Sherlock's lap.

'You're being rude again,' Liam warned, and left the room quickly. Sherlock heard him heading towards the kitchen, but before he could ponder that too thoroughly, the man Liam had called Phillip spoke again.

'You should look inside the bag, boy,' he said, and Sherlock bristled at being addressed as such, but his morbid curiosity got the better of him, and he pulled back the zip.

The first thing he pulled out looked like a short black belt, but with a thick silver ring in the middle. The next was a a bundle of rope, followed by four black leather cuffs. At the bottom of the bag was a black and red leather flogger, and what appeared to be a silver pole about three feet long, with a circle on each end. Sherlock wasn't sure how all these items were going to be used, but he felt a sick sort of knot in his stomach because he knew it wasn't going to be something he was likely to enjoy.

Liam returned then, carrying a wooden kitchen chair with him. He regarded Sherlock impassively, nodding towards the rope still in his hands.

'So have you deduced it yet?' Liam asked, and Sherlock heard the definite taunt as Liam used one of his own words back at him. Sherlock looked down at the rope in his hands, and shrugged helplessly.

'You want to... To tie me up?' He guessed, trying and failing to keep his voice from wavering. Liam and Phillip laughed again, though this time it definitely sounded cruel and mocking.

'Harrington, he looks like he might wet himself,' Phillip said standing up, 'You best tell the boy what you intend to do to him before he passes out. Though,' he said thoughtfully, 'That might be fun in its own right.'

Liam snorted and turned back to Sherlock, 'Yes, Sherlock, I would like to tie you up,' he said, making his voice sound low and slow in an imitation of Sherlock, 'Have you ever heard of strappado bondage?'

'You mean like how they tortured Machiavelli?' Sherlock asked faintly, his pulse racing. He stood a glance at the rope again. It didn't seem strong enough to actually hoist him off the floor.

'Look at how pale he just got!' Phillip crowed, and Liam snorted again, rolling his eyes, and snatched the rope from Sherlock's hands.

'No, Sherlock, I'm not going to dangle you from the ceiling and drop you,' he said as though Sherlock was being exceptionally dim, 'Though Phillip was kind enough to install a pulley on the ceiling to secure you, you won't be leaving the ground.'

Sherlock didn't know if he should be relieved or horrified, so instead he stayed silent, and watched as Liam stood on the wooden chair, and ran the rope through a metal pulley that had been screwed into one of the wooden beams on the ceiling. Sherlock wondered briefly if this would cause problems with the landlord, but dismissed the thought, knowing that either Liam's charm or Mycroft's money would be sure to smooth any ruffled feathers.

'There!' Liam said, pleased, as he hopped down from the chair, and pulled on both sides of the rope to test the strength of the pulley. He turned to Sherlock, who was still sat frozen on the sofa.

'Sherlock,' he said, a note of warning in his voice, 'You didn't thank Phillip for taking the time to set this up for you.'

Sherlock wanted to protest that it wasn't something he had asked for in the first place, but knew that would cause more problems than it was worth, so instead he turned to Phillip, and mumbled, 'Thank you, Phillip,' hoping that would be enough to satisfy Liam.

It wasn't.

'There's a better way for you to say thank you, Sherlock,' Liam said pointedly. Sherlock nodded, and lowered his gaze to the floor again. Liam gave him a slap on the behind, and leaned to press a kiss into Sherlock's temple, and whispered, 'I can't wait to see you tied up, hot and helpless... Please, love,' as he pushed him gently towards Phillip.

Sherlock crossed the room until he was directly in front of Phillip, and lowered himself between the older man's thighs. He swallowed hard, trying desperately to squelch the growing feeling of nausea and unhappiness, and gingerly began undoing Phillip's belt.

Phillip shifted in his seat, spreading his legs farther apart to give Sherlock better access as he pulled Phillip's cock from the confines of his trousers. Sherlock grasped it in one hand, and lowered his mouth to the head, doing his best to block out the unpleasantness of what he was about to do.

He worked his mouth up and down Phillip's cock, only flinching slightly when Phillip buried his hands into Sherlock's hair, and began fucking his face in earnest. Sherlock wished he could close his ears to the other man's groans of pleasure, and compliments to Liam over how good Sherlock was at his task. He hated when Liam's visitors felt the need to praise Liam for Sherlock's performance; it made him feel as though he was just the means to an end, like his autonomy had been stripped from him.

While Sherlock was otherwise engaged with servicing Phillip, Liam had slipped behind him without Sherlock noticing until he felt Liam's arms encircle him, his hands smoothing over Sherlock's shoulders and chest. Sherlock moaned slightly at the gentle touch, which in turn made Phillip voice his pleasure at the vibration. Liam began working the buttons on Sherlock's shirt, removing it swiftly, and throwing it across the room. Sherlock had only a moment to adjust to the cool air against his skin before he felt Liam grab his wrists and pull them behind his back. Unable to turn, due to Phillip's grip on his hair, he made a sound of protest in his throat, but this only resulted in more noises from Phillip.

Unable to move from his position between Phillip and Liam, Sherlock closed his eyes, and tried to simply disengage from his current predicament, but this again proved to be impossible, because moments later, he felt something soft but sturdy encircle first his left wrist, then another on his right. It seemed as though Liam had secured one set of cuffs around his wrists, and clasped them together, because moments later when Liam released Sherlock from his grip, and stood to admire his handiwork, Sherlock tested the cuffs, and found them quite unmovable.

'Take a break, Phil,' Liam said then, and waited for Phillip to release Sherlock's head. Sherlock desperately wanted to wipe the drool and precome from his chin, but was not able. Phillip smirked at him, and wiped his hand over Sherlock's face, smearing it further, and pushing Sherlock back, so he fell on his backside on the floor.

'Ready to dress the boy up then, Harrington?' Phillip asked, his voice low with desire, 'Do you think you know how?'

'I'm sure I can figure it out,' Liam replied, somewhat haughtily, and picked up the leather device with the silver ring. 'Sherlock, open your mouth.'

'Liam, what...?' Sherlock asked, straining slightly against the cuffs, and struggling to rearrange himself on the floor so that he might be able to stand. 'I don't-'

'Sherlock!,' Liam snapped sharply, 'Rude again. Is it truly your goal to embarrass me at every turn?'

'No, of course not,' Sherlock replied, stung, 'I just- I mean- What does that thing do?'

'It doesn't do anything,' Liam said, annoyed, 'It goes in your mouth, and keeps it open so you can still give a blow job. Honestly, I don't know what's gotten into you; you're acting like you've never had sex before. You're the one who said you were amenable to trying new things.'

Sherlock wanted to say that when he had shyly mentioned this to Liam two months ago, he had meant that it was something he had naively hoped they would explore together, and at their own pace. Instead, he closed his eyes in defeat and opened his mouth wide for Liam. Moments later, the silver O-shaped ring was forced behind his teeth, and the strap impatiently tightened behind his head. He could no longer speak or close his mouth, and drool ran humiliatingly from his mouth through the ring. His eyes widened in panic as his gag reflex threatened to overwhelm him when his tongue convulsed at the new intruder.

'Relax, Sherlock,' Liam instructed, more gently this time, 'Just swallow. You'll get used to it. Besides,' he said more quietly, 'You have no idea how absolutely wretched you look right now. Feel,' and he came up behind Sherlock, and rubbed Sherlock's bound hands against the front of his trousers. He was incredibly hard, and Sherlock moaned pathetically at the touch.

Liam pulled Sherlock to his feet, and guided him over to the rope dangling from the pulley on the ceiling. Sherlock saw him grab one end of the rope, and then he slipped behind Sherlock again, and began fiddling about with the cuffs on Sherlock's wrists. He pulled away after a few moments, and gave the other end of the rope and experimental tug. Sherlock felt his arms being pulled upwards from behind his back, causing him to bend forward. It was not a comfortable position in the slightest, and he gave a cry of protest.

'You'll be fine, boy,' Phillip said, from somewhere behind him. Sherlock heard him hand something to Liam, and the next thing Sherlock knew, there were hands — not Liam's — working his trousers and boxers down past his hips. From his uncomfortable vantage point, Sherlock watched them fall to the floor, and Phillip's hands scoop them up, tugging them gently so Sherlock lifted each foot in turn to step out of them.

Now completely nude, and trussed up like a stuck pig, Sherlock felt incredibly exposed. Liam pulled again on the free end of the rope, and he was forced to bend over further. Upside down, he watched Liam pass the rope to Phillip, and come to kneel beside Sherlock's feet. In his hands were the other two cuffs, and the metal bar. Before Sherlock could even make a sound, Liam had both cuffs fastened around his ankles, and made quick work of securing the bar between them. He was now completely immobile, his arse spread wide open facing Phillip, a small puddle of drool collecting on the floor beneath him from his open mouth. He had never felt so humiliated in his entire life, and if he hadn't been afraid of asphyxiating, he would have wept.

Phillip gave the rope another tug, and Sherlock was forced to bend even further, even going so far as to try to balance on the balls of his feet to try to alleviate some of the strain from his shoulders.

Phillip and Liam stayed silent for a moment, watching his struggle, and then Phillip said huskily,

'You were absolutely correct, Harrington; he looks wrecked. And we haven't even started. Good God, what on Earth did you do to deserve such a beautiful and eager slut like this?'

'I spent three months wasting four days a week in a goddamn chemistry lab,' Liam replied with a laugh, 'Believe it or not, he was a virgin when we met.'

'Damn,' Phillip said enviously, 'Lucky bastard. I bet he was amazingly tight that first time.'

'Still is,' Liam said lazily, 'Just wait. You'll see.' He came around the front to face Sherlock, and knelt down to give him a kiss on the cheek, 'Still good, love?'

Sherlock just stared at Liam, unable to speak, and probably for the better. Liam continued,

'So one of the points of this position is to use this,' he said, and showed Sherlock the last item from the bag, the red and black flogger, 'Please, Sherlock. Phillip is very handy with a flogger. When you're bent over and helpless like this, I just want to watch him completely take you apart before I fuck you,' Sherlock lowered his gaze, which Liam took as some sort of acquiescence, because he stoked Sherlock's hair and said 'I love you... Thank you so much for doing this for me.'

Sherlock closed his eyes, wanting to hang onto those words for just a moment longer, and he nodded. Liam kissed him and murmured again, 'Thank you,' again before resuming his place behind Sherlock.

The flogger must have changed hands then, though neither man gave a warning before the first blow, and it was only the whistling of air past the flogger that gave Sherlock a hint brace himself. Even so, nothing prepared him for the feeling of fire crawling up his arse from the impact. He had barely enough time to recover from the first blow when a second landed, and then a third. Several more followed. By the eighth and ninth blow, he was crying out without shame, spit flying from his open mouth. By the thirteenth, tears had formed in his eyes, threatening to slide down his face. By the twenty-first, he was sobbing.

'P'eese, p'eese 'Iam,' he cried through his gag, but there was no respite. The flogger bit cruelly into his ass and thighs and back, and either Phillip or Liam kept a strong hold on the rope so that he was forced to stand on the very tips of his toes, his shoulders absolutely screaming at the strain. He squeezed his eyes shut, tears still streaming from his eyes.

After thirty- or forty-some blows (he'd lost count), he felt someone roughly grab him by the chin, and the head of a penis force its way past the O ring and into his mouth. He immediately choked on the intrusion, but it made no difference. He looked up and saw Liam, his head thrown back in pleasure. Liam wound his hands tightly into Sherlock's hair, and began fucking his mouth slowly, as if he was savouring each and every inch of his cock sinking into Sherlock's exposed throat.

He heard the flogger drop to the floor with a clatter, and was momentarily grateful. Given that Liam was in front of Sherlock, he supposed it should have come as no surprise when he felt Phillip grip his hip with one hand, and heard him spit into the other. The head of his cock press against Sherlock's entrance, and Sherlock cried pathetically around Liam and his gag, knowing that being breached with no preparation, or adequate lubrication was extremely painful. Though it certainly wasn't the first time he had been fucked like this, it was bound to be no less unpleasant.

He was right. Though Phillip seemed to try to ease in, it still felt like an invasion, and his ravaged skin burned where Phillip's fingers dug into his hips. Phillip gave him no time to adjust, only drove his cock home again and again.

Between Phillip's assault on his arse, Liam's assault on his mouth, and the strain in his shoulders, Sherlock was genuinely worried he might pass out from the pain or lack of oxygen, a fear that proved to be valid when he felt the blood pounding in his ears. He tried to protest, tried to get someone's attention, but both men were paying him no mind as they fucked him harder and harder. He felt himself bouncing roughly between them, and he had the strangest feeling of being a shuttlecock during an especially vigorous game of badminton. He remembered playing with Mycroft when they were children, though Mycroft didn't really enjoy it because he was too fat to chase after the shuttlecock like Sherlock was. Sherlock pondered this memory dizzily, until he felt his consciousness slipping from his grip.

The blood in his ears roared. Mycroft sulked as Sherlock scored on him yet again, throwing his racket away in disgust.

Everything else went black.