I must have hit my head on something, because I don't remember hitting the ground. When I came to, Holmes was hovering over me, illuminated by moonlight that was coming through the debris we had caused. The floor was mostly gone, along with part of the library wall, and it seemed we were in some kind of cellar.
"Ah, good, you're awake. It appears we have fallen into the Fulton Estate wine cellar. And, unfortunately, it appears Mr. Fulton was strictly a connoisseur of French wines." With a moonlit look of disdain, Sherlock held out his hand for me and helped me up.
"How long was I out?" I rubbed what felt like a knot on my head and picked bits of dried blood from my hair. Stretching out my limbs, I seemed mostly intact. To answer my own question, I checked my breast pocket for my watch. Oddly enough, it wasn't there. I always kept it secured on a metal clasp inside the pocket, but the clasp was broken and the watch was gone.
"Just a few hours. I monitored your breathing to make sure you weren't comatose." He was now strutting back and forth between rows of wine racks, stopping here and there to examine a certain bottle.
"And why didn't you just wake me instead?"
"Best sleep you've had in weeks, and you wanted me to rouse you? It's difficult to sleep while you're spying on your best friend, so I thought you could use the rest." He said it nonchalantly as he lifted a bottle from the rack and looked it over. "Ah-ha! An Italian red! Do you happen to have a knife on you Watson?"
"This is no time for popping bottles, Holmes! We need to find an exit." Holmes seemed strangely happy about the whole situation as I handed him my knife. I was glad we were on speaking terms again, but waking up after a hard fall in an abandoned wine cellar was not the ideal place for a reunion.
"I've already scoured the area and there are no viable exits. Luckily, I arranged for just such an accident. The carriage driver is to return here tomorrow morning and will alert the police when we do not arrive as scheduled. Then Lestrade will toddle down to the Fulton Estate with the whole Scotland Yard at his heels and get credit for saving the illustrious Sherlock Holmes. So aside from Lestrade getting a big head, there really isn't anything to worry about, Watson. I brought some provisions, and we have a ready arsenal of wine at our disposal."
With this speech, he used the knife to pull out the cork on the bottle he was holding, successfully spraying me with the red liquid and taking a heavy swig.
I sat down on a barrel and sighed my disapproval at the stains on my clothing. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, Holmes handed me the bottle. I had to admit, I was glad to see him so jovial after weeks of glumness, even if we were stuck indefinitely in a dusty wine cellar.
But as I put my mouth to the bottle, I remembered something: Tomorrow night was June 3rd, the night I was supposed to propose to Mary!
And here I was, trapped in a wine cellar, drinking with the very man who didn't want me to get married. With Holmes, there are no coincidences. There are only well-laid, perfectly played out plans. Surely he wouldn't sink so low…
Without alerting Holmes to my suspicions, I stood up and walked over to where we had fallen through the floor. The edges of the boards above weren't very jagged or deteriorated…in fact, they looked as though someone had roughly sawed halfway through them and stopped. I felt for the metal clasp in my breast pocket. It had been cut with a knife, not broken naturally.
I took a long, hard drink and handed back the significantly drained bottle to a smug-looking Holmes. We sat together on a bench he found, quietly passing the bottle between us as the moon moved slowly overhead. I knew he didn't want me to move out, but to go to such great lengths to sabotage my engagement to Mary? To keep me here purposefully without any knowledge of time? To distract me with wine? What was Holmes playing at?
As a doctor, I have never been a big drinker, and Holmes could always hold his alcohol better than me. Perhaps that was why he chose to pursue stronger drugs every once in a while, as much as I disapproved. After our third shared bottle, my tongue was loose, and my thoughts began flowing from my mouth.
"Sherlock." I was glad it was dark so that he couldn't see my cheeks flush. "Why go through all this trouble? This whole charade might buy you a week or two, at most. But in the end, it won't change anything. So why? The lies, the cellar, the wine? What will all of this possibly accomplish?" By the end, I had jumped to my feet drunkenly, waving my hands about like a madman. My partner didn't flinch at my accusations, remaining stoic as he finished off the wine.
"Well? What does the Great Detective have to say for himself?" I couldn't leave it alone, although I knew that I should have. The words continued to roll from my tongue like stones, falling heavy between us. "Why would you try to sabotage my engagement this way? Are you completely insane, or just that selfish?"
He was silent for a moment, bent over and leaning his forearms on his legs so that I couldn't see his face. Then, without moving, I heard him say, "Turn around, Doctor. You won't like where this path leads." The message was cryptic, foreboding…how like Holmes. But I didn't heed his words…how very unlike me.
Instead, I became belligerent, demanding, persistent. I stood in front of him, arms crossed with a self-righteous air, and said, "Turn back, Sherlock? We're trapped in a bloody cellar together. What did you think would happen? Did you hope to change my mind about Mary through trickery? Through one night of drinking? As if I wouldn't find out that you engineered this entire fiasco. You've gone daft, detective."
As I spoke, I prodded him, pushing him around, drunk and angry. If I had only known what he was hiding, I might have quieted down. He gave me one last warning then: "John, leave it alone. I am at my limit." His knuckles were white in the moonlight as they gripped his trousers in tight fists. I had never seen those lovely hands so full of self-control.
"No, Holmes. I am tired of your games. Just tell me: why am I here?"
It was then that the wind was knocked like fire from my lungs as he charged me, throwing me to the ground. The cloud of dust and dirt settled to reveal his face close to mine, his body pinning my larger body, his breath in my ear. If I hadn't been so drunk, I would have been able to break free from his hold, but in my current state I was no match for him: he knew all of my weak points. He knew everything about me.
His whisper was like tiny tongues of fire licking at my ear. "Daft, eh? My dearest doctor, you are the thick one. Seven years, and you never once caught on."
I was indignant in my drunken state, and struggled feebly to push him off. He didn't budge, his eyes searching my face in that frantic motion I had grown so fond of. 'Fond' was not the word I was thinking of now, however, as his forearm pressed down on my neck. "Get off of me!"
"Seven years, and you never once noticed the way I watch you over the morning paper, or how we always have sunny-side up eggs for breakfast, just like you like. What about the watch I gave you, the only heirloom from my father? All of those bullets I've taken for you, the way I come to your clinic even when I am well, or perhaps how I always leave my door cracked at night, hoping you'll catch the hint. Did you ever stop to think that it was strange? That I was strange?"
"I don't want to fight you, Holmes. Let me up." As if I was in any position to argue or make threats, as if I hadn't heard his obvious plea for my attention. I didn't want to listen.
"Fight or don't fight me, it doesn't much matter. I can endure this no longer." With that, he leapt off of me, grabbed some rope from the floor and tied my wrists together in a proficient knot before I could even catch my breath. Without warning, he grabbed me by my collar, dragged me into the moonlight, and tied the end of my bonds to the beam above my head. The beam was supporting my drunken weight as I struggled to free myself. He was far too fast for my wine-impaired reflexes—I was at his mercy.
"Blast it, Holmes! Untie me this instant!"
Like a hawk, he circled around me, scratching his chin in thought. "No…no, I don't think I will."
I made a violent move to kick him and ended up losing my footing, my body swinging back and forth unsteadily from the beam. "I swear, the next time you come limping into my office, I am putting you out on the street—I don't care if you're choking on your own blood." We both knew that I was bluffing. I would have put the dying Pope out on the street before letting an injured Holmes out of my sight.
Instead of responding to my threat, he stopped his pacing in front of me and stood to look me in the eyes, feet shoulder-width apart and hands clasped behind his back like a soldier. All at once, I was back in the army, a man susceptible to the whims and wishes of his commanders. I didn't like re-living that feeling of helplessness. "You still want to know why you're here, John?"
His serious tone sobered me, and I realized that I was not so much angry as frightened. The great detective was a force to be reckoned with, only I could never have imagined being on the receiving end of his devious genius.
"This isn't funny, Sherlock. Release me now, and we can forget all of this." The rope was beginning to rub my wrists raw, but I saw no sympathy in Sherlock's eyes as he took my jaw roughly in his hand. There seemed nothing feminine or delicate about those hands now, and I tried to look away, but he held my face so that we were only inches apart.
"I don't think you understand the position you are in, doctor. So allow me to illuminate the situation for you." I braced myself for a punch, but nothing could have prepared me for the crash of his lips against mine.
Our stubble mingled roughly as he devoured my lips, forcing his tongue into my mouth as I fought to get away. My cries of defiance were muffled by his further explorations, his teeth biting my lips, his tongue wrestling mine into submission. I could taste the blood in my mouth, but whether it was his or mine I did not know.
His hands were in my hair, holding my neck in place while he kissed me. I was relieved when he retreated from my mouth, but he quickly moved down my neck, biting and sucking painfully, desperately, as if stopping meant I would escape him somehow. With my voice freed, I began crying out for him to stop, but it seemed like my words only urged him onward.
"Stop it, Holmes! Get off of me!" He finally pulled back, his eyes dark with a lust I had never seen there before. He loosened his collar and threw off his coat. I could feel my cheeks redden as he looked me up and down like a predator deciding which cut of meat to eat first. I felt confused and betrayed by the man I called my closest friend. "Why…I don't understand…" I hated the way my voice choked over those words. I was the one who always took care of him—to appear weak in front of him was almost more than I could bear.
Holmes was breathing heavily, the anger apparent in his stony face. "It didn't have to happen this way, Watson. I originally only intended to dissuade you from marrying Mary tonight. I won't lose you to some second-hand trollop."
The rage flew from me with a kick, but he dodged it. "Don't you ever talk about Mary like that!"
He ignored my outburst and continued, staring deep into my eyes as if to mesmerize me. "It's your fault it has come to this, John. I would have been content to continue watching you from afar. But a man's restraint can only stretch so far, and I have been pushed past my breaking point."
With one hand, he ripped my vest and shirt open and the buttons went flying, scattering across the floor. My shirt hung open to reveal my naked torso, white in the moonlight. "I want you, Watson. And if I have to defile you to the point that no woman ever wants to touch you again, then I will."
Then, those hands I had watched for so many years were sweeping aside the torn clothing, running up and down my chest as he came in for another kiss. It was fiercer this time, hardened. His nails were leaving bloody trails on my back and chest, the liquid gleaming as it ran in tiny rivulets down my body. I was terrified of how far Sherlock would take this. Surely he didn't intend to go any further…but beneath the fear, something else was growing, something that I denied with my whole being.
He stepped back to quickly remove his own shirt and vest, never taking his eyes off of me. I was gasping for air, head spinning round and round. "Please, Holmes…stop this now…it's…unnatural."
My captor ignored my pleas and bent down, biting and pinching my nipples with such reckless abandon that I had to bite my tongue to choke back my cries. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of hearing me yelp like a helpless pup. He bent down farther and removed my shoes and socks, caressing my feet as he did so. I tried another kick, but he caught my leg and gripped it tight enough to bruise—a warning not to try it again.
I told myself to stay strong, but then I felt his hands move up my legs, fondling my buttocks through my trousers, squeezing and massaging each cheek forcefully as he watched my face contort in an attempt to keep quiet. My face burned red as I felt myself grow harder. "You're holding back, John. But are they cries of embarrassment…or sighs of pleasure?"
I let out a shameful whimper as he began abruptly unbuttoning my pants, pushing them down my legs and yanking them over my feet so that I was naked except for my underwear. When he hooked his thumbs into the sides of my last remaining scrap of dignity, I looked into his eyes and begged him not to do it. "Don't Sherlock…it's too humiliating. If you don't stop now, I'll…" I didn't know how to end that sentence. I would what? Hate him? Lose all sense of my own manhood? Or was I scared to find out why my cock was throbbing from another man's touch?
A genuine sadness flashed across his face for a moment, but it was quickly replaced with a gritty determination. "I'm sorry, but I can't turn back now." With a swift, decisive motion, he pulled off my underwear and let the material fall at my feet. I turned my face to the side, my eyes squeezed tightly shut. I couldn't stand to look at him, knowing that my member was fully erect by now, but my further humiliation only fueled the fire more.
There was silence for a moment, and I didn't dare open my eyes. "Watson…" I heard the hitch in his breath as Holmes said my name, heard the struggle to compose himself in his voice as he spoke. "You are more beautiful than I imagined…" I just hung there, too scared to move, as I heard him circle around me, his boot steps slow and deliberate.
He pressed his half-naked body against me, his face cradled in my neck, one hand on my chest and the other dipping lower. I couldn't hold back a gasp as his hand gripped my quickly thickening member and began stroking it up and down. "How does it feel, doctor?" I didn't bother to answer. He gradually increased the pace, the pressure within me building as his breath heated my neck.
My eyes shot open in surprise when I felt him drop to his knees and take my heated cockhead into his warm, wet mouth. I saw his head bob up and down on my length, taking it to the hilt, and my body started to shake. He was watching my face, distorted with pleasure as my climax neared. His tongue slithered along my shaft, and I didn't want to enjoy it, but my hips were moving involuntarily, thrusting into his mouth now. I hissed his name as the final shiver ran down my spine, my body convulsing, going limp against my bonds. "Sherlock…"
I was numb, barely breathing, struggling to support myself against the ropes. Holmes stood up, licking his lips lewdly. "What a lovely face you make, John. To finally taste you…my wildest dreams pale in comparison. But we aren't done here—not yet."