Stockholmes Syndrome In Which Sherlock Is Punished, a sherlock fanfic

Hi everyone! I hope y'all enjoy this chapter, myself and 'Sherlocked-With-Loki' have worked hard to get it out ASAP and I hope that this chapter is as good as the other five before it!

WARNING: SMUT SCENE.

Jim, admittedly, is a bit shocked for a moment as John shoots Moran in the arm- a mere graze, to be fair, but a daring move nonetheless. Sherlock watched with both horror and admiration as John sprinted for the door. No-one dared to go against Sebastian Moran. Sebastian is already making as if to run after him, but Jim simply laughs, waving a hand to still him as he leans his head back against Sherlock's shoulder, looking pleased.

Sherlock's face drained and he felt Jim's head rest back onto his shoulder but he was too stunned to react. The things John has said...

I'm not wasting two bullets on this bastard.

Keep Sherlock.

I couldn't care less if Sherlock dies. He's yours anyway.

"Let him go." He won't be able to do much of anything, and considering that Sebastian has more weapons than the gun with a single bullet that John's armed with, it'd be a suicide mission on his part to come back. "Let go of me, Sherly dear. Though I appreciate the sentiment."

The words broke through Sherlock's skull and echoed around his head. His grip loosened and Jim slipped free. Jim stands as Sherlock releases his throat, brushing the wrinkles from his impeccably-tailored suit in irritation. He tilts his head as he turns to Sherlock, cracking the stiffness from his muscles. Sherlock's knees then gave way and he collapsed onto the cell floor. He lifted his head up and saw Jim look at Sebastian. The man nodded and left the room. Now he and Jim were alone. Jim's hand tangles in Sherlock's hair none too gently and begins dragging him into the bedroom wordlessly. Shoots a small glance out the window to see a flash of blond exiting the facility borders- John's gone, finally. He hauls the man up onto the bed, pinning him on his back.

Sherlock yelped in pain as he was pulled across the room mercilessly. He hated it when Jim went quiet, bad things usually followed. He was thrown roughly onto the bed and the remainders of his clothes were torn and lay in ribbons on his broken body and littered the red over-covers of the bed. Jim grabbed his hands and yanked them above his head. He tied them securely with the bonds that had once held John. Sherlock struggled desperately as memories of the night Jim had paid him his first visit. He stopped shivering for a few moments to notice Jim's face above him.

Then, all too soon, Jim's lips were pressing against his roughly. His tongue was soon sliding across his lower lip, demanding access but Sherlock denied him. With his free hand, Jim yanked on his hair with more force than was really necessary. As Sherlock's lips parted in a cry, Jim's took his chance. His tongue darted around Sherlock's mouth, exploring every part of his pet. Then, just as quickly as he'd appeared, his tongue vanished from Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock then panicked and thrashed more, then Jim's lips were on his jaw. Gently, his lips would slide up to his ear and he bit down on the lobe so hard he tasted blood. Sherlock screamed and thrashed but Jim's weight shifted and his knees were on either side of his hips, straddling him. Then Jim left his bleeding ear alone, and made his way down Sherlock's neck. Sherlock tried to pull away but both his bonds and Jim were keeping him in place. Then, Jim's weight shifted again and he was making his way down. Drawing his nails across Sherlock's bare chest until he was at the detective's waist. Once again Sherlock thrashed and pulled on his bonds.

"Now now darlin' wouldn't want anything to break now." Jim patted the detective's abdomen and smiled sickly. His fingers were working at Sherlock's trousers now and Sherlock could do absolutely nothing to stop him.

He hated being powerless. The one who was ordered around. Being vulnerable. Being almost human. Tears began to pool in his grey eyes. John had always called them green while Mary and Lestrade always thought they were blue. Thoughts and memories of his friends and his old life, caused the tears to fall but deep down Sherlock knew they wouldn't deter Jim. His old life was gone and he was now nothing but a whore for a 'consulting criminal'.

Jim's hands slide off Sherlock's trousers, discarding them in the corner of the room haphazardly, not particularly caring where they land. Sherlock won't be needing them any time soon. He lays down next to Sherlock in an almost caring manner, though in reality it's anything but, as his fingers slip into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock obediently laves them, as much as he hates to do so, but he knows that it's the only lubrication he's going to get. Jim pulls out after a few moments before slipping his fingers out, drifting down and into Sherlock's unprepared hole roughly, tearing a pained cry from the detective's throat. His distinctive Irish lilt is cold and mocking as he speaks into Sherlock's ear.

"How cute. And utterly pitiful. You saved John how many times- and he couldn't care less what happens to you. So disgustingly eager to see something that isn't there, aren't you? Hoping that somehow, maybe someone normal tolerates you," he hisses. "How sentimental."

Sherlock was too desperate to escape by now. He was hearing his words but he wasn't listening. He lashed out with one foot blindly...and smacked Jim straight in the stomach. Jim roared and Sherlock lashed out again. This time he managed to land a blow to his cheekbone. This was when Jim struck back. His fist slammed against Sherlock's face and blood quickly began to pour. Jim growled and his finger slipped out of Sherlock and he let his hand fall to the bed. His face was consorted with both rage and pain. His nails dug into the soft flesh below his jaw as he tore Sherlock's head up to look at him.

"You will pay for that but not yet. I have use of you yet."

This truly got Sherlock scared. He wasn't scared often. Hardly ever. Jim suddenly got up and got off the bed, leaving the detective tied to the frame. He snarled one last time before turning around and slamming the door behind him.

Sherlock heard a key turn and then all of a sudden, he was alone, naked and tied to a bed. If this was how he was going to die, it wasn't the most dignified way to go. This was when he really let the tears go and his

wails, full of pain and pure sorrow, could be heard all around the facility.

When Jim returns several hours later, after dinner and a meeting with the leader of the American branch of the empire, he's cooled off, a bit. Anger with James, though, was usually more dangerous cold. True, hot, immediate anger led to explosions and fire and outright terrorism, but it was obvious and rash. That was the rash anger of a tornado, but this was all the decisive and focused raw power of an atomic bomb.

He has cuffs for Sherlock's ankles, in one hand, and in the other a wicked-looking riding crop and needle-like and razor-sharp blade. He hasn't brought any food for the man, and the tear trails down Sherlock's face are incredibly satisfying. The man seems to have cried himself to sleep. Perfect. He snaps the cuffs around the detective's ankles snugly, silently, before moving to wake the man up with a harsh snap of the crop to his sensitive abdomen.

The harsh SNAP of the riding crop on his stomach quickly jerked Sherlock awake. He tried to bolt up but remembered that his hands were tied. Literally. He tried to move his feet also but they were now cuffed. He should of seen that coming. He had attacked Jim, after all. His vision was still blurred but now he couldn't raise his hands to wipe his face as he blinked the tears away and his sight slowly began to return, he saw the black leather riding whip in Jim's left hand along with a sharp looking razor. Jim made his way over to the detective's head and brought up the razor.

"This is going to be a whole lot easier for the both of us if you don't struggle."

Then the razor began to bite into his flesh beside his right eye. Sherlock pulled away and threw his head around but got a firm smack from the crop if he moved. Jim took the razor away from Sherlock's eye and moved it towards his neck. This was when Sherlock panicked. He moved and got another smack. But it wasn't a sharp blade that he felt on his neck. It was lips. Except this time, it was a whole less friendly.

Jim's teeth dragged across the flesh and sunk in near his jaw. Jim twisted then let go then bit down somewhere else. It all seemed too precise to Sherlock. Jim then sat on Sherlock's hips again and smiled at his handiwork. He'd bitten a 'JM' into Sherlock's neck. His mark. Sherlock was his and he wanted to whole world to know it. As Jim continued to cut Sherlock in random places, he thought about taking him out into public. With his bitemarks and bruises, with a leather collar on full show around his neck. He thought about paying 221B or Scotland Yard or even Mycroft a visit. How he would love to see their reactions when they saw what the man they once thought as brilliant, smart and invincible had been brought to. He smiled at the thought. He then dropped the bloody razor and felt something touch the inside of his leg.

"Excited, are we?"

Jim's hand made it's way down to Sherlock's crotch and he squeezed. Sherlock's hips involuntarily bucked and pushed himself further into Jim's hand. He clenched his teeth and tried to stop his body from reacting but he was failing quickly. All he could do was get it over with quickly. He gasped and thrust again but Jim was the one setting the pace. That excruciatingly slow pace and Sherlock was trying to speed it up and Jim knew it. Jim can see Sherlock's desperation in the trembling of his legs as he attempts to restrain himself from thrusting upwards, and he smirks as he reaches for the riding crop.

He picks it up, delivering a firmer lash to Sherlock's side as he strokes him a bit harder simultaneously before resuming the feather-light touches that are just enough to stimulate, but not anywhere near enough to provide satisfaction.

"I'm going to have you begging for me. For relief. I will have you writhing in desperation, whining like a needy little whore," he says, voice light in contrast to his words.

Sherlock closes his eyes in an attempt to ignore the words, only to be met with a razor blade above his eyes.

"Open them, or I will cut them open. Permanently."

Sherlock forced his eyes open, as much as he hated the view. The place where Jim had lashed his side was red, sensitive and sore.

He tried to stop his legs from trembling but as Jim began touching him only lightly, his back arched. His body began craving release and now he was desperate for as much skin to skin contact as possible.

He hated the way Jim could somehow do this to him and if he ever escaped or was found he'd find a way to make Jim pay for what he's done. To him, to his life and especially to John. But now all Sherlock could do was stay down, be obedient and take whatever Jim did to him.

Jim smirks as Sherlock arches up in desperation, touching him ever-so-lightly even as he shifts the knife down, running it across Sherlock's chest thoughtfully. It's like a high, dominating the detective who's typically so very untouchable, even by his little pet doctor. He regards Sherlock as if he were a blank canvas, before bringing the knife down and drawing thin lines of blood as he traces the man's ribs one by one, his other hand tightening a bit as he strokes Sherlock.

"Do hold still, darling, it'd be a shame if my hand slipped." His mind is buzzing with possibilities. What he could do the detective. He'll break, eventually- everyone does. But when and how it happens will be the fun part.

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from moaning and/or crying out from pain.

That powerful light touch that controlled him in so many ways, nagged at his human side. The place where emotions mattered. He tried to move again, slamming his feet and hands against the headboard and the base of the bed. Blood soon began to pour down his arms.

Jim tilted his head and sat back. He grabbed the riding crop and lashed Sherlock on the right side of his face. His head snapped around and Jim smiled, knowing it would bruise. Then he stopped the feather light touches altogether. Sherlock whined then cursed himself for making such a weak noise.

Jim smirks, mocking the whine as he leans forwards to press a kiss to Sherlock's lips, the knife held against his nether regions to prevent any ill-thought-out attempts at lashing out as he forces his tongue inside. Sherlock yelped at the cool steel that was being pressed against his groin. After a few minutes of this Jim pulls away, licking his lips and removing the knife, tossing it to the side off the bed as he slips a hand between their bodies to grab his own member, reaching into his pocket for a packet of lube and slicking it over himself before lining up. He smirks down at Sherlock before sheathing himself into the unprepared detective, groaning in pleasure at the tightness.

Jim can see Sherlock's desperation in the trembling of his legs as he attempts to restrain himself from thrusting upwards, and he smirks as he reaches for the riding crop. He picks it up, delivering a firmer lash to Sherlock's side as he strokes him a bit harder simultaneously before resuming the feather-light touches that are just enough to stimulate, but not anywhere near enough to provide satisfaction.

"I'm going to have you begging for me. For relief. I will have you writhing in desperation, whining like a needy little whore," he says, voice light in contrast to his words.

Sherlock closes his eyes in an attempt to ignore the words, only to be met with a razor blade above his eyes.

"Open them, or I will cut them open. Permanently."

Sherlock forced his eyes open, as much as he hated the view. The place where Jim had lashed his side was red, sensitive and sore. He tried to stop his legs from trembling but as Jim began touching him only lightly, his back arched. His body began craving release and now he was desperate for as much skin to skin contact as possible. He hated the way Jim could somehow do this to him and if he ever escaped or was found he'd find a way to make Jim pay for what he's done. To him, to his life and especially to John.

"Do hold still, darling, it'd be a shame if my hand slipped."

His mind is buzzing with possibilities. What he could do the detective. He'll break, eventually- everyone does. But when and how it happens will be the fun part.

Sherlock writhed underneath Jim. This was nothing like the first night. Hell, as much as he hated to admit it, he actually enjoyed the first night. That was different. It was nothing like this. Jim was rough, heavy handed and brutal. And Sherlock has loved every second of it. He shut his eyes for a second before remembering Jim's threat. He quickly snapped them back open.

"Good boy." Jim's harsh drawl rang in his ears.

His finger wrapped around Sherlock's shoulders to support himself and squeezed. The fingernail dug into Sherlock's shoulder blades, drawing blood. It slowly added to the pool that was seeping through into the sheets. The crimson liquid had dried and left a trail across the pale skin of the detective's arms. His dark curls were wet with sweat and stuck to his forehead. Sherlock looked utterly wrecked, sweat, blood and tears mixing against pale skin and soaking into the sheets. Jim frowns a bit. Perhaps he should have done this elsewhere.

That was Egyptian cotton.

He runs a hand down Sherlock's cheek and smirks as he continues pounding roughly, the twisted pleasure visible in Sherlock's expression.

"Such a good little whore. I think someone else deserves to see how well you take this," he muses, rolling his hips up into Sherlock as he tugs on his raven curls. "Perhaps I'll send a memento video to your dear brother, seeing as how he so loves seeing you beaten bloody."

At the mention of his brother, Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts.

"Please, not Mycroft. Not anyone..." His voice faded out weakly, he wasn't going to be able to take much more of this. Jim just laughed and moved inside him. Sherlock swallowed, his legs still trembling. He felt Jim pull up his head sharply. He tugged on his bonds in vain. With his free hand Jim brought up the razor.

The sharp edge passed through the detective's dark hair like it was butter. Sherlock's head hit the bed again and he saw the clump of hair Jim clutched in his right hand. The criminal smiled, grabbed another handful of hair and repeated the action over and over again. Sherlock's hair was still enough for him to grab but it was short so the curls turned into spikes. More tears came fresh to Sherlock's eyes and soon enough they fell. He let his body go limp as he gave up, utterly defeated.

Jim finishes a few minutes later, pulling out and leaving the detective's abused hole dripping. He takes a few locks of hair and tucks them into his pocket, grinning and ruffling Sherlock's now-short hair.

"Mm, yes, I think Mycroft will looove to see this," he drawls. "Maybe I'll send Johnny a little piece of your hair. He'll probably burn it with the rest of your stuff when he gets rid of it, but it's the thought that counts."

He looks down at his watch.

"Oh, my, look at the time, I really must be off," he says, standing from the bed and straightening his suit, which magically has avoided even the smallest drop of blood. "Ta."

And then he's gone, looking perfectly composed and leaving Sherlock chained to the bed, wrecked.

I hope you all enjoyed that!

YES I KNOW I AM CRUEL . (It was me who wrote in Jim cutting Sherlock's hair :3 )

READ AND REVIEW PLEASE.

Thank you for reading! :3