Fic: Assistance
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: very very non-con, manipulative Sherlock
One day I'm gonna write happy consensual sex and the world will end :D
Written for this prompt on the kinkmeme, and I cleaned it up a little to post here. Sherlock requires John's assistance in solving a case.
***
The door slammed from downstairs, and John bolted upright in his armchair from where he had dozed off, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His heart sank. There was only one person it could be, and John was very tired.
"Ah, John," said Sherlock authoritatively as he strode into the living room, coat swirling behind him, pulling off his gloves. "I require your assistance for a case."
"What?" asked John, blinking blearily at him and getting to his feet without really knowing why. Sherlock's commanding nature had that effect on him. He glanced at the clock and frowned. "Sherlock, it's one in the morning."
"I am well aware of the time," said Sherlock, chucking a plastic bag of new clothes at John, then pulling off his coat to hang it up, his movements hurried.
John peered into the bag to see a new t-shirt, underwear, a pair of baggy jeans and a belt. "What's this for?" he asked cautiously, narrowing his eyes.
"Get changed, and come back here," ordered Sherlock, dropping into his armchair and curling his fingers under his chin. He looked excited. Was this important?
"What sort of case requires you picking out my underwear?" demanded John, feeling a little humiliated.
"I can't tell you," said Sherlock, his eyes fixed on John. "That would spoil any data I collect."
"Sherlock …"
"You will help, won't you?" asked Sherlock, his voice softening. "There are victims in this, their relatives, begging for answers. There's a criminal who should be rotting behind bars, but has managed to escape me. Won't you help? I only require an hour of your time, a few hours at most, then you can go back to doing whatever it is you were doing before I arrived."
John's hand tightened around the plastic bag as Sherlock gazed imploringly up at him. It was all an act of course, Sherlock didn't give a damn about victims, he just liked the rush of solving a case.
But John cared.
"Fine," he said eventually, and Sherlock smirked. He loved getting his way.
John slammed the door to his bedroom shut, and quickly stripped off. He muttered to himself with half-hearted anger about Sherlock's ridiculous demands as he dressed, pulling the plastic tags off the brand new clothes. Running his finger under the collar of the t-shirt, he peered at himself in the mirror. A tired, bewildered face stared back at him, and John ran a hand through his hair and exhaled slowly. The loose clothes made him look smaller, younger. He shut his eyes.
"John!" shouted Sherlock, demanding his attention yet again. "Assistance! Case!"
"Coming!" replied John, pulling himself up straight. After this, he'd get some proper sleep.
But when he walked into the living room, Sherlock was on him in a second, breathing ominously down the back of his neck. John belatedly realised that he probably wouldn't be getting a decent shut-eye tonight.
"Sherlock, what-!?" he started, but all the air was pushed out of him by a forceful punch to the kidney. With a cry of shock he dropped to his knees to the hard floor, and Sherlock elegantly knelt with his movements, twisting John into an arm lock. He was muttering under his breath, a stream of observations that made the hair on the back of John's neck stand on end.
"Bruises on his wrists where he was restrained, then fabric burn. Tied with his own t-shirt."
Sherlock began ripping off John's top, and John really started to struggle. "Sherlock, what the hell are you doing!? Get off!"
His voice muffled as Sherlock pulled the top over his head, the world momentarily dark, and then he was gasping again, shirtless in Sherlock's grip on the floor of their living room. Sherlock shoved him face-forward onto the ground and bound John's wrists with the new t-shirt, pulling the knots painfully tight.
"Sherlock, please," he said, twisting his head, trying to see. He tugged uselessly at the knots.
Sherlock was heavy over him, hands smoothing down John's back. There was something odd about his movements. John gaped in shock as the realisation hit him hard. Sherlock was acting.
"Your case," John whispered, horrified. "It was the serial rapist. The one on the news." He twisted in Sherlock's grip, panicking. "Oh god, please Sherlock, don't do this!"
"Shush John, I don't want to break character," said Sherlock calmly. He pulled John upright and forced him over the coffee table, hand pressing between John's shoulder blades to keep him down with unyielding strength. The wood was cold on John's stomach, chest and cheek. "Bruises on the hips suggest hard surface he was repeatedly pushed into. But how hard?"
John tried to turn and see Sherlock, but from this angle all he could see was the edge of Sherlock's form, frantic movements as he divested John of his jeans and boxers shorts. John kicked out and Sherlock chuckled triumphantly. Apparently, John's actions were all fitting into the scenario Sherlock had planned out in his head. John felt sick, shuddering with the cold air over his newly exposed flesh.
"Sherlock, please, please stop. Don't do this!"
Sherlock pushed between John's knees, crouching over him, and John tensed up as he felt saliva slicked fingers press against his hole.
"Please," he begged, mouthing at the wood of the table. "Sherlock, please. Just pretend if you want to act it out. But don't do- ah!"
Sherlock's long finger pushed into him, quickly joined by another, and John cried out at the burning, near-ripping stretch. He lunged against Sherlock's grip again, pulled at the tightly knotted t-shirt, but he couldn't break either restraint.
"He used inadequate lubrication," Sherlock was muttering, curling his fingers viciously inside John. "Spit. Hardly pleasant."
Why is he being so cruel? thought John desperately as Sherlock mechanically fingered him open. He's actually going to do this, he's actually going to rape me -
He was surprised Sherlock could even get it up. The man spent so much of his time complaining about the uselessness of relationships and openly mocked John for prioritising sex over other things, that John assumed he was completely uninterested in it. But no, Sherlock was rock hard, the head of his cock pressing against John's hole.
"Please," John said quietly, one last ditch attempt to stop him. "No."
It was like Sherlock couldn't hear him. Either that, or he was so consumed in his own observations that John's protestations didn't register. "Bruising on the hips, finger-marks here …" and he gripped John with harsh fingers, then pushed in. John cried out, trapped between Sherlock's unrelenting press forward and the heavy table.
The intrusion was agonisingly painful, with minimal lubrication and Sherlock's violent thrusts, each time penetrating that little bit deeper. John clenched his teeth and grunted almost silently at the hurt. Pain was something he could bear. The shock was that this was Sherlock fucking him callously over the coffee table, Sherlock, the man he'd always thought of as a hero, a good man. His best friend.
John was unable to tear himself away from sensation, of Sherlock driving relentlessly into of him as though trying to soak up every detail, his panting breaths and almost unintelligible murmurings in John's ear, the heat of his body and the press of his hands keeping John pinned to the hard table.
Sherlock was far too into this. His grip was sweaty. He was excited, aroused, no doubt due to the odd combination of crime-solving and sex. Eventually his thrusts started getting far more erratic, pounding John into the table, fingers twisted painfully in John's hair.
"Mmph, not yet," rumbled Sherlock, pulling out, and John gasped in relief at the sudden, aching emptiness. "Bruises around the neck, but not by hand. He strangled them to death."
The warmth of Sherlock's body faded as he moved away from John, searching for something. John was desperate to escape. He pulled away from the table only to end up falling to his side on the floor. His violated body absolutely refused to cooperate. Then Sherlock stood over him, the brown belt in hand, thoughtfully looping the tail through the buckle. John stared up at him, wide eyed.
"Oh god, Sherlock, no, please!"
"Relax, John," said Sherlock serenely, picking him up and pushing him over the table again. "I'm not going to kill you."
John shook uncontrollably as Sherlock looped the belt over John's neck, pulling it tight as though it were a collar and leash. "Oh god," he muttered, staring blankly at the wood in front of him. "Oh god, no."
Sherlock gripped the leash in one hand and held John's hips with another. He penetrated John again, more confidently this time, and slowly fucked him. It was like he was luxuriating in the sensation. And with every stroke, he pulled a little harder on the belt.
John twisted upwards to try and keep the makeshift collar loose, but there was only so far he could pull himself up without the use of his arms. Eventually his airways were sealed shut by the pressure of leather, and his vision blurred, his face grew heavy. He was choking.
What a way to go.
Then Sherlock grew excited above him, gleeful. "Of course!" he exclaimed in a hushed whisper. "The pattern fits the killings!"
A hand reached out and pulled John upwards, pinning his back to Sherlock's chest. The buttons of his shirt scraped John's spine, and John gasped, gulping down fresh oxygen, his eyesight clearing. Then, far too soon, Sherlock pulled the collar tight again. He held John close and fucked him, fast and hard.
John didn't know any more if this was part of the case, or just Sherlock finishing himself off.
Sherlock finally came. He let John drop back down to the table with a thud, and sighed with pleasure.
John lay limply, and weakly rotated his neck, trying to loosen the belt. Behind him he heard Sherlock redress himself and smooth out crumpled clothes. Then the man leant forward and gripped John's upper arm with powerful fingers. John winced.
"I need to see what bruises form in the next couple of hours," said Sherlock, voice low. "It's very important. So don't move until I'm back."
John didn't reply. He just stared up at Sherlock. The man was thrumming with energy and excitement, like he was when he'd found a new clue, close to the end of a case. Practically high. John realised Sherlock wasn't letting go until he had an answer, so he nodded.
"Good," said Sherlock, standing up.
"Wait," said John, voice thin. He coughed. "Why did you... rape me?"
Sherlock scowled, tugging on his scarf. He looked pale and untouched, neatly dressed by the door. Like nothing had happened. "Really John, if you haven't figured that out-"
"Sherlock..."
Sherlock stared at him. "I'm trying to stop a murderer, John. I think a little discomfort on your part is worth catching him, don't you?"
"But-"
Sherlock sighed, then came and knelt by John, helping him sit back on his heels. They crouched together on the floor, and Sherlock moved closer, his pale eyes intent on John's. "If you had the choice," he said, "between being raped, or letting a murderer out to kill more innocent young men, what would you pick?"
"That's different," John whispered.
Sherlock just stared at him. "Is it really?"
"Sherlock, what you did, it wasn't right. For whatever reason. You don't just ..."
God, but his eyes were wet.
Sherlock hesitated, then seemed to come to a decision. He helped John to his feet and lay him down on the couch, helping him get as comfortable as possible. A few moments after that, and he pulled his own coat over John, covering him.
The knots still dug deeply into John's wrists when he moved, and the belt still encircled his neck, itching at his skin.
"I'll be back at four," Sherlock said, standing straight and tugging at his cuffs, eyes downcast. "I'll look at the bruises, then I'll help you ... fix up."
He rushed out the door without even looking back. It slammed behind him, and John shut his eyes.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: very very non-con, manipulative Sherlock
One day I'm gonna write happy consensual sex and the world will end :D
Written for this prompt on the kinkmeme, and I cleaned it up a little to post here. Sherlock requires John's assistance in solving a case.
***
The door slammed from downstairs, and John bolted upright in his armchair from where he had dozed off, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His heart sank. There was only one person it could be, and John was very tired.
"Ah, John," said Sherlock authoritatively as he strode into the living room, coat swirling behind him, pulling off his gloves. "I require your assistance for a case."
"What?" asked John, blinking blearily at him and getting to his feet without really knowing why. Sherlock's commanding nature had that effect on him. He glanced at the clock and frowned. "Sherlock, it's one in the morning."
"I am well aware of the time," said Sherlock, chucking a plastic bag of new clothes at John, then pulling off his coat to hang it up, his movements hurried.
John peered into the bag to see a new t-shirt, underwear, a pair of baggy jeans and a belt. "What's this for?" he asked cautiously, narrowing his eyes.
"Get changed, and come back here," ordered Sherlock, dropping into his armchair and curling his fingers under his chin. He looked excited. Was this important?
"What sort of case requires you picking out my underwear?" demanded John, feeling a little humiliated.
"I can't tell you," said Sherlock, his eyes fixed on John. "That would spoil any data I collect."
"Sherlock …"
"You will help, won't you?" asked Sherlock, his voice softening. "There are victims in this, their relatives, begging for answers. There's a criminal who should be rotting behind bars, but has managed to escape me. Won't you help? I only require an hour of your time, a few hours at most, then you can go back to doing whatever it is you were doing before I arrived."
John's hand tightened around the plastic bag as Sherlock gazed imploringly up at him. It was all an act of course, Sherlock didn't give a damn about victims, he just liked the rush of solving a case.
But John cared.
"Fine," he said eventually, and Sherlock smirked. He loved getting his way.
John slammed the door to his bedroom shut, and quickly stripped off. He muttered to himself with half-hearted anger about Sherlock's ridiculous demands as he dressed, pulling the plastic tags off the brand new clothes. Running his finger under the collar of the t-shirt, he peered at himself in the mirror. A tired, bewildered face stared back at him, and John ran a hand through his hair and exhaled slowly. The loose clothes made him look smaller, younger. He shut his eyes.
"John!" shouted Sherlock, demanding his attention yet again. "Assistance! Case!"
"Coming!" replied John, pulling himself up straight. After this, he'd get some proper sleep.
But when he walked into the living room, Sherlock was on him in a second, breathing ominously down the back of his neck. John belatedly realised that he probably wouldn't be getting a decent shut-eye tonight.
"Sherlock, what-!?" he started, but all the air was pushed out of him by a forceful punch to the kidney. With a cry of shock he dropped to his knees to the hard floor, and Sherlock elegantly knelt with his movements, twisting John into an arm lock. He was muttering under his breath, a stream of observations that made the hair on the back of John's neck stand on end.
"Bruises on his wrists where he was restrained, then fabric burn. Tied with his own t-shirt."
Sherlock began ripping off John's top, and John really started to struggle. "Sherlock, what the hell are you doing!? Get off!"
His voice muffled as Sherlock pulled the top over his head, the world momentarily dark, and then he was gasping again, shirtless in Sherlock's grip on the floor of their living room. Sherlock shoved him face-forward onto the ground and bound John's wrists with the new t-shirt, pulling the knots painfully tight.
"Sherlock, please," he said, twisting his head, trying to see. He tugged uselessly at the knots.
Sherlock was heavy over him, hands smoothing down John's back. There was something odd about his movements. John gaped in shock as the realisation hit him hard. Sherlock was acting.
"Your case," John whispered, horrified. "It was the serial rapist. The one on the news." He twisted in Sherlock's grip, panicking. "Oh god, please Sherlock, don't do this!"
"Shush John, I don't want to break character," said Sherlock calmly. He pulled John upright and forced him over the coffee table, hand pressing between John's shoulder blades to keep him down with unyielding strength. The wood was cold on John's stomach, chest and cheek. "Bruises on the hips suggest hard surface he was repeatedly pushed into. But how hard?"
John tried to turn and see Sherlock, but from this angle all he could see was the edge of Sherlock's form, frantic movements as he divested John of his jeans and boxers shorts. John kicked out and Sherlock chuckled triumphantly. Apparently, John's actions were all fitting into the scenario Sherlock had planned out in his head. John felt sick, shuddering with the cold air over his newly exposed flesh.
"Sherlock, please, please stop. Don't do this!"
Sherlock pushed between John's knees, crouching over him, and John tensed up as he felt saliva slicked fingers press against his hole.
"Please," he begged, mouthing at the wood of the table. "Sherlock, please. Just pretend if you want to act it out. But don't do- ah!"
Sherlock's long finger pushed into him, quickly joined by another, and John cried out at the burning, near-ripping stretch. He lunged against Sherlock's grip again, pulled at the tightly knotted t-shirt, but he couldn't break either restraint.
"He used inadequate lubrication," Sherlock was muttering, curling his fingers viciously inside John. "Spit. Hardly pleasant."
Why is he being so cruel? thought John desperately as Sherlock mechanically fingered him open. He's actually going to do this, he's actually going to rape me -
He was surprised Sherlock could even get it up. The man spent so much of his time complaining about the uselessness of relationships and openly mocked John for prioritising sex over other things, that John assumed he was completely uninterested in it. But no, Sherlock was rock hard, the head of his cock pressing against John's hole.
"Please," John said quietly, one last ditch attempt to stop him. "No."
It was like Sherlock couldn't hear him. Either that, or he was so consumed in his own observations that John's protestations didn't register. "Bruising on the hips, finger-marks here …" and he gripped John with harsh fingers, then pushed in. John cried out, trapped between Sherlock's unrelenting press forward and the heavy table.
The intrusion was agonisingly painful, with minimal lubrication and Sherlock's violent thrusts, each time penetrating that little bit deeper. John clenched his teeth and grunted almost silently at the hurt. Pain was something he could bear. The shock was that this was Sherlock fucking him callously over the coffee table, Sherlock, the man he'd always thought of as a hero, a good man. His best friend.
John was unable to tear himself away from sensation, of Sherlock driving relentlessly into of him as though trying to soak up every detail, his panting breaths and almost unintelligible murmurings in John's ear, the heat of his body and the press of his hands keeping John pinned to the hard table.
Sherlock was far too into this. His grip was sweaty. He was excited, aroused, no doubt due to the odd combination of crime-solving and sex. Eventually his thrusts started getting far more erratic, pounding John into the table, fingers twisted painfully in John's hair.
"Mmph, not yet," rumbled Sherlock, pulling out, and John gasped in relief at the sudden, aching emptiness. "Bruises around the neck, but not by hand. He strangled them to death."
The warmth of Sherlock's body faded as he moved away from John, searching for something. John was desperate to escape. He pulled away from the table only to end up falling to his side on the floor. His violated body absolutely refused to cooperate. Then Sherlock stood over him, the brown belt in hand, thoughtfully looping the tail through the buckle. John stared up at him, wide eyed.
"Oh god, Sherlock, no, please!"
"Relax, John," said Sherlock serenely, picking him up and pushing him over the table again. "I'm not going to kill you."
John shook uncontrollably as Sherlock looped the belt over John's neck, pulling it tight as though it were a collar and leash. "Oh god," he muttered, staring blankly at the wood in front of him. "Oh god, no."
Sherlock gripped the leash in one hand and held John's hips with another. He penetrated John again, more confidently this time, and slowly fucked him. It was like he was luxuriating in the sensation. And with every stroke, he pulled a little harder on the belt.
John twisted upwards to try and keep the makeshift collar loose, but there was only so far he could pull himself up without the use of his arms. Eventually his airways were sealed shut by the pressure of leather, and his vision blurred, his face grew heavy. He was choking.
What a way to go.
Then Sherlock grew excited above him, gleeful. "Of course!" he exclaimed in a hushed whisper. "The pattern fits the killings!"
A hand reached out and pulled John upwards, pinning his back to Sherlock's chest. The buttons of his shirt scraped John's spine, and John gasped, gulping down fresh oxygen, his eyesight clearing. Then, far too soon, Sherlock pulled the collar tight again. He held John close and fucked him, fast and hard.
John didn't know any more if this was part of the case, or just Sherlock finishing himself off.
Sherlock finally came. He let John drop back down to the table with a thud, and sighed with pleasure.
John lay limply, and weakly rotated his neck, trying to loosen the belt. Behind him he heard Sherlock redress himself and smooth out crumpled clothes. Then the man leant forward and gripped John's upper arm with powerful fingers. John winced.
"I need to see what bruises form in the next couple of hours," said Sherlock, voice low. "It's very important. So don't move until I'm back."
John didn't reply. He just stared up at Sherlock. The man was thrumming with energy and excitement, like he was when he'd found a new clue, close to the end of a case. Practically high. John realised Sherlock wasn't letting go until he had an answer, so he nodded.
"Good," said Sherlock, standing up.
"Wait," said John, voice thin. He coughed. "Why did you... rape me?"
Sherlock scowled, tugging on his scarf. He looked pale and untouched, neatly dressed by the door. Like nothing had happened. "Really John, if you haven't figured that out-"
"Sherlock..."
Sherlock stared at him. "I'm trying to stop a murderer, John. I think a little discomfort on your part is worth catching him, don't you?"
"But-"
Sherlock sighed, then came and knelt by John, helping him sit back on his heels. They crouched together on the floor, and Sherlock moved closer, his pale eyes intent on John's. "If you had the choice," he said, "between being raped, or letting a murderer out to kill more innocent young men, what would you pick?"
"That's different," John whispered.
Sherlock just stared at him. "Is it really?"
"Sherlock, what you did, it wasn't right. For whatever reason. You don't just ..."
God, but his eyes were wet.
Sherlock hesitated, then seemed to come to a decision. He helped John to his feet and lay him down on the couch, helping him get as comfortable as possible. A few moments after that, and he pulled his own coat over John, covering him.
The knots still dug deeply into John's wrists when he moved, and the belt still encircled his neck, itching at his skin.
"I'll be back at four," Sherlock said, standing straight and tugging at his cuffs, eyes downcast. "I'll look at the bruises, then I'll help you ... fix up."
He rushed out the door without even looking back. It slammed behind him, and John shut his eyes.