[fic] Caledonian Road Chapter Six; NC-17; Sherlock/John
Title: Caledonian Road (6/?)
Author: omen1x2
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: Sherlock/John, multiple OCs/Sherlock
Disclaimer: Like all fanfic writers, I twist reality to please me. Brit-picked by my very dear friend kdelioncourt. Any remaining issues are entirely my fault and not hers.
Summary: John goes to prison for burglary, and meets a fascinating, broken genius. He wants nothing more than to just keep to himself for the entirety of his sentence, but something about this man gets under his skin.
Warnings: Mentions of non-con, sexual and physical abuse, may have inaccurate info
Caledonian Road
By Omen
Chapter Six
Brilliant desert sun so harsh it reflected off the sand and blinded him. Even with his eyes squinted, he could see very little but dark shapes, blurred around the edges, and the sharp reflection of metal. Assault rifles.
One dark shape approached. Fingers touched John’s mouth, and then moved down. At the touch of a slender finger to his nipple, John realised he was naked. His rifle was still in his hands, but his uniform, his kit, even his shoes, were all gone.
The figure fell to its knees in front of John, and pressed a mouth to John’s hip. The lips felt soft and pliant as they moved down to his thigh, and then back up and over to John’s erection. John stared down through the dazzling sunlight. He must be fully erect, he realized. His rifle seemed to have disappeared with his clothes (was it ever really there?), and he placed a hand in the figure’s hair. A soft moan - his or the shape’s? - and then the mouth moved. Tongue tracing under, fingers pressed into curls at the base, soft and then firm. Lips moving over the head like they were meant to be there, devouring him, and John needed more, more, and he tried to thrust, but he couldn’t move. This time, he knew the moan was his own.
The hand in the figure’s dark curls tightened, and then released, coming away wet. He stared down and through the haze of sunlight, saw red. He pressed his hand back into hair and tried to push him away. His thighs were trembling. He needed this to stop.
The mouth moved lower, taking him in completely, heat and hunger and couldn’t he feel his own injury? John again tried to pull him away. Placed both hands in the softest curls imaginable, and wanted to pull that mouth away, but instead found himself pulling it closer. He could feel his orgasm building and he didn’t want this, didn’t want to come like this, with blood in his hands and a harsh wound in the other person’s head.
His hands slid through hair slick with blood and sweat and bits of grey matter.
The sun was still too bright to see, but those curls…
“Sherlock…”
Another blinding flash, but not from the sun. John heard screams and there was an explosion to his left. He saw the shrapnel head straight for the man kneeling in front of him, but still the figure refused to pull away. John’s hands again tried to push, but instead pulled the head closer, until a nose pressed against his sternum. Harsh moans from each, and John couldn’t look away from that shrapnel as it flew, so slowly and yet so deadly, straight into the man’s head, scattering curls.
“SHERLOCK!”
John awoke with a gasp to a painful ache in his balls. Sweat dripped down his forehead, stinging his eyes and dirtying his pillow.
“Shit,” John muttered, turning his head to whisper his anger and frustration and every residual feeling from that dream into the cotton pillowcase.
“That must have been quite a dream, John.”
And of course he couldn’t have the privacy to deal with such a loaded dream on his own. He had the energy to try and clean himself up, or he had the energy to retort. He pushed himself off the mattress and flung an exhausted glare at his cell mate. With a monumental effort, he managed to get his wrecked body up and staggering over to the sink.
He wet the rag and wiped the sweat from his face first, and then glared down at the erection still straining at his trousers. The idea of wanking off after a dream like that made him feel faintly sick.
“Would you like me to help you with that?” a voice rough and filled with sexual promise murmured into his ear.
John stiffened. He hadn’t even realised that Sherlock had moved. “No, Sherlock.”
“Are you sure about that?” A long, slender hand slid over John’s shoulder, down his chest and stomach to grip him through his trousers. “It looks quite… painful.” He squeezed.
John couldn’t help the groan, low and guttural, because he did want this.
But… no.
“No, Sherlock,” John said again, voice firm.
Sherlock sighed against his ear and John shivered at the heated exhale as it touched his oversensitised skin. “Why are you being so stubborn? You help me, I help you. Beneficial for all.” His fingers traced the outline of John’s cock, light and tantalising.
John took a deep breath. He would step away, but his body was trapped between the sink and Sherlock. Instead, he gathered every ounce of command he had and threw it into his voice. “No, Sherlock.”
The body behind him tensed, and then finally, finally moved away, leaving John to cling to the sink as he made the effort to bring his legs back under control.
Sherlock refused to speak to him the next morning. He lay on his bunk, facing the wall, legs tucked to his chest. His narrow shoulders looked oddly vulnerable.
“Don’t you want a spot of brekkie, Sherlock?” John asked when the guard came to unlock their door. He didn’t expect an answer, and he didn’t get one. He sighed. “Really, Sherlock… you don’t need to be like that. Last night was… it had nothing to do with you.” A lie, of course. He almost hoped Sherlock would call him out on it.
But still, silence.
“Do you want me to bring you something back? You’re thin enough as it is; you really shouldn’t be skipping meals all the time.”
No reply.
John glanced back towards the door. They were already starting to queue. He licked his lips and ran a hand through his hair, leaving the short bristles to stand awkwardly. “Listen, Sherlock…” He stepped closer to the bunk until his legs touched the edge. Sherlock was so tense he was almost thrumming with it. “I’m sorry,” John murmured, and leaned down to press a kiss to a sharp cheekbone.
He didn’t wait for Sherlock’s response, if he were to get one at all. John straightened and marched out of the cell to queue for breakfast.
“So you’re the new big bad of Pentonville, are you?” a man asked as he slid into the spot across the table.
John sipped lightly at his tea and grimaced. Horrid stuff. It was enough to make anyone go the straight and narrow.
“Well, mate? Are you or aren’t you?”
Glancing up, John realised the man seemed to be talking to him. “Why, is that what people are saying?”
“Took down three men at once, and then another in the shower. So yeah, everyone’s talking.”
“Good for them.”
“Is it true?”
“That I can beat up men? Yes.”
“Would you beat up one for me?”
John’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Someone’s making my life a misery.”
Flicking his gaze over the man, John replied, “You seem healthy enough.”
“Does he have to be hitting me to get you interested?”
“No, but I’m not an idiot either.”
The man stood. “Good to know.”
He left before John could reply.
It wasn’t until he was about fifteen feet from his cell when he heard the crash, and the laughter. People were rushing to the bars of their cells to watch the action, and John put on an extra burst of speed, knowing, and yet hoping-
The door to the cell stood open. Four men crowded inside, crowing and throwing taunts. A fifth man crouched on Sherlock’s bunk thrusting, as a sixth man gripped Sherlock’s wrists, holding them to the bunk, hard enough to bruise. Sherlock’s mouth was bleeding with how hard he was biting it, and John just knew the man would sooner die than scream for help or whimper.
None of the men had noticed he had arrived yet. John glanced around once more, then grabbed the closest one by the neck of his jumpsuit and slammed him backwards into the bars of the cell.
Ascertaining that the man had been knocked cold instantly, John moved onto the next. At the sudden noise, number two had started to turn his head (clearly supposed to be lookout, but distracted by the… show, John thought with a mental growl). John slammed his fist first to the man’s trachea, and then to his nose. He heard the satisfying crunch, and the man crumpled at his feet.
By now, three and four had realised what was happening. One ran past John to the open door (incapacitation unnecessary - note face and distinctive features for future reference) while the other grabbed the closest thing at hand as a weapon - John’s library book. He threw it at John in a frantic motion.
John caught it easily, dropped it, and advanced. Even more panicked now, number four threw a right hook. John caught the man’s arm, pivoted on his heel, and, using the momentum, slammed number four into the man holding Sherlock’s wrists.
“Holy shit, you bloody little-” The last one. John could see him pulling out of Sherlock roughly, cock still erect and covered with specks of blood.
Blood. Sun reflected on sand. Explosions.
John’s vision went red.
As the man hurriedly tucked himself back into his jumpsuit, John stalked the remaining steps over and grabbed his wrist, twisting hard.
Snap!
Not enough, John thought, and gripped the man’s head and neck.
“John, don’t.” Sherlock’s voice, rough. Pained. John glanced over, saw Sherlock’s pale thighs, bruises stark against pale skin, and more blood from- John turned back to the convict with a low, animalistic snarl.
“No! No, please!” The man begged, tears and snot mixing on his face. Pathetic. His hand, the one not broken, scrambled at John’s wrist, trying to break his grip.
Another snap, this one much more satisfying, and John let the body fall to the floor.
There was a long pause, and then the last two conscious attackers ran out, grabbing their friends, and slamming the cell door shut behind them.
“Fuck, John,” Sherlock breathed, and tried to sit up. “Now what are we going to do?”
~to be continued…~
A/N: Nothing like a good, ol’ neck snap to get people’s attention. I truly hope that part didn’t squick anyone, but I think that John would do anything to keep Sherlock safe, and it’s just by pure luck that he has a gun in the show and didn’t have to kill the cabbie with his bare hands, and of course he can’t have a gun in prison (unless this is just the worst prison ever). He’d have certainly snapped The Golem’s neck, if The Golem weren’t such a creepy giant, with creepy giant bones.
And I really am deeply sorry that it took me almost a month to get this chapter out. Class has just about been kicking my ass, and then when I’m not studying, I’m inundating myself with nummy fanfictions that aren’t mine. Hey, it happens! And until chapter seven, enjoy one seriously BAMF!John chapter, like omfg. I cannot believe I wrote this.
...Previous chapter | Next chapter...
Author: omen1x2
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: Sherlock/John, multiple OCs/Sherlock
Disclaimer: Like all fanfic writers, I twist reality to please me. Brit-picked by my very dear friend kdelioncourt. Any remaining issues are entirely my fault and not hers.
Summary: John goes to prison for burglary, and meets a fascinating, broken genius. He wants nothing more than to just keep to himself for the entirety of his sentence, but something about this man gets under his skin.
Warnings: Mentions of non-con, sexual and physical abuse, may have inaccurate info
Caledonian Road
By Omen
Chapter Six
Brilliant desert sun so harsh it reflected off the sand and blinded him. Even with his eyes squinted, he could see very little but dark shapes, blurred around the edges, and the sharp reflection of metal. Assault rifles.
One dark shape approached. Fingers touched John’s mouth, and then moved down. At the touch of a slender finger to his nipple, John realised he was naked. His rifle was still in his hands, but his uniform, his kit, even his shoes, were all gone.
The figure fell to its knees in front of John, and pressed a mouth to John’s hip. The lips felt soft and pliant as they moved down to his thigh, and then back up and over to John’s erection. John stared down through the dazzling sunlight. He must be fully erect, he realized. His rifle seemed to have disappeared with his clothes (was it ever really there?), and he placed a hand in the figure’s hair. A soft moan - his or the shape’s? - and then the mouth moved. Tongue tracing under, fingers pressed into curls at the base, soft and then firm. Lips moving over the head like they were meant to be there, devouring him, and John needed more, more, and he tried to thrust, but he couldn’t move. This time, he knew the moan was his own.
The hand in the figure’s dark curls tightened, and then released, coming away wet. He stared down and through the haze of sunlight, saw red. He pressed his hand back into hair and tried to push him away. His thighs were trembling. He needed this to stop.
The mouth moved lower, taking him in completely, heat and hunger and couldn’t he feel his own injury? John again tried to pull him away. Placed both hands in the softest curls imaginable, and wanted to pull that mouth away, but instead found himself pulling it closer. He could feel his orgasm building and he didn’t want this, didn’t want to come like this, with blood in his hands and a harsh wound in the other person’s head.
His hands slid through hair slick with blood and sweat and bits of grey matter.
The sun was still too bright to see, but those curls…
“Sherlock…”
Another blinding flash, but not from the sun. John heard screams and there was an explosion to his left. He saw the shrapnel head straight for the man kneeling in front of him, but still the figure refused to pull away. John’s hands again tried to push, but instead pulled the head closer, until a nose pressed against his sternum. Harsh moans from each, and John couldn’t look away from that shrapnel as it flew, so slowly and yet so deadly, straight into the man’s head, scattering curls.
“SHERLOCK!”
John awoke with a gasp to a painful ache in his balls. Sweat dripped down his forehead, stinging his eyes and dirtying his pillow.
“Shit,” John muttered, turning his head to whisper his anger and frustration and every residual feeling from that dream into the cotton pillowcase.
“That must have been quite a dream, John.”
And of course he couldn’t have the privacy to deal with such a loaded dream on his own. He had the energy to try and clean himself up, or he had the energy to retort. He pushed himself off the mattress and flung an exhausted glare at his cell mate. With a monumental effort, he managed to get his wrecked body up and staggering over to the sink.
He wet the rag and wiped the sweat from his face first, and then glared down at the erection still straining at his trousers. The idea of wanking off after a dream like that made him feel faintly sick.
“Would you like me to help you with that?” a voice rough and filled with sexual promise murmured into his ear.
John stiffened. He hadn’t even realised that Sherlock had moved. “No, Sherlock.”
“Are you sure about that?” A long, slender hand slid over John’s shoulder, down his chest and stomach to grip him through his trousers. “It looks quite… painful.” He squeezed.
John couldn’t help the groan, low and guttural, because he did want this.
But… no.
“No, Sherlock,” John said again, voice firm.
Sherlock sighed against his ear and John shivered at the heated exhale as it touched his oversensitised skin. “Why are you being so stubborn? You help me, I help you. Beneficial for all.” His fingers traced the outline of John’s cock, light and tantalising.
John took a deep breath. He would step away, but his body was trapped between the sink and Sherlock. Instead, he gathered every ounce of command he had and threw it into his voice. “No, Sherlock.”
The body behind him tensed, and then finally, finally moved away, leaving John to cling to the sink as he made the effort to bring his legs back under control.
Sherlock refused to speak to him the next morning. He lay on his bunk, facing the wall, legs tucked to his chest. His narrow shoulders looked oddly vulnerable.
“Don’t you want a spot of brekkie, Sherlock?” John asked when the guard came to unlock their door. He didn’t expect an answer, and he didn’t get one. He sighed. “Really, Sherlock… you don’t need to be like that. Last night was… it had nothing to do with you.” A lie, of course. He almost hoped Sherlock would call him out on it.
But still, silence.
“Do you want me to bring you something back? You’re thin enough as it is; you really shouldn’t be skipping meals all the time.”
No reply.
John glanced back towards the door. They were already starting to queue. He licked his lips and ran a hand through his hair, leaving the short bristles to stand awkwardly. “Listen, Sherlock…” He stepped closer to the bunk until his legs touched the edge. Sherlock was so tense he was almost thrumming with it. “I’m sorry,” John murmured, and leaned down to press a kiss to a sharp cheekbone.
He didn’t wait for Sherlock’s response, if he were to get one at all. John straightened and marched out of the cell to queue for breakfast.
“So you’re the new big bad of Pentonville, are you?” a man asked as he slid into the spot across the table.
John sipped lightly at his tea and grimaced. Horrid stuff. It was enough to make anyone go the straight and narrow.
“Well, mate? Are you or aren’t you?”
Glancing up, John realised the man seemed to be talking to him. “Why, is that what people are saying?”
“Took down three men at once, and then another in the shower. So yeah, everyone’s talking.”
“Good for them.”
“Is it true?”
“That I can beat up men? Yes.”
“Would you beat up one for me?”
John’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Someone’s making my life a misery.”
Flicking his gaze over the man, John replied, “You seem healthy enough.”
“Does he have to be hitting me to get you interested?”
“No, but I’m not an idiot either.”
The man stood. “Good to know.”
He left before John could reply.
It wasn’t until he was about fifteen feet from his cell when he heard the crash, and the laughter. People were rushing to the bars of their cells to watch the action, and John put on an extra burst of speed, knowing, and yet hoping-
The door to the cell stood open. Four men crowded inside, crowing and throwing taunts. A fifth man crouched on Sherlock’s bunk thrusting, as a sixth man gripped Sherlock’s wrists, holding them to the bunk, hard enough to bruise. Sherlock’s mouth was bleeding with how hard he was biting it, and John just knew the man would sooner die than scream for help or whimper.
None of the men had noticed he had arrived yet. John glanced around once more, then grabbed the closest one by the neck of his jumpsuit and slammed him backwards into the bars of the cell.
Ascertaining that the man had been knocked cold instantly, John moved onto the next. At the sudden noise, number two had started to turn his head (clearly supposed to be lookout, but distracted by the… show, John thought with a mental growl). John slammed his fist first to the man’s trachea, and then to his nose. He heard the satisfying crunch, and the man crumpled at his feet.
By now, three and four had realised what was happening. One ran past John to the open door (incapacitation unnecessary - note face and distinctive features for future reference) while the other grabbed the closest thing at hand as a weapon - John’s library book. He threw it at John in a frantic motion.
John caught it easily, dropped it, and advanced. Even more panicked now, number four threw a right hook. John caught the man’s arm, pivoted on his heel, and, using the momentum, slammed number four into the man holding Sherlock’s wrists.
“Holy shit, you bloody little-” The last one. John could see him pulling out of Sherlock roughly, cock still erect and covered with specks of blood.
Blood. Sun reflected on sand. Explosions.
John’s vision went red.
As the man hurriedly tucked himself back into his jumpsuit, John stalked the remaining steps over and grabbed his wrist, twisting hard.
Snap!
Not enough, John thought, and gripped the man’s head and neck.
“John, don’t.” Sherlock’s voice, rough. Pained. John glanced over, saw Sherlock’s pale thighs, bruises stark against pale skin, and more blood from- John turned back to the convict with a low, animalistic snarl.
“No! No, please!” The man begged, tears and snot mixing on his face. Pathetic. His hand, the one not broken, scrambled at John’s wrist, trying to break his grip.
Another snap, this one much more satisfying, and John let the body fall to the floor.
There was a long pause, and then the last two conscious attackers ran out, grabbing their friends, and slamming the cell door shut behind them.
“Fuck, John,” Sherlock breathed, and tried to sit up. “Now what are we going to do?”
~to be continued…~
A/N: Nothing like a good, ol’ neck snap to get people’s attention. I truly hope that part didn’t squick anyone, but I think that John would do anything to keep Sherlock safe, and it’s just by pure luck that he has a gun in the show and didn’t have to kill the cabbie with his bare hands, and of course he can’t have a gun in prison (unless this is just the worst prison ever). He’d have certainly snapped The Golem’s neck, if The Golem weren’t such a creepy giant, with creepy giant bones.
And I really am deeply sorry that it took me almost a month to get this chapter out. Class has just about been kicking my ass, and then when I’m not studying, I’m inundating myself with nummy fanfictions that aren’t mine. Hey, it happens! And until chapter seven, enjoy one seriously BAMF!John chapter, like omfg. I cannot believe I wrote this.
...Previous chapter | Next chapter...