DarkFic
Title: Untitled Dark Fic Desperate
Characters: Implied Sherlock/John, Lestrade
Rating: R, probably.
Warnings: Uh, dark. Mentions of non-consensual bondage.
Spoilers: None
Disclaimers: Sadly, not mine. Not mine in even the vaguest sense of the word.
Author's Notes: A fill for this prompt, "John finally works up the courage to leave Sherlock. He waits until Sherlock falls asleep, then slips out of their bed and walks out into the night." If you've any triggers, I'd take a look at the full prompt, just to be safe.
Not beta'd, nor brit-picked. Some editing between here and the fill. As stated, not sure what I want to do with this quite yet (I'm thinking a trilogy of ficlets? Present-Prequel-Sequel?) and I'm hoping that posting it here will help me to not leave it by the wayside. Well... I did something.
John can't stop trembling.
It's cold outside, and all he has on is a pair of jeans and one of Sherlock's button-ups. Bare feet, no shoes, no time for shoes, this is the first chance he's had, and he took it, he had to take it, he hates himself for taking it, but he couldn't stay, he couldn't.
Dear John, and you can't see him, can barely hear him, but the vibrations from the deep voice roll through you, Dear John, Sherlock says, trailing fingers over your face like it’s something precious.
His legs can barely support him, but he keeps stumbling, dragging his shoulder along brick, and it's hard, he hasn't been on his feet for a week, an entire week, seven days tied down, no matter how he asked begged demanded pleaded.
It is necessary, you see, and you flinch at the baritone, the first noise in hours, but towards it or away you can't recall. You say you won't leave, John, but people lie, John, people lie all the time, and it's not that I don't believe trust love you, John, I just don't trust humanity.
John is panting; short, shallow breaths that exit his lips in a white haze. And he's dizzy, and weak, and he’s stumbling tripping dragging himself away, just away, not sure where he's going.
You understand, don't you John, I knew you'd understand, and Sherlock’s smile is blinding, directed all at you, but you can't smile back, can't, because you’re sore and hungry and thirsty and the gag won't let you anyway.
New Scotland Yard shines like a beacon of pure hope, and John's not quite sure how he got there but it's lovely, so lovely. And it hits him like a fist, Lestrade, Lestrade can help will help must help, Sherlock had been on a case and crashed afterwards, had released John to fall asleep wrapped around him, was still asleep, please still be asleep, but Lestrade would be up would be here would help.
And it's empty, blissfully empty, except for the light pouring into the hallway from Lestrade's office, from Lestrade, all lit up and sallow underneath the desk lamp.
"John, are you alright?"
And he isn't, he isn't, he tries to say but can't, can't speak, can only breathe, can only try and slow his lungs down, breathe through his nose, and Lestrade pushes him into a chair.
"You look a mess, what happened?"
Sherlock, his lips move, but no sound comes out, just a croak, a rattle, just dry air moving past chapped lips. And Lestrade hands him the bottle of water hiding among the paperwork but his hands are trembling, he is trembling, and he can't hold onto the cap long enough to take it off.
Lestrade huffs as he takes the bottle back, twists the cap off, hands it over and it is stale and warm and wonderful.
"Should have known he wouldn't take care of you properly."
And the plastic bottle squeals as John's fist tightens around it.
"Think he'll let me have a go at you for bringing you back?"
He can't breathe again, can't, can only take short, shallow breaths, except he's not breathing, not entirely, because with each exhale his lips form the word no, no, no, but the sound refuses to form.
"Probably best not to ask," Lestrade grins down at him, leans close to him, "he'll be pissed enough for letting you escape."
Continued with a prequel (but I'd read this one first!), Desire, and a sequel, Despair.
Characters: Implied Sherlock/John, Lestrade
Rating: R, probably.
Warnings: Uh, dark. Mentions of non-consensual bondage.
Spoilers: None
Disclaimers: Sadly, not mine. Not mine in even the vaguest sense of the word.
Author's Notes: A fill for this prompt, "John finally works up the courage to leave Sherlock. He waits until Sherlock falls asleep, then slips out of their bed and walks out into the night." If you've any triggers, I'd take a look at the full prompt, just to be safe.
Not beta'd, nor brit-picked. Some editing between here and the fill. As stated, not sure what I want to do with this quite yet (I'm thinking a trilogy of ficlets? Present-Prequel-Sequel?) and I'm hoping that posting it here will help me to not leave it by the wayside. Well... I did something.
John can't stop trembling.
It's cold outside, and all he has on is a pair of jeans and one of Sherlock's button-ups. Bare feet, no shoes, no time for shoes, this is the first chance he's had, and he took it, he had to take it, he hates himself for taking it, but he couldn't stay, he couldn't.
Dear John, and you can't see him, can barely hear him, but the vibrations from the deep voice roll through you, Dear John, Sherlock says, trailing fingers over your face like it’s something precious.
His legs can barely support him, but he keeps stumbling, dragging his shoulder along brick, and it's hard, he hasn't been on his feet for a week, an entire week, seven days tied down, no matter how he asked begged demanded pleaded.
It is necessary, you see, and you flinch at the baritone, the first noise in hours, but towards it or away you can't recall. You say you won't leave, John, but people lie, John, people lie all the time, and it's not that I don't believe trust love you, John, I just don't trust humanity.
John is panting; short, shallow breaths that exit his lips in a white haze. And he's dizzy, and weak, and he’s stumbling tripping dragging himself away, just away, not sure where he's going.
You understand, don't you John, I knew you'd understand, and Sherlock’s smile is blinding, directed all at you, but you can't smile back, can't, because you’re sore and hungry and thirsty and the gag won't let you anyway.
New Scotland Yard shines like a beacon of pure hope, and John's not quite sure how he got there but it's lovely, so lovely. And it hits him like a fist, Lestrade, Lestrade can help will help must help, Sherlock had been on a case and crashed afterwards, had released John to fall asleep wrapped around him, was still asleep, please still be asleep, but Lestrade would be up would be here would help.
And it's empty, blissfully empty, except for the light pouring into the hallway from Lestrade's office, from Lestrade, all lit up and sallow underneath the desk lamp.
"John, are you alright?"
And he isn't, he isn't, he tries to say but can't, can't speak, can only breathe, can only try and slow his lungs down, breathe through his nose, and Lestrade pushes him into a chair.
"You look a mess, what happened?"
Sherlock, his lips move, but no sound comes out, just a croak, a rattle, just dry air moving past chapped lips. And Lestrade hands him the bottle of water hiding among the paperwork but his hands are trembling, he is trembling, and he can't hold onto the cap long enough to take it off.
Lestrade huffs as he takes the bottle back, twists the cap off, hands it over and it is stale and warm and wonderful.
"Should have known he wouldn't take care of you properly."
And the plastic bottle squeals as John's fist tightens around it.
"Think he'll let me have a go at you for bringing you back?"
He can't breathe again, can't, can only take short, shallow breaths, except he's not breathing, not entirely, because with each exhale his lips form the word no, no, no, but the sound refuses to form.
"Probably best not to ask," Lestrade grins down at him, leans close to him, "he'll be pissed enough for letting you escape."
Continued with a prequel (but I'd read this one first!), Desire, and a sequel, Despair.