DarkFic Sequel
Title: Despair
Characters: Implied Sherlock/John and Lestrade/John
Rating: R
Warnings: Dark, implied dub-con/non-con, non-consensual bondage
Spoilers: None
Disclaimers: Still not mine. Really.
Author's Notes: A sequel to Desperate and Desire, and an expansion on this prompt.
If you've any triggers, I'd take a look at the full prompt, just to be safe.
In a way, Sherlock is proud of him.
After all, how many men can claim to have the courage to run away, knowing full and well that tracking them down would be child’s play? To know how futile it was, to know that there would be repercussions, and to strive for freedom anyway, took a certain mixture of valor and hopeless stupidity.
He can be forgiven, in time, Sherlock supposes. John is so unavoidably human, after all.
But not tonight.
Sherlock knows that he loves like an infant: selfishly, greedily, and entirely in his own self interest. He is loath to share John with anything, ever, yet has no trouble ignoring him in favor of his own desires. He knows it is not love, true love, not that thing described as gallant and tender and equal, but he also knows that this feeling is the closest he will get to it, and it is a fair enough term for his uses.
People in love do not do what he does to John, and he knows this too, and he does not care.
Love does not compel one to confine their object of affection to a bed for over 150 hours. But really, after the first incident that restraints were introduced to their intimate relations, how could John expect his mind not to go down that path? John loves him, after all, real love, true love, and doesn’t that imply a certain knowledge of the person?
Perhaps he is giving John too much credit. It had been an accident, after all.
He had simply neglected to release the man when he ran off to pursue Lestrade’s latest case. But it had been such a relief, knowing exactly where John would be upon his return. Such a dramatic easing of tension, knowing John, wonderfully, terribly human John, wouldn’t suddenly realize exactly what he had given his heart to and run away screaming.
Oh, he screamed anyway, but the cheerful red ball gag muffled it amazingly. And it looked so nice against his skin, Sherlock had decided to keep it there, even after he stopped.
Lestrade is unbearably smug as he prods the wayward man upstairs. Smug and hopeful, and completely obvious in what he wants. It seems that John has yet to regain his voice as he shivers in their sitting room, clearly conflicted on whether to lean towards Sherlock or Lestrade. No choice he makes will end well for him; it is obvious he knows this.
Logic dictates that he should be feeling exceedingly wroth, and he knows he will, eventually, but at this time all Sherlock can manage is a deep irritation. The fact of the matter is that all Sherlock wants to do at this very moment is sleep. Between the case provided by Lestrade and John’s appealingly prostrate form, in the last seven days he has gotten less than 30 hours of sleep, none of which occurred in the last 48 hours. It was a regrettable lapse of judgment that led to the release of John’s restraints, but Sherlock couldn’t muster the energy required to lament it, as at the time it was necessary for an appropriate rest.
No doubt, after several hours of sleep, he will be all too keen to show John the error of his ways. But right now, no, that will not do at all.
A sigh is heaved at the two of them before he leads John to his bedroom. Lestrade saw it fit to handcuff John; unnecessary, really, as John clearly lacked the ability to do more than shake his head and rasp what may have been words. His lips form ‘Sherlock’ and ‘please’, which, interspersed with the occasional whimper is marvelous, really, but Sherlock is in no mood to appreciate it.
To anyone capable of observing, it is obvious that the first floor bedroom had, at one time, been the dining room. This is useless knowledge, except for the fact that directly in the center hung an ornamental hook, which was once intended for an opulent and heavy chandelier, and is now intended for something not entirely dissimilar.
John’s whimpers reach a higher pitch when Sherlock removes his belt; his knees visibly rattle and he hits the floor hard. Sherlock makes a mental note to consider some sort of nourishment schedule, but later, later, as he drags John back up to his feet by the chain strung in front of him.
He drapes the belt over the hook, loops it through the chain, and ties it; the hook embedded in the ceiling can hold at least 200 pounds, the belt is leather of supreme quality; it should do for now. John watches him as he dangles there, torn between his two options of standing on the tips of his toes, or hanging from his arms. The first he will tire of eventually, the second will pain him in both his shoulder and his wrists. Sherlock nods once, satisfied, as John’s eyes widen and his breath shortens with fear.
Then he turns to leave.
Lestrade stands awkwardly in the doorway, half unsure whether his presence is welcome, half unwilling to leave. Pausing only to grab an item from the bed, Sherlock approaches Lestrade with stiff, irritated movements.
“I will be sleeping on the couch for the next four hours, at least.” The gag changes hands, John shuffles and wheezes beyond his back, and Lestrade favors him with the grin very few people think him capable of. “Do what you will, but do not, under any circumstances, release him.”
The wheezing turns into syllables, half formed and unintelligible, but once Sherlock closes the door, he can’t hear him at all.
THE END.
Characters: Implied Sherlock/John and Lestrade/John
Rating: R
Warnings: Dark, implied dub-con/non-con, non-consensual bondage
Spoilers: None
Disclaimers: Still not mine. Really.
Author's Notes: A sequel to Desperate and Desire, and an expansion on this prompt.
If you've any triggers, I'd take a look at the full prompt, just to be safe.
In a way, Sherlock is proud of him.
After all, how many men can claim to have the courage to run away, knowing full and well that tracking them down would be child’s play? To know how futile it was, to know that there would be repercussions, and to strive for freedom anyway, took a certain mixture of valor and hopeless stupidity.
He can be forgiven, in time, Sherlock supposes. John is so unavoidably human, after all.
But not tonight.
Sherlock knows that he loves like an infant: selfishly, greedily, and entirely in his own self interest. He is loath to share John with anything, ever, yet has no trouble ignoring him in favor of his own desires. He knows it is not love, true love, not that thing described as gallant and tender and equal, but he also knows that this feeling is the closest he will get to it, and it is a fair enough term for his uses.
People in love do not do what he does to John, and he knows this too, and he does not care.
Love does not compel one to confine their object of affection to a bed for over 150 hours. But really, after the first incident that restraints were introduced to their intimate relations, how could John expect his mind not to go down that path? John loves him, after all, real love, true love, and doesn’t that imply a certain knowledge of the person?
Perhaps he is giving John too much credit. It had been an accident, after all.
He had simply neglected to release the man when he ran off to pursue Lestrade’s latest case. But it had been such a relief, knowing exactly where John would be upon his return. Such a dramatic easing of tension, knowing John, wonderfully, terribly human John, wouldn’t suddenly realize exactly what he had given his heart to and run away screaming.
Oh, he screamed anyway, but the cheerful red ball gag muffled it amazingly. And it looked so nice against his skin, Sherlock had decided to keep it there, even after he stopped.
Lestrade is unbearably smug as he prods the wayward man upstairs. Smug and hopeful, and completely obvious in what he wants. It seems that John has yet to regain his voice as he shivers in their sitting room, clearly conflicted on whether to lean towards Sherlock or Lestrade. No choice he makes will end well for him; it is obvious he knows this.
Logic dictates that he should be feeling exceedingly wroth, and he knows he will, eventually, but at this time all Sherlock can manage is a deep irritation. The fact of the matter is that all Sherlock wants to do at this very moment is sleep. Between the case provided by Lestrade and John’s appealingly prostrate form, in the last seven days he has gotten less than 30 hours of sleep, none of which occurred in the last 48 hours. It was a regrettable lapse of judgment that led to the release of John’s restraints, but Sherlock couldn’t muster the energy required to lament it, as at the time it was necessary for an appropriate rest.
No doubt, after several hours of sleep, he will be all too keen to show John the error of his ways. But right now, no, that will not do at all.
A sigh is heaved at the two of them before he leads John to his bedroom. Lestrade saw it fit to handcuff John; unnecessary, really, as John clearly lacked the ability to do more than shake his head and rasp what may have been words. His lips form ‘Sherlock’ and ‘please’, which, interspersed with the occasional whimper is marvelous, really, but Sherlock is in no mood to appreciate it.
To anyone capable of observing, it is obvious that the first floor bedroom had, at one time, been the dining room. This is useless knowledge, except for the fact that directly in the center hung an ornamental hook, which was once intended for an opulent and heavy chandelier, and is now intended for something not entirely dissimilar.
John’s whimpers reach a higher pitch when Sherlock removes his belt; his knees visibly rattle and he hits the floor hard. Sherlock makes a mental note to consider some sort of nourishment schedule, but later, later, as he drags John back up to his feet by the chain strung in front of him.
He drapes the belt over the hook, loops it through the chain, and ties it; the hook embedded in the ceiling can hold at least 200 pounds, the belt is leather of supreme quality; it should do for now. John watches him as he dangles there, torn between his two options of standing on the tips of his toes, or hanging from his arms. The first he will tire of eventually, the second will pain him in both his shoulder and his wrists. Sherlock nods once, satisfied, as John’s eyes widen and his breath shortens with fear.
Then he turns to leave.
Lestrade stands awkwardly in the doorway, half unsure whether his presence is welcome, half unwilling to leave. Pausing only to grab an item from the bed, Sherlock approaches Lestrade with stiff, irritated movements.
“I will be sleeping on the couch for the next four hours, at least.” The gag changes hands, John shuffles and wheezes beyond his back, and Lestrade favors him with the grin very few people think him capable of. “Do what you will, but do not, under any circumstances, release him.”
The wheezing turns into syllables, half formed and unintelligible, but once Sherlock closes the door, he can’t hear him at all.
THE END.