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splixTitle: If You Can't Move Heaven, Raise Hell
Author: Alex
Fandom: Sherlock [BBC]
Rating: Varies
Pairing: Sherlock/John; Sherlock/Ian Adler; John Watson/Ian Adler; Jim Moriarty/Sebastian Moran
Disclaimer: A.C. Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss.
Summary: All John Watson wants is a peaceful fortnight's holiday in Cornwall. Fate has other plans, to wit:
1. An abbey in the Italian Alps
2. Murder
3. Mayhem
4. Criminals he has known and would rather forget
5. Bondage
6. Sex
7. Sherlock
Not necessarily in that order.
Warnings: Violence, explicit sex, dubious consent.
Notes: I don't genderswap as a rule, but I saw this marvelous gif of Tom Hiddleston and Sherlock and couldn't resist. The rest is shameless self-indulgence.
Plot happily magpied from everywhere, with especial apologies to Umberto Eco.
Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kimberlite for the sharp-eyed beta.
This fic is a gift for sithdragn, with affection.
Can also be read on AO3
*
*
Sherlock finished his search, got to his feet with a yawn, and put John’s phone down on the bedside table. He paused and regarded John’s still form, his face in repose, and willfully turned away, stalking to the window and staring out at the ancient buildings and the rose-coloured sky behind them.
It wasn’t profundity he sought, nor even truth; it was causality, really, simple enough in its way. The application of his intellect to what lesser beings deemed chaos, the delicate threading through seemingly random objects, locales, and events to find a pattern shimmering with meaning and symmetry, the clear-headed, knowing, and rational immersion of self into the minds of those who fancied themselves different, unusual, brilliant – Ian Adler was right. He didn’t give a damn about a junkie in a Hackney doorway, or whatever. Why should he? There was nothing interesting about the millions of brutal, tiny little minds of the ordinary criminal class. It was the outré that seduced him, the problems that the authorities found insoluble, the ostensibly senseless riddles that threw up locked and barred doors that tempted and beckoned. Minds and methods could be picked apart and laid bare for examination. Hearts, now….
He pivoted on his heel and stared down at John for a moment, conscious of an uncomfortable knot in his midsection that had nothing to do with hunger. So much care and attention lavished on matters of the heart, so much misery caused by the attempt to interpret emotions as if they held some underlying truth, as if they weren’t a furious, churning stew of chemicals that sent confusing messages to the brain and spurred people into making ridiculously foolish decisions that they fancied would bring them happiness beyond fleeting physical pleasure. Even Sherlock, to his own considerable distress, had been subject to repeated attacks of physiological confusion, and the subject of his confusion lay sleeping peacefully in bed.
At times, he contemplated the possibility of simply slipping into bed beside John and curling his hand around John’s cock. Given the statistical probability of erections achieved by the human male during sleep, he had no doubt that he’d be able to bring John to a heightened state of arousal in fairly short order, and when John awoke, odds were that he’d be too far gone to protest (though if he did, Sherlock would certainly stop...almost certainly) and that they could both satisfy their physical urges. Sherlock wasn’t quite as oblivious as he sometimes affected to be; surely, surely, despite his uncertainty and lack of in-depth experience with affairs of the heart, he had correctly interpreted some signals from John – offhand remarks, the occasional lingering gaze – and if he could bring them both relief, then so much the better. Things could go on as they had in the beginning of their relationship.
“Relationship,” Sherlock muttered softly. “Oh, God.” He went back to the window and glared out at the darkening sky. His imagination wouldn’t compensate for how John might actually react to such a thing. What if John read more into an encounter than was really there? If he fantasized an intimate relationship where none existed because clearly the platoons of women he dated weren’t meeting his (oh dear God in heaven) emotional needs? Even as an experiment, it seemed doomed to utter failure, and though he knew he trampled rather serenely over John’s feelings from time to time, he thought in this instance, it was best to tread carefully. For John’s sake.
Not that any of this new-found sensitivity solved the problem; in fact, it made things worse. He’d been happier existing in a realm of cognitive hyperactivity and blithe imperviousness to the feelings of other people. John had thrown a spanner into his works, and he wasn’t sure he liked it at all.
John made a small noise in his throat and shifted. One hand slipped off the bed and dangled limply, half-curled like a trusting child’s, but alluring in its unmistakable masculinity: solid, strong, ruthlessly competent, bearing small white scars here and there, testament to a life fully lived, spent in both combat and healing. God knew Sherlock had felt them often enough, warm, probing gently at half a hundred hurts. And he’d be lying if he said he’d never imagined those hands touching him in another capacity.
Silent, catlike, he approached John’s bed, lifted his hand, and laid it gently on the mattress. John sighed and shifted again, his forehead contracting in a frown. Sherlock stifled the impulse to touch the furrows, to smooth them away, and stepped back from the bed.
Damn it.
A knock sounded at Sherlock’s door. He moved through the connecting bath into his own room and opened the door. Simon stood on the threshold, his hands laced tightly together.
“May I speak with you?”
Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, closed his side of the bathroom door so John wouldn’t be disturbed, and ushered Simon in.
*
Sherlock sat cross-legged on his bed, fingers steepled beneath his chin, and listened to Simon’s weary, frightened monologue without speaking. One thing in Simon’s favour – he didn’t mince words. He reached the point in fairly short order.
“I don’t see what bearing any of this has on the present crisis, Simon.” That wasn’t quite true, but no point in encouraging Simon in what seemed a fruitless venture. “My advice? Sell. Mr. Adler has you by the short hairs.”
Simon rested his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands. “Give in? That’s your advice? I thought you of all people might have a better idea than that.”
“You’ve made matters rather easy for him,” Sherlock observed. Simon lifted his head and glared. “God, Simon. Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not sitting in judgment – what you do in your downtime is your business, though you might have been more discreet. Ian Adler has the power to ruin you. If you tried to fight him, or his employer, what weapons have you got at your disposal? Hardly anything, as far as I can see.”
“I’ve – I’ve broken things off with Elena. No point in making things worse.” Simon crumpled a bit in his chair. “What if I do agree to sell, and he publishes the evidence nevertheless? There are those who seek to damage the Church in whatever scurrilous way they can.”
Sherlock refrained from a crack about altar boys, but just. John would have been proud. “He might,” he conceded, “but I can’t see why he would. He wants you to sell. He doesn’t bear any personal animosity toward you, does he?”
“No. I’d not set eyes on him until a few days ago. There are forty-six other monks in this abbey, Sherlock. Whatever I’ve done – or whatever foolish choice Brother Marcelo has made – the others don’t deserve to be tarnished as well. Surely you can see that.”
Sherlock lifted his shoulders in a shrug of pure indifference. “You should have thought of that before having an affair with the mayor’s wife.”
“Yes, I realise that. Thanks ever so much. Isn’t there anything you can do?”
Incredulity laddered Sherlock’s brow. “What do you want me to do – beat the pictures out of him?”
“You’re clever,” Simon said grudgingly. “Can’t you…I don’t know, steal his phone?”
“Hardly ethical.” What sort of challenge would it be to obtain Ian’s phone? “Besides, he might keep copies of the pictures elsewhere. Of course, copies might beg the question of whether Ian was actually the originator of the evidence, mightn’t they? Interesting conundrum, Simon, but not a problem in which I’m particularly interested. And I need hardly remind you that I’m working on something else at the moment.” Ian Adler. Brother Marcelo. Oscar Dzundza. The missing codex. And a hunk of radioactive rock. Why would Ian, or his employers, want this monastery so badly? It had to be difficult to maintain, expensive to house and feed and keep warm four dozen monks. One couldn’t do much with a site like San Stefano, so why purchase unless the possibility of significant remuneration was –
Oh.
Oh.
“Sherlock….” Simon began. “Sherlock, I’m – I’m begging you. This abbey has been extant since the thirteenth century. I know you’re not the sort of person who believes in purity of intention, but I can only assure you that my concern is for the monastery, not myself. It would break my heart to leave, but –“
“Shut up,” Sherlock said, and held up a forestalling hand. “I’ll do it.” It was all connected. There were just a few pieces missing, pieces that Ian Adler would be able to fit in place.
Simon’s face sagged. “You’ll get the phone?”
“Yes. Assuming the content is unique to his mobile, that’s one facet of the problem taken care of. The problem of financing this place isn’t mine, I’m afraid.”
“Let me and Vicki worry about that.” Simon glanced up as a bell tolled. “Supper. You’d better wake your friend.” He rose to his feet. “Sherlock – thank you. I know I haven’t been –“
“Thank me when you’ve got the phone,” Sherlock said, standing and moving toward the connecting bath. With a bit of luck and persuasion, he’d have this entire case wrapped up by the end of the evening. Ian Adler, he suspected, was the key.
John was still asleep. Sherlock watched him for a moment, willing himself to examine John with flat objectivity, to allow the thrill of pursuit and unravelling the tangle of uncertainty that surrounded the monastery to assume dominion over all else, to sink back into the unchanging self that had filled him with contentment for so long. He took a step toward the bed, bent down, and grasped John’s shoulder, warm and solid beneath the scratchy woollen fibres of his jumper.
Sherlock’s fingers tightened minutely, pushing themselves into the yielding warmth of John’s flesh. He sucked in a quick breath, frowned, and shook John’s shoulder abruptly. “John. John! Wake up.” A humming sort of grunt emerged from John’s parted lips, and Sherlock shook him again. “Come on, John, get up.”
“Uh?” John blinked, looked up at Sherlock, and pressed his face into the pillow. “Tired.”
Sherlock snatched his hand away. “Dinner time, John. Get up. I doubt they’ll let you raid the fridge at midnight.”
“Okay, okay,” John mumbled, and pushed himself up. He yawned deeply and sniffed. “Thanks for letting me nap.”
“Not at all. Hurry, though – we’ll be late.” Sherlock went into his room and shrugged his coat on. If he were to act upon his impulses – what then? Would the resolution of their alliance falter? He needed John; he could admit that much to himself. If John wasn’t a genius, he was so often the catalyst that fuelled Sherlock’s perspicacity. They worked well together, John tolerated almost all of Sherlock’s eccentricities, and it was awfully handy to have a doctor around when necessary. Were they to couple for the sake of impermanent pleasure, the warp and weft of their friendship might change irrevocably – might, in fact, dissolve altogether. He didn’t want to endanger the only lasting friendship he’d had in – well, almost the only lasting friendship he’d ever had.
John ambled into his room. “What have you been up to?”
Sherlock let his gaze brush John’s face, lingering for the briefest moment at his mouth. “I think we’re close to cracking this, John.” He turned away and opened the door, holding it so John could pass through. “I need you to do something for me tonight, though.”
*
Dinner was roasted aubergine with a sprinkling of some soft, creamy cheese and herbed tomato sauce. Sherlock tasted it tentatively and found it not bad. Beside him, John was chewing with his eyes closed as if he were in ecstasy. “I’ve got to get this recipe,” he mumbled.
“It’s…rather good, actually. Do that, John.”
“I bet it’s not difficult. Maybe you could even learn to cook it.” Sherlock snorted in reply, and John chuckled. “Yeah, I won’t hold my breath or anything.”
“Wise,” Sherlock said. “John, look at Brother Marcelo.”
“He’s sweating.”
“Either the aubergine isn’t agreeing with him or he’s nervous and twitchy about something,” Sherlock said, pitching his voice so that only John could hear him. “Keep an eye on him whilst I get the phone from Adler.”
“You sure you don’t need help with that? The monks will be going to prayers, and Adler might have something tricky up his sleeve.” John stared at Ian in flat dislike. Ian’s attention was concentrated on his food and the garrulous monk next to him. “I knew he was a sneaky bugger the minute I clapped eyes on him.”
“I think it’ll be simpler if it’s just me. Brother Marcelo looks as if he’s about to snap. Follow the monks to Compline – they welcome visitors to their services – and then see what Brother Marcelo’s up to. He knows the net is closing around him and he might have access to some vital piece of evidence – maybe the codex itself. If we can break him open, he could yield some valuable information.”
“All right,” John said, though he was clearly reluctant. “Be careful. Call me if it gets sticky.”
“Don’t worry. I can handle him.”
“Right,” John muttered, and Sherlock gave him a sharp look, but didn’t reply.
Supper concluded with a sugar-dusted berry tart with crème fraiche and tiny cups of coffee. Enjoying it far more than the aubergine, Sherlock wolfed his and licked the cream from the tines of the fork. He caught John’s eye. “What?”
“Nothing.” John dropped his gaze and cut into his half-eaten tart. “You enjoyed that.”
“You should get that recipe, too.”
John let out a noncommittal grunt. The monks were beginning to gather up plates and cups in orderly fashion, and Sherlock and John followed them into the kitchen, placing their dirty dishes in shallow bins. Sherlock nodded toward Brother Marcelo who kept darting glances at them as he engaged in conversation with another monk. “Go on,” Sherlock murmured, and moved swiftly through the knots of white-and-black-robed men to catch hold of Ian’s leather-clad arm before he left the refectory. “Can I have a word?”
Ian stopped and pivoted on his heel. Sherlock dropped his hand and Ian smiled. “Certainly. You can have whatever you like.”
“Good, that’ll make this so much easier.”
“Shall we talk here, or somewhere more private?”
“Your room, I think.”
“Ah.” Ian’s smile deepened. “Splendid. Follow me, please.”
Ian’s room turned out to be in the same building as Sherlock and John’s, at the end of the long corridor. Ian opened the door and gestured for Sherlock to precede him. Sherlock gave Ian a thin smile. “No, after you. I insist.”
Ian’s good humour was irrepressible. “Whatever you say, Gaston.” He moved into the room, clicked on the bedside lamp, tossed the key on the night table, and sat on the iron single bed, leaning back on his hands. “I imagine the décor in your room is similar. They went for a sort of minimalist chic. Not quite sure they succeeded, but I doubt Homes & Gardens will be stopping by for photographs, so it doesn’t really matter.” He glanced around and regarded Sherlock pleasantly. “So. What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?”
“You have something I want.”
One eyebrow tilted delicately upward. “Do I indeed?”
“Your mobile.”
“Ah.” Ian’s smile thinned a bit. “You spoke to Father Trevor, I take it. Or rather, Father Trevor spoke to you. That was rather unwise of him.”
“Blackmailing a monastery’s rather unwise of you,” Sherlock replied.
“Quite truthfully, it isn’t. I have several business interests. Professional blackmail happens to be the most lucrative.”
“Until now.” Sherlock held out his hand. “The mobile, please.”
Ian sat up. “When did you become Father Trevor’s hired hooligan? Are you planning to break my arm if I don’t give it to you? And isn’t this a bit of a distraction from your other case?”
“Ah, but that’s just it, you see,” Sherlock said. “I have a feeling that my other case and the matter of your mobile are closely intertwined. Who are you working for, Ian?”
The smile finally dissolved from Ian’s face. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
“Isn’t it? Whoever it is, he or she is interested in uranium mining. Isn’t that so?” Sherlock produced his own phone and typed rapidly. “Quite a lot of limestone in this region. Quite a lot of recently discovered uraninite in this region as well. Possibly a large cache in the mountains behind us. Could be it’s not the monastery they’re after at all.”
Ian shook his head. “Could be. I don’t know what my employer wants the place for. It doesn’t matter to me. I’m just a means to an end, Sherlock.”
Sherlock studied Ian’s face, which appeared totally guileless. Lying, Sherlock thought. Has to be. Doesn’t matter. He shrugged. “I suppose your knowledge of your employer’s motives are irrelevant, in the end. Male or female, by the way?”
Ian’s shrug matched Sherlock’s for nonchalance. “Male.”
“Irish? Slight, dark hair and eyes?”
“Again, none of your business.”
“Very well.” Sherlock held his hand out again. “Mobile, please.”
Ian slid his hand into an inner pocket of the sleek black leather jacket he wore. Sherlock braced himself for a weapon, but it was a black rubber-cased mobile phone lying benignly on his palm. Ian’s eyes met Sherlock’s, then he smiled and slid the phone into his front trouser pocket. “Sorry, Sherlock. If you want it, you’re going to have to come and get it.”
“Charming,” Sherlock said dryly. He sighed, took off his coat, and draped it on the back of the room’s single chair, then seated himself, folding his arms and crossing one leg over the other. “Are you implying some sort of rematch? Because if I wanted to take it by force, I could.”
“Could you now?” Ian asked, clearly delighted. “Well, well.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, please.”
“I knew you’d be back. The mobile’s just an excuse, really.”
“Your sense of fair play is skewed.”
“Oh, come on, Sherlock. You were cheating, bunching your muscles up the way you did – I had to even the playing field.”
“Since we’re here, why don’t you tell me what Brother Marcelo is doing for you, and how he’s connected to the deaths in the abbey. He’s your conduit, isn’t he? Hiding you, hiding Dzundza –“ Sherlock smiled. “That’s right. Didn’t know I knew about Dzundza, did you?”
Ian frowned and pulled his expensive leather duffel onto his bed. “Sherlock, you’re involving yourself in something very dangerous. Dzundza is nobody to antagonise.”
“I’ve tangled with him before.” Thank God for John.
“And lived? Well done, you.”
“Is the codex still here?”
Ian shook his head, rummaging through his bag. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
Sherlock stood up, stalked to the bed, and grasped Ian by his jacket, hauling him up. “Why did those monks have to die?”
“I didn’t kill them, if you’re curious.” Ian’s face was calm and still.
“Not a murderer? That’s one thing in your favour.” Sherlock pulled Ian close until they were nearly nose to nose. “I’ll ask you once more. Why…did…they…die?”
Ian laughed. “You think I’ll just spill it? Are you planning to slap me around a bit? I don’t do that gratis, Sherlock. I never have.”
An elegantly disbelieving snort escaped Sherlock. “You expect me to pay, is that it?”
“Of course. At this point, as Winston Churchill once said, we’re merely quibbling over the price.” Ian reached up and stroked Sherlock’s cheek, not minding that Sherlock flinched away. He pressed his body close to Sherlock’s. “You might enjoy it, you know.”
Sherlock felt Ian’s stirring erection against his thigh; more importantly, he felt the square bulge of Ian’s mobile. He slipped his hand into Ian’s pocket and grasped it, pulling it free. He held it up in front of Ian’s face. “Thank you.”
Ian grinned. “You’re welcome.” His hand darted swiftly, and Sherlock gasped at a sharp, silvery pain in his arm.
“What –“ Sherlock gaped down at his arm, at the small needle attached to a syringe that Ian carefully withdrew. A peculiar numbness travelled down his arm and began to insinuate itself into his chest. “What –“ His tongue felt thick. He dropped the mobile, staggered forward, and lost his balance. Ian caught him, holding him upright. What have you done to me? He tried to punch Ian but couldn’t lift his arm above his waist.
“Careful, careful,” Ian murmured, dragging Sherlock to the bed. “Don’t worry. It won’t last very long. Atracurium besilate. You know it?”
Sherlock knew it. It was an intermediate-duration non-depolarizing neuromuscular-blocking agent, a muscle relaxant meant to render a subject temporarily paralysed.
“You’ll only be paralysed for ten minutes, fifteen at most,” Ian said, setting his bag next to Sherlock’s supine body and withdrawing neat coils of rope. “Just enough time for me to get things ready.” He leant down, picked the phone up, and set it on the nightstand. “Nice try, by the way.”
Well aware that he was utterly helpless for the moment, Sherlock tried to surge up. He could scarcely feel his hands, but he planted them as best he could on the bed and attempted to heave his body upwards with his elbows. He glared at Ian, but Ian was blithely unwinding one of the ropes, taking his time. Sherlock tried to turn toward the door.
“John!”
That was what he wanted to say; unfortunately it emerged as a whispered “Juhh….” and trailed off into a dry croak.
Ian laid a finger against Sherlock’s lips. “Shh. Nobody can hear you, they’re all at Compline. John, too. Didn’t you send him to keep an eye on Brother Marcelo? Good job you did, too – not that he’s not lovely, but I’ve really been looking forward to this.” He bound one of Sherlock’s wrists to the thin iron slats of the headboard, then the other. He repeated the process with Sherlock’s ankles, binding them to the furthest slats so that Sherlock’s legs were spread apart. “There we are. That’s quite nice, isn’t it? Comfortable?”
“Nn!” Sherlock tried to struggle, but his limbs refused to obey. He felt sweat beading on his brow and gathering between his shoulder blades. He watched Ian’s face, which remained serene, even blithe. He met Sherlock’s eyes a few times and smiled. Sherlock’s mind raced in dizzying circles of bewilderment. Was this a rape in progress? He wouldn’t have guessed that Ian was the sort of man, his profession notwithstanding, to resort to violence…still, whatever this was, it was very much against Sherlock’s will and he’d throttle Ian with his bare hands if he got the chance. And then he’d get the bloody phone back. “Juhh….”
“Oh.” Ian reached into his little bag of tricks once more and produced a white silk scarf. “I have more effective means of keeping you quiet, Sherlock, but let’s just start with this. We might need the others later. This is just a tiny disciplinary measure, more about aesthetics than true silence.” He pushed the silk into Sherlock’s mouth, lifted his head, and tied it in a firm knot behind his neck. “You can communicate to some degree, but most people find it clumsy and embarrassing trying to talk through a mouthful of silk. You’d be surprised how well it works. Though maybe not for you. You do fancy your own powers of speech, don’t you?”
Sherlock tried to push his tongue against the silk, but he was clumsy, and it was bound too tightly to make any difference. He settled for glaring at Ian again. “Mnn!”
“Don’t worry, Sherlock. I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to do.” Ian reached forward and slowly unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt, laying it gently to each side, then drawing his fingertips down Sherlock’s chest to his navel, circling it gently. Sherlock gasped and tried to pull his stomach inward, away from Ian’s touch. “Don’t you like that?”
“Nn!”
“Oh. Sorry.” Ian withdrew his hand, then unfastened Sherlock’s belt buckle.
“NNNnn!” Sherlock felt the feeling returning slowly to his limbs, though not his tongue – must have been eight minutes at most – and struggled as hard as he could.
“Relax. I don’t want to hurt you.” Ian laid the flat of his hand on Sherlock’s abdomen. “It’s easier, isn’t it, when the choice is taken from you?” He unbuttoned and unzipped Sherlock’s trousers, easing them down to his thighs, then stared at Sherlock’s underwear. “Navy silk. Tasteful.” He caressed Sherlock’s hip. “I’m just going to sit over there for a few minutes, until you regain full feeling in your limbs and so on. Just be calm, Sherlock.” Amazingly, Ian did just that. He picked up his phone and sat in the wooden chair. Ignoring Sherlock completely, he began to tap on his phone.
Outraged and – yes – humiliated, Sherlock thrashed frenziedly against the ropes, but only succeeded in chafing his skin to the point of rawness. Panting, he lay back, grinding his teeth against the soft silk in his mouth and drilled imaginary holes into Ian’s smiling face with his eyes. After a few minutes had passed, Ian dialed a number and waited, meeting Sherlock’s glare with another benign smile. “It’s Ian,” he said after a moment. “I have Sherlock with me.” He listened for a moment, then chuckled. “No, he can’t speak to you. Yes, I’m certain I will. He knows about Dzundza, though. You have a problem on your hands.”
Sherlock lifted his head, scanning Ian rapidly. He seemed tense now, and slightly unhappy. He crossed his legs and held his arms close to his sides. One hand brushed his thigh in what seemed a compulsive fashion – up and down, up and down, over and over.
“If that’s what you feel you have to do. I’ve done my part. No, of course I’ll stay. I told Father Trevor I would. Yes. No. Tell him to stay away from me, I told you –“ He was silent for a moment. “All right, then –“ Ian held the phone away, then put it against his ear. “Hello?” He shrugged and rang off.
Sherlock remained still, watching Ian. Ian was afraid of something. His employer. Oscar Dzundza’s employer.
Ian stared down at the phone for a moment, then lifted his head. His customary grin was a little less enthusiastic than before. “The monastery will be enjoying my company for a while more. I have some advice for you, Sherlock.” He set the phone down and moved to the bed, sitting beside Sherlock’s supine body. “I think you should leave. Immediately. The murders are out of your reach, and there’s nothing you can do about the sale of the abbey. If you stay, you’re in danger – you and Dr. Watson both.” He reached behind Sherlock’s head and unknotted the gag.
Sherlock spit it out and ran his tongue over his lips. “Moriarty.”
“You should both leave. Tomorrow morning at the latest.”
“Why should you care if I live or die? You didn’t care about the monks. You don’t care about destroying Brother Marcelo’s reputation.”
“Perhaps I think your intellect’s worth preserving.” Ian brushed Sherlock’s hair back from his forehead. “Or maybe I just like you.”
“You don’t, though. You haven’t got a friend in the world, have you? No one to help you if Moriarty decides to turn his assassin on you. The monks would probably say you’ve chosen poor companions, Ian. Maybe you should go to confession and mend your life.”
“Probably.” Ian picked up the damp silk and forced it between Sherlock’s teeth again. Sherlock twisted, trying to avoid the silk, trying to bite Ian’s hand, but to no avail – Ian fastened it more tightly than before. “And you have Dr. Watson. Lucky you – your own personal soldier, as well as a doctor. The papers love him, you know, almost as much as they love you. Such blind devotion. Jim calls him your dog. But I think you’d like him to be much more than a pet, wouldn’t you?”
“Leave John out of this,” Sherlock said, or attempted to – but the wet silk garbled his words to absurdity. It was humiliating, straining to talk and not being able to. He snarled and squirmed against the ropes and Ian’s long, cool hand, now travelling slowly from his neck to his chest. He inhaled sharply, involuntarily, as Ian’s fingers brushed against his nipple, then pinched it lightly.
“Tell me to stop,” Ian said. “I’ll understand you.” He bent and circled the cup of Sherlock’s navel with his tongue.
Sherlock’s breath came in trembling gasps. His cock stirred, swelling to life. He let his body sag into the soft mattress, telling himself that he needed the phone, to get Ian to reveal Moriarty’s plan in full – surely he knew it, surely – but the sensations quickening in his body made him dizzy, paralysing him more than the drug. His body twitched as Ian’s hand brushed over the front of his underwear, the touch faint, delicately probing. He arched forward. He wanted it to stop. He had a case to solve, he hadn’t time for Oh God, oh God – He heard someone moaning and felt a hot blush of shame as he realised it was his own voice, stifled but not entirely silenced by the silk.
Ian’s hand rubbed back and forth, gently, slowly, toying with him. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”
The touching went on for hours, it seemed, soft, stroking, caressing, interminable. He was fully hard now, totally helpless. Yes, it was easier like this; he could pretend it was all against his will. He’d never explored restraint like this, never wanted to, never cared. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend it wasn’t Ian stroking him so languorously. He looked at Ian’s hand, at his own cock trapped in dark blue silk, at the slightly darker patch of wetness on the expensive fabric. He closed his eyes, clenched his hands into tight fists, the nails digging into his skin. He was close, so close, oh Christ, John –
“Stop!” The plea was muffled, but Ian’s hand vanished at once. Sherlock sagged into the mattress, panting, the silken gag in his mouth soaked with saliva. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head, burying it into his outstretched arm.
Ian sighed deeply. “Sherlock,” he said in a soft voice, “how badly you need this. I’m sorry you decided to stop.” He pulled out Sherlock’s gag and left it hanging round his neck. Its sticky wetness was vaguely repulsive.
“Untie me, now.”
Ian shook his head. “You might try to take my phone again. And you might actually succeed, and I can’t have that. I’m sorry.” He withdrew another syringe from his bag. “This will actually knock you out, but you’ll only be out for an hour or so. Time enough for me to take some precautionary measures.” He pinched a fold of skin on Sherlock’s belly, then frowned. “Not enough. We’ll just have to use the arm again. I’ll use the other one. Hold still now.”
Sherlock complied, only because he didn’t want the needle breaking off. “You’re going to spend a long time in prison for helping Moriarty. You do realise that, don’t you? You’re an accessory to murder now, Ian.”
“Shhh. Don’t try to talk.”
“You –“ A wave of dizziness washed over Sherlock, and he blinked hard. “You’d better –“ The room spun crazily. He lay back on the pillow and saw Ian leaning over him.
Ian bent close and kissed Sherlock on the mouth. “Sleep well.”
Sherlock shook his head. “You –“ but his vision swirled into cloudy grey, then silent, enveloping black.
*
He awoke lying on his own bed. He recognised the rough burlap curtains at his window and the brochures scattered on the little desk. It was dark outside; probably Ian hadn’t lied about the duration of the drug. He blinked, raised his head, and gaped uncomprehendingly as he realised his was still tied hand and foot to the bed. Now, however, there was something that tasted unpleasantly like rubber fixed in his mouth and shaped like…
Oh, God!
The phallus – complete with a bizarre fleshy texture and wrinkles – was uncomfortably thick, tasted dreadful, and was firmly secured in his mouth, attached to a wide piece of leather that covered his lips entirely and fastened behind his head. One of Ian’s more effective means of silencing, apparently. Sherlock hissed out an angry breath through his nose and tugged sharply at the ropes, which didn’t budge. Ian’s skill was everything he’d boasted.
At least he was dressed. God. Small favours.. He felt the weight of his phone in his pocket, but there was no way to reach it. Maybe if he twisted just the right way, it would fall out of his pocket, and he could urge it up toward his hand. He’d text John and prepare himself for a few scathing comments.
He twisted his body as far as he could, but the phone refused to leave the depths of his pocket. Angrily, he thrashed against the ropes, inadvertently slamming the headboard against the wall.
Ah!
Enthusiastically, he shoved his arms back and forth, slamming the headboard loudly against the wall. Nobody came – were they all still in church? Wouldn’t Ian, at least, come in to keep him quiet? What the hell had happened to everybody?
After perhaps twenty minutes of steady banging, he heard footsteps, and the key turning in John’s lock. The door creaked open. Thank God, John. “John!” he tried to shout, but the horrible gag diminished his cry to a soft whimper.
“Sherlock? What are you – Jesus Christ!”
John, covered with dirt and black smudges that looked like coal, and an ugly, bloody cut decorating his forehead, gaped at Sherlock in horror.
*
TBC....
Author: Alex
Fandom: Sherlock [BBC]
Rating: Varies
Pairing: Sherlock/John; Sherlock/Ian Adler; John Watson/Ian Adler; Jim Moriarty/Sebastian Moran
Disclaimer: A.C. Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss.
Summary: All John Watson wants is a peaceful fortnight's holiday in Cornwall. Fate has other plans, to wit:
1. An abbey in the Italian Alps
2. Murder
3. Mayhem
4. Criminals he has known and would rather forget
5. Bondage
6. Sex
7. Sherlock
Not necessarily in that order.
Warnings: Violence, explicit sex, dubious consent.
Notes: I don't genderswap as a rule, but I saw this marvelous gif of Tom Hiddleston and Sherlock and couldn't resist. The rest is shameless self-indulgence.
Plot happily magpied from everywhere, with especial apologies to Umberto Eco.
Thanks to
kimberlite for the sharp-eyed beta.This fic is a gift for sithdragn, with affection.
Can also be read on AO3
*
*
Sherlock finished his search, got to his feet with a yawn, and put John’s phone down on the bedside table. He paused and regarded John’s still form, his face in repose, and willfully turned away, stalking to the window and staring out at the ancient buildings and the rose-coloured sky behind them.
It wasn’t profundity he sought, nor even truth; it was causality, really, simple enough in its way. The application of his intellect to what lesser beings deemed chaos, the delicate threading through seemingly random objects, locales, and events to find a pattern shimmering with meaning and symmetry, the clear-headed, knowing, and rational immersion of self into the minds of those who fancied themselves different, unusual, brilliant – Ian Adler was right. He didn’t give a damn about a junkie in a Hackney doorway, or whatever. Why should he? There was nothing interesting about the millions of brutal, tiny little minds of the ordinary criminal class. It was the outré that seduced him, the problems that the authorities found insoluble, the ostensibly senseless riddles that threw up locked and barred doors that tempted and beckoned. Minds and methods could be picked apart and laid bare for examination. Hearts, now….
He pivoted on his heel and stared down at John for a moment, conscious of an uncomfortable knot in his midsection that had nothing to do with hunger. So much care and attention lavished on matters of the heart, so much misery caused by the attempt to interpret emotions as if they held some underlying truth, as if they weren’t a furious, churning stew of chemicals that sent confusing messages to the brain and spurred people into making ridiculously foolish decisions that they fancied would bring them happiness beyond fleeting physical pleasure. Even Sherlock, to his own considerable distress, had been subject to repeated attacks of physiological confusion, and the subject of his confusion lay sleeping peacefully in bed.
At times, he contemplated the possibility of simply slipping into bed beside John and curling his hand around John’s cock. Given the statistical probability of erections achieved by the human male during sleep, he had no doubt that he’d be able to bring John to a heightened state of arousal in fairly short order, and when John awoke, odds were that he’d be too far gone to protest (though if he did, Sherlock would certainly stop...almost certainly) and that they could both satisfy their physical urges. Sherlock wasn’t quite as oblivious as he sometimes affected to be; surely, surely, despite his uncertainty and lack of in-depth experience with affairs of the heart, he had correctly interpreted some signals from John – offhand remarks, the occasional lingering gaze – and if he could bring them both relief, then so much the better. Things could go on as they had in the beginning of their relationship.
“Relationship,” Sherlock muttered softly. “Oh, God.” He went back to the window and glared out at the darkening sky. His imagination wouldn’t compensate for how John might actually react to such a thing. What if John read more into an encounter than was really there? If he fantasized an intimate relationship where none existed because clearly the platoons of women he dated weren’t meeting his (oh dear God in heaven) emotional needs? Even as an experiment, it seemed doomed to utter failure, and though he knew he trampled rather serenely over John’s feelings from time to time, he thought in this instance, it was best to tread carefully. For John’s sake.
Not that any of this new-found sensitivity solved the problem; in fact, it made things worse. He’d been happier existing in a realm of cognitive hyperactivity and blithe imperviousness to the feelings of other people. John had thrown a spanner into his works, and he wasn’t sure he liked it at all.
John made a small noise in his throat and shifted. One hand slipped off the bed and dangled limply, half-curled like a trusting child’s, but alluring in its unmistakable masculinity: solid, strong, ruthlessly competent, bearing small white scars here and there, testament to a life fully lived, spent in both combat and healing. God knew Sherlock had felt them often enough, warm, probing gently at half a hundred hurts. And he’d be lying if he said he’d never imagined those hands touching him in another capacity.
Silent, catlike, he approached John’s bed, lifted his hand, and laid it gently on the mattress. John sighed and shifted again, his forehead contracting in a frown. Sherlock stifled the impulse to touch the furrows, to smooth them away, and stepped back from the bed.
Damn it.
A knock sounded at Sherlock’s door. He moved through the connecting bath into his own room and opened the door. Simon stood on the threshold, his hands laced tightly together.
“May I speak with you?”
Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, closed his side of the bathroom door so John wouldn’t be disturbed, and ushered Simon in.
*
Sherlock sat cross-legged on his bed, fingers steepled beneath his chin, and listened to Simon’s weary, frightened monologue without speaking. One thing in Simon’s favour – he didn’t mince words. He reached the point in fairly short order.
“I don’t see what bearing any of this has on the present crisis, Simon.” That wasn’t quite true, but no point in encouraging Simon in what seemed a fruitless venture. “My advice? Sell. Mr. Adler has you by the short hairs.”
Simon rested his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands. “Give in? That’s your advice? I thought you of all people might have a better idea than that.”
“You’ve made matters rather easy for him,” Sherlock observed. Simon lifted his head and glared. “God, Simon. Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not sitting in judgment – what you do in your downtime is your business, though you might have been more discreet. Ian Adler has the power to ruin you. If you tried to fight him, or his employer, what weapons have you got at your disposal? Hardly anything, as far as I can see.”
“I’ve – I’ve broken things off with Elena. No point in making things worse.” Simon crumpled a bit in his chair. “What if I do agree to sell, and he publishes the evidence nevertheless? There are those who seek to damage the Church in whatever scurrilous way they can.”
Sherlock refrained from a crack about altar boys, but just. John would have been proud. “He might,” he conceded, “but I can’t see why he would. He wants you to sell. He doesn’t bear any personal animosity toward you, does he?”
“No. I’d not set eyes on him until a few days ago. There are forty-six other monks in this abbey, Sherlock. Whatever I’ve done – or whatever foolish choice Brother Marcelo has made – the others don’t deserve to be tarnished as well. Surely you can see that.”
Sherlock lifted his shoulders in a shrug of pure indifference. “You should have thought of that before having an affair with the mayor’s wife.”
“Yes, I realise that. Thanks ever so much. Isn’t there anything you can do?”
Incredulity laddered Sherlock’s brow. “What do you want me to do – beat the pictures out of him?”
“You’re clever,” Simon said grudgingly. “Can’t you…I don’t know, steal his phone?”
“Hardly ethical.” What sort of challenge would it be to obtain Ian’s phone? “Besides, he might keep copies of the pictures elsewhere. Of course, copies might beg the question of whether Ian was actually the originator of the evidence, mightn’t they? Interesting conundrum, Simon, but not a problem in which I’m particularly interested. And I need hardly remind you that I’m working on something else at the moment.” Ian Adler. Brother Marcelo. Oscar Dzundza. The missing codex. And a hunk of radioactive rock. Why would Ian, or his employers, want this monastery so badly? It had to be difficult to maintain, expensive to house and feed and keep warm four dozen monks. One couldn’t do much with a site like San Stefano, so why purchase unless the possibility of significant remuneration was –
Oh.
Oh.
“Sherlock….” Simon began. “Sherlock, I’m – I’m begging you. This abbey has been extant since the thirteenth century. I know you’re not the sort of person who believes in purity of intention, but I can only assure you that my concern is for the monastery, not myself. It would break my heart to leave, but –“
“Shut up,” Sherlock said, and held up a forestalling hand. “I’ll do it.” It was all connected. There were just a few pieces missing, pieces that Ian Adler would be able to fit in place.
Simon’s face sagged. “You’ll get the phone?”
“Yes. Assuming the content is unique to his mobile, that’s one facet of the problem taken care of. The problem of financing this place isn’t mine, I’m afraid.”
“Let me and Vicki worry about that.” Simon glanced up as a bell tolled. “Supper. You’d better wake your friend.” He rose to his feet. “Sherlock – thank you. I know I haven’t been –“
“Thank me when you’ve got the phone,” Sherlock said, standing and moving toward the connecting bath. With a bit of luck and persuasion, he’d have this entire case wrapped up by the end of the evening. Ian Adler, he suspected, was the key.
John was still asleep. Sherlock watched him for a moment, willing himself to examine John with flat objectivity, to allow the thrill of pursuit and unravelling the tangle of uncertainty that surrounded the monastery to assume dominion over all else, to sink back into the unchanging self that had filled him with contentment for so long. He took a step toward the bed, bent down, and grasped John’s shoulder, warm and solid beneath the scratchy woollen fibres of his jumper.
Sherlock’s fingers tightened minutely, pushing themselves into the yielding warmth of John’s flesh. He sucked in a quick breath, frowned, and shook John’s shoulder abruptly. “John. John! Wake up.” A humming sort of grunt emerged from John’s parted lips, and Sherlock shook him again. “Come on, John, get up.”
“Uh?” John blinked, looked up at Sherlock, and pressed his face into the pillow. “Tired.”
Sherlock snatched his hand away. “Dinner time, John. Get up. I doubt they’ll let you raid the fridge at midnight.”
“Okay, okay,” John mumbled, and pushed himself up. He yawned deeply and sniffed. “Thanks for letting me nap.”
“Not at all. Hurry, though – we’ll be late.” Sherlock went into his room and shrugged his coat on. If he were to act upon his impulses – what then? Would the resolution of their alliance falter? He needed John; he could admit that much to himself. If John wasn’t a genius, he was so often the catalyst that fuelled Sherlock’s perspicacity. They worked well together, John tolerated almost all of Sherlock’s eccentricities, and it was awfully handy to have a doctor around when necessary. Were they to couple for the sake of impermanent pleasure, the warp and weft of their friendship might change irrevocably – might, in fact, dissolve altogether. He didn’t want to endanger the only lasting friendship he’d had in – well, almost the only lasting friendship he’d ever had.
John ambled into his room. “What have you been up to?”
Sherlock let his gaze brush John’s face, lingering for the briefest moment at his mouth. “I think we’re close to cracking this, John.” He turned away and opened the door, holding it so John could pass through. “I need you to do something for me tonight, though.”
*
Dinner was roasted aubergine with a sprinkling of some soft, creamy cheese and herbed tomato sauce. Sherlock tasted it tentatively and found it not bad. Beside him, John was chewing with his eyes closed as if he were in ecstasy. “I’ve got to get this recipe,” he mumbled.
“It’s…rather good, actually. Do that, John.”
“I bet it’s not difficult. Maybe you could even learn to cook it.” Sherlock snorted in reply, and John chuckled. “Yeah, I won’t hold my breath or anything.”
“Wise,” Sherlock said. “John, look at Brother Marcelo.”
“He’s sweating.”
“Either the aubergine isn’t agreeing with him or he’s nervous and twitchy about something,” Sherlock said, pitching his voice so that only John could hear him. “Keep an eye on him whilst I get the phone from Adler.”
“You sure you don’t need help with that? The monks will be going to prayers, and Adler might have something tricky up his sleeve.” John stared at Ian in flat dislike. Ian’s attention was concentrated on his food and the garrulous monk next to him. “I knew he was a sneaky bugger the minute I clapped eyes on him.”
“I think it’ll be simpler if it’s just me. Brother Marcelo looks as if he’s about to snap. Follow the monks to Compline – they welcome visitors to their services – and then see what Brother Marcelo’s up to. He knows the net is closing around him and he might have access to some vital piece of evidence – maybe the codex itself. If we can break him open, he could yield some valuable information.”
“All right,” John said, though he was clearly reluctant. “Be careful. Call me if it gets sticky.”
“Don’t worry. I can handle him.”
“Right,” John muttered, and Sherlock gave him a sharp look, but didn’t reply.
Supper concluded with a sugar-dusted berry tart with crème fraiche and tiny cups of coffee. Enjoying it far more than the aubergine, Sherlock wolfed his and licked the cream from the tines of the fork. He caught John’s eye. “What?”
“Nothing.” John dropped his gaze and cut into his half-eaten tart. “You enjoyed that.”
“You should get that recipe, too.”
John let out a noncommittal grunt. The monks were beginning to gather up plates and cups in orderly fashion, and Sherlock and John followed them into the kitchen, placing their dirty dishes in shallow bins. Sherlock nodded toward Brother Marcelo who kept darting glances at them as he engaged in conversation with another monk. “Go on,” Sherlock murmured, and moved swiftly through the knots of white-and-black-robed men to catch hold of Ian’s leather-clad arm before he left the refectory. “Can I have a word?”
Ian stopped and pivoted on his heel. Sherlock dropped his hand and Ian smiled. “Certainly. You can have whatever you like.”
“Good, that’ll make this so much easier.”
“Shall we talk here, or somewhere more private?”
“Your room, I think.”
“Ah.” Ian’s smile deepened. “Splendid. Follow me, please.”
Ian’s room turned out to be in the same building as Sherlock and John’s, at the end of the long corridor. Ian opened the door and gestured for Sherlock to precede him. Sherlock gave Ian a thin smile. “No, after you. I insist.”
Ian’s good humour was irrepressible. “Whatever you say, Gaston.” He moved into the room, clicked on the bedside lamp, tossed the key on the night table, and sat on the iron single bed, leaning back on his hands. “I imagine the décor in your room is similar. They went for a sort of minimalist chic. Not quite sure they succeeded, but I doubt Homes & Gardens will be stopping by for photographs, so it doesn’t really matter.” He glanced around and regarded Sherlock pleasantly. “So. What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?”
“You have something I want.”
One eyebrow tilted delicately upward. “Do I indeed?”
“Your mobile.”
“Ah.” Ian’s smile thinned a bit. “You spoke to Father Trevor, I take it. Or rather, Father Trevor spoke to you. That was rather unwise of him.”
“Blackmailing a monastery’s rather unwise of you,” Sherlock replied.
“Quite truthfully, it isn’t. I have several business interests. Professional blackmail happens to be the most lucrative.”
“Until now.” Sherlock held out his hand. “The mobile, please.”
Ian sat up. “When did you become Father Trevor’s hired hooligan? Are you planning to break my arm if I don’t give it to you? And isn’t this a bit of a distraction from your other case?”
“Ah, but that’s just it, you see,” Sherlock said. “I have a feeling that my other case and the matter of your mobile are closely intertwined. Who are you working for, Ian?”
The smile finally dissolved from Ian’s face. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
“Isn’t it? Whoever it is, he or she is interested in uranium mining. Isn’t that so?” Sherlock produced his own phone and typed rapidly. “Quite a lot of limestone in this region. Quite a lot of recently discovered uraninite in this region as well. Possibly a large cache in the mountains behind us. Could be it’s not the monastery they’re after at all.”
Ian shook his head. “Could be. I don’t know what my employer wants the place for. It doesn’t matter to me. I’m just a means to an end, Sherlock.”
Sherlock studied Ian’s face, which appeared totally guileless. Lying, Sherlock thought. Has to be. Doesn’t matter. He shrugged. “I suppose your knowledge of your employer’s motives are irrelevant, in the end. Male or female, by the way?”
Ian’s shrug matched Sherlock’s for nonchalance. “Male.”
“Irish? Slight, dark hair and eyes?”
“Again, none of your business.”
“Very well.” Sherlock held his hand out again. “Mobile, please.”
Ian slid his hand into an inner pocket of the sleek black leather jacket he wore. Sherlock braced himself for a weapon, but it was a black rubber-cased mobile phone lying benignly on his palm. Ian’s eyes met Sherlock’s, then he smiled and slid the phone into his front trouser pocket. “Sorry, Sherlock. If you want it, you’re going to have to come and get it.”
“Charming,” Sherlock said dryly. He sighed, took off his coat, and draped it on the back of the room’s single chair, then seated himself, folding his arms and crossing one leg over the other. “Are you implying some sort of rematch? Because if I wanted to take it by force, I could.”
“Could you now?” Ian asked, clearly delighted. “Well, well.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, please.”
“I knew you’d be back. The mobile’s just an excuse, really.”
“Your sense of fair play is skewed.”
“Oh, come on, Sherlock. You were cheating, bunching your muscles up the way you did – I had to even the playing field.”
“Since we’re here, why don’t you tell me what Brother Marcelo is doing for you, and how he’s connected to the deaths in the abbey. He’s your conduit, isn’t he? Hiding you, hiding Dzundza –“ Sherlock smiled. “That’s right. Didn’t know I knew about Dzundza, did you?”
Ian frowned and pulled his expensive leather duffel onto his bed. “Sherlock, you’re involving yourself in something very dangerous. Dzundza is nobody to antagonise.”
“I’ve tangled with him before.” Thank God for John.
“And lived? Well done, you.”
“Is the codex still here?”
Ian shook his head, rummaging through his bag. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
Sherlock stood up, stalked to the bed, and grasped Ian by his jacket, hauling him up. “Why did those monks have to die?”
“I didn’t kill them, if you’re curious.” Ian’s face was calm and still.
“Not a murderer? That’s one thing in your favour.” Sherlock pulled Ian close until they were nearly nose to nose. “I’ll ask you once more. Why…did…they…die?”
Ian laughed. “You think I’ll just spill it? Are you planning to slap me around a bit? I don’t do that gratis, Sherlock. I never have.”
An elegantly disbelieving snort escaped Sherlock. “You expect me to pay, is that it?”
“Of course. At this point, as Winston Churchill once said, we’re merely quibbling over the price.” Ian reached up and stroked Sherlock’s cheek, not minding that Sherlock flinched away. He pressed his body close to Sherlock’s. “You might enjoy it, you know.”
Sherlock felt Ian’s stirring erection against his thigh; more importantly, he felt the square bulge of Ian’s mobile. He slipped his hand into Ian’s pocket and grasped it, pulling it free. He held it up in front of Ian’s face. “Thank you.”
Ian grinned. “You’re welcome.” His hand darted swiftly, and Sherlock gasped at a sharp, silvery pain in his arm.
“What –“ Sherlock gaped down at his arm, at the small needle attached to a syringe that Ian carefully withdrew. A peculiar numbness travelled down his arm and began to insinuate itself into his chest. “What –“ His tongue felt thick. He dropped the mobile, staggered forward, and lost his balance. Ian caught him, holding him upright. What have you done to me? He tried to punch Ian but couldn’t lift his arm above his waist.
“Careful, careful,” Ian murmured, dragging Sherlock to the bed. “Don’t worry. It won’t last very long. Atracurium besilate. You know it?”
Sherlock knew it. It was an intermediate-duration non-depolarizing neuromuscular-blocking agent, a muscle relaxant meant to render a subject temporarily paralysed.
“You’ll only be paralysed for ten minutes, fifteen at most,” Ian said, setting his bag next to Sherlock’s supine body and withdrawing neat coils of rope. “Just enough time for me to get things ready.” He leant down, picked the phone up, and set it on the nightstand. “Nice try, by the way.”
Well aware that he was utterly helpless for the moment, Sherlock tried to surge up. He could scarcely feel his hands, but he planted them as best he could on the bed and attempted to heave his body upwards with his elbows. He glared at Ian, but Ian was blithely unwinding one of the ropes, taking his time. Sherlock tried to turn toward the door.
“John!”
That was what he wanted to say; unfortunately it emerged as a whispered “Juhh….” and trailed off into a dry croak.
Ian laid a finger against Sherlock’s lips. “Shh. Nobody can hear you, they’re all at Compline. John, too. Didn’t you send him to keep an eye on Brother Marcelo? Good job you did, too – not that he’s not lovely, but I’ve really been looking forward to this.” He bound one of Sherlock’s wrists to the thin iron slats of the headboard, then the other. He repeated the process with Sherlock’s ankles, binding them to the furthest slats so that Sherlock’s legs were spread apart. “There we are. That’s quite nice, isn’t it? Comfortable?”
“Nn!” Sherlock tried to struggle, but his limbs refused to obey. He felt sweat beading on his brow and gathering between his shoulder blades. He watched Ian’s face, which remained serene, even blithe. He met Sherlock’s eyes a few times and smiled. Sherlock’s mind raced in dizzying circles of bewilderment. Was this a rape in progress? He wouldn’t have guessed that Ian was the sort of man, his profession notwithstanding, to resort to violence…still, whatever this was, it was very much against Sherlock’s will and he’d throttle Ian with his bare hands if he got the chance. And then he’d get the bloody phone back. “Juhh….”
“Oh.” Ian reached into his little bag of tricks once more and produced a white silk scarf. “I have more effective means of keeping you quiet, Sherlock, but let’s just start with this. We might need the others later. This is just a tiny disciplinary measure, more about aesthetics than true silence.” He pushed the silk into Sherlock’s mouth, lifted his head, and tied it in a firm knot behind his neck. “You can communicate to some degree, but most people find it clumsy and embarrassing trying to talk through a mouthful of silk. You’d be surprised how well it works. Though maybe not for you. You do fancy your own powers of speech, don’t you?”
Sherlock tried to push his tongue against the silk, but he was clumsy, and it was bound too tightly to make any difference. He settled for glaring at Ian again. “Mnn!”
“Don’t worry, Sherlock. I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to do.” Ian reached forward and slowly unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt, laying it gently to each side, then drawing his fingertips down Sherlock’s chest to his navel, circling it gently. Sherlock gasped and tried to pull his stomach inward, away from Ian’s touch. “Don’t you like that?”
“Nn!”
“Oh. Sorry.” Ian withdrew his hand, then unfastened Sherlock’s belt buckle.
“NNNnn!” Sherlock felt the feeling returning slowly to his limbs, though not his tongue – must have been eight minutes at most – and struggled as hard as he could.
“Relax. I don’t want to hurt you.” Ian laid the flat of his hand on Sherlock’s abdomen. “It’s easier, isn’t it, when the choice is taken from you?” He unbuttoned and unzipped Sherlock’s trousers, easing them down to his thighs, then stared at Sherlock’s underwear. “Navy silk. Tasteful.” He caressed Sherlock’s hip. “I’m just going to sit over there for a few minutes, until you regain full feeling in your limbs and so on. Just be calm, Sherlock.” Amazingly, Ian did just that. He picked up his phone and sat in the wooden chair. Ignoring Sherlock completely, he began to tap on his phone.
Outraged and – yes – humiliated, Sherlock thrashed frenziedly against the ropes, but only succeeded in chafing his skin to the point of rawness. Panting, he lay back, grinding his teeth against the soft silk in his mouth and drilled imaginary holes into Ian’s smiling face with his eyes. After a few minutes had passed, Ian dialed a number and waited, meeting Sherlock’s glare with another benign smile. “It’s Ian,” he said after a moment. “I have Sherlock with me.” He listened for a moment, then chuckled. “No, he can’t speak to you. Yes, I’m certain I will. He knows about Dzundza, though. You have a problem on your hands.”
Sherlock lifted his head, scanning Ian rapidly. He seemed tense now, and slightly unhappy. He crossed his legs and held his arms close to his sides. One hand brushed his thigh in what seemed a compulsive fashion – up and down, up and down, over and over.
“If that’s what you feel you have to do. I’ve done my part. No, of course I’ll stay. I told Father Trevor I would. Yes. No. Tell him to stay away from me, I told you –“ He was silent for a moment. “All right, then –“ Ian held the phone away, then put it against his ear. “Hello?” He shrugged and rang off.
Sherlock remained still, watching Ian. Ian was afraid of something. His employer. Oscar Dzundza’s employer.
Ian stared down at the phone for a moment, then lifted his head. His customary grin was a little less enthusiastic than before. “The monastery will be enjoying my company for a while more. I have some advice for you, Sherlock.” He set the phone down and moved to the bed, sitting beside Sherlock’s supine body. “I think you should leave. Immediately. The murders are out of your reach, and there’s nothing you can do about the sale of the abbey. If you stay, you’re in danger – you and Dr. Watson both.” He reached behind Sherlock’s head and unknotted the gag.
Sherlock spit it out and ran his tongue over his lips. “Moriarty.”
“You should both leave. Tomorrow morning at the latest.”
“Why should you care if I live or die? You didn’t care about the monks. You don’t care about destroying Brother Marcelo’s reputation.”
“Perhaps I think your intellect’s worth preserving.” Ian brushed Sherlock’s hair back from his forehead. “Or maybe I just like you.”
“You don’t, though. You haven’t got a friend in the world, have you? No one to help you if Moriarty decides to turn his assassin on you. The monks would probably say you’ve chosen poor companions, Ian. Maybe you should go to confession and mend your life.”
“Probably.” Ian picked up the damp silk and forced it between Sherlock’s teeth again. Sherlock twisted, trying to avoid the silk, trying to bite Ian’s hand, but to no avail – Ian fastened it more tightly than before. “And you have Dr. Watson. Lucky you – your own personal soldier, as well as a doctor. The papers love him, you know, almost as much as they love you. Such blind devotion. Jim calls him your dog. But I think you’d like him to be much more than a pet, wouldn’t you?”
“Leave John out of this,” Sherlock said, or attempted to – but the wet silk garbled his words to absurdity. It was humiliating, straining to talk and not being able to. He snarled and squirmed against the ropes and Ian’s long, cool hand, now travelling slowly from his neck to his chest. He inhaled sharply, involuntarily, as Ian’s fingers brushed against his nipple, then pinched it lightly.
“Tell me to stop,” Ian said. “I’ll understand you.” He bent and circled the cup of Sherlock’s navel with his tongue.
Sherlock’s breath came in trembling gasps. His cock stirred, swelling to life. He let his body sag into the soft mattress, telling himself that he needed the phone, to get Ian to reveal Moriarty’s plan in full – surely he knew it, surely – but the sensations quickening in his body made him dizzy, paralysing him more than the drug. His body twitched as Ian’s hand brushed over the front of his underwear, the touch faint, delicately probing. He arched forward. He wanted it to stop. He had a case to solve, he hadn’t time for Oh God, oh God – He heard someone moaning and felt a hot blush of shame as he realised it was his own voice, stifled but not entirely silenced by the silk.
Ian’s hand rubbed back and forth, gently, slowly, toying with him. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”
The touching went on for hours, it seemed, soft, stroking, caressing, interminable. He was fully hard now, totally helpless. Yes, it was easier like this; he could pretend it was all against his will. He’d never explored restraint like this, never wanted to, never cared. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend it wasn’t Ian stroking him so languorously. He looked at Ian’s hand, at his own cock trapped in dark blue silk, at the slightly darker patch of wetness on the expensive fabric. He closed his eyes, clenched his hands into tight fists, the nails digging into his skin. He was close, so close, oh Christ, John –
“Stop!” The plea was muffled, but Ian’s hand vanished at once. Sherlock sagged into the mattress, panting, the silken gag in his mouth soaked with saliva. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head, burying it into his outstretched arm.
Ian sighed deeply. “Sherlock,” he said in a soft voice, “how badly you need this. I’m sorry you decided to stop.” He pulled out Sherlock’s gag and left it hanging round his neck. Its sticky wetness was vaguely repulsive.
“Untie me, now.”
Ian shook his head. “You might try to take my phone again. And you might actually succeed, and I can’t have that. I’m sorry.” He withdrew another syringe from his bag. “This will actually knock you out, but you’ll only be out for an hour or so. Time enough for me to take some precautionary measures.” He pinched a fold of skin on Sherlock’s belly, then frowned. “Not enough. We’ll just have to use the arm again. I’ll use the other one. Hold still now.”
Sherlock complied, only because he didn’t want the needle breaking off. “You’re going to spend a long time in prison for helping Moriarty. You do realise that, don’t you? You’re an accessory to murder now, Ian.”
“Shhh. Don’t try to talk.”
“You –“ A wave of dizziness washed over Sherlock, and he blinked hard. “You’d better –“ The room spun crazily. He lay back on the pillow and saw Ian leaning over him.
Ian bent close and kissed Sherlock on the mouth. “Sleep well.”
Sherlock shook his head. “You –“ but his vision swirled into cloudy grey, then silent, enveloping black.
*
He awoke lying on his own bed. He recognised the rough burlap curtains at his window and the brochures scattered on the little desk. It was dark outside; probably Ian hadn’t lied about the duration of the drug. He blinked, raised his head, and gaped uncomprehendingly as he realised his was still tied hand and foot to the bed. Now, however, there was something that tasted unpleasantly like rubber fixed in his mouth and shaped like…
Oh, God!
The phallus – complete with a bizarre fleshy texture and wrinkles – was uncomfortably thick, tasted dreadful, and was firmly secured in his mouth, attached to a wide piece of leather that covered his lips entirely and fastened behind his head. One of Ian’s more effective means of silencing, apparently. Sherlock hissed out an angry breath through his nose and tugged sharply at the ropes, which didn’t budge. Ian’s skill was everything he’d boasted.
At least he was dressed. God. Small favours.. He felt the weight of his phone in his pocket, but there was no way to reach it. Maybe if he twisted just the right way, it would fall out of his pocket, and he could urge it up toward his hand. He’d text John and prepare himself for a few scathing comments.
He twisted his body as far as he could, but the phone refused to leave the depths of his pocket. Angrily, he thrashed against the ropes, inadvertently slamming the headboard against the wall.
Ah!
Enthusiastically, he shoved his arms back and forth, slamming the headboard loudly against the wall. Nobody came – were they all still in church? Wouldn’t Ian, at least, come in to keep him quiet? What the hell had happened to everybody?
After perhaps twenty minutes of steady banging, he heard footsteps, and the key turning in John’s lock. The door creaked open. Thank God, John. “John!” he tried to shout, but the horrible gag diminished his cry to a soft whimper.
“Sherlock? What are you – Jesus Christ!”
John, covered with dirt and black smudges that looked like coal, and an ugly, bloody cut decorating his forehead, gaped at Sherlock in horror.
*
TBC....
