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FIC: Clavis Aurea [1/2]
Title: Clavis Aurea [1/2]
Author: Alex
Fandom: Sherlock [BBC]
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sherlock/Ian Adler; Implied Sherlock/John
Disclaimer: A.C. Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss.
Summary: While on his mission to bring down Moriarty’s network, Sherlock encounters an old acquaintance.
Warnings: Violence, torture, explicit sex, discussion of rape.
Note: A sequel to If You Can't Move Heaven, Raise Hell. Best if you read that for nuance, but not entirely necessary for context.
Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kimberlite for the sharp-eyed beta.
Can also be read on AO3
*
"Titanium. Strongest metal in the world." The man tapped the thin ring against the glass counter.
"Debatable. A case can be made for tungsten and osmium as well, depending upon the criteria under discussion. Tensile strength, density, thermal conductivity, that sort of thing."
The man behind the counter blinked. "This one's titanium."
"Apparently," Sherlock sighed. "Go on, then. Show me."
Slowly and with overweening theatricality, the clerk raised the ring and, from its interior band, slid out a tiny saw about fifty millimetres long. He turned the ring this way and that. "Five seconds to cut through rope and gaffer tape, ten through zip ties. Picks handcuffs as well." He winked. "Most of the fellows I sell it to have a certain lifestyle, if you follow. And I don't know when I'll get the next shipment in. I only have five left."
"One in every size, no doubt. Convenient." Sherlock ignored the lascivious wink and plucked the ring from the man's hand. Narrow-eyed, he scrutinised the tiny serrated edge, gleaming in the dull light of the shop. "The blade's not titanium. It's steel."
The man's face darkened. "It's not. Are you calling me a liar?"
"Not necessarily. You could just be stupid." Sherlock took the ring to a curio cabinet holding an odd assortment of porcelain miniatures, knives, and sex toys. He opened it and held the ring next to the interior closure; the ring trembled in his hand, then leapt to the little magnet on the closure, blade first. "Titanium is non-magnetic. This is steel." He tugged the ring away and folded the blade back inside. "Still, seems useful enough. I'll give you ten for it."
"Ten!" the clerk exclaimed in outrage. "I sell it for sixty." He spat on his already filthy floor.
"Good luck selling it to someone as stupid as you are. I'm certain you'll be wildly successful." Sherlock shrugged and sauntered toward the door.
"Thirty!"
Sherlock stopped in his tracks. His mouth twisted upward briefly before he turned back. "Fifteen."
"Twenty-five."
They settled on twenty.
*
They'd kept a close eye on him for a few hours, so he couldn't make use of the ring. Apparently careful guardianship was in order when the burly thugs denailed him, even though Sherlock was bent over a stained lathe table, his ankles and one wrist tied to the legs, a sharpened screwdriver tracing gentle arcs over his carotid artery. The rag they'd stuffed in his mouth had muffled the worst of his shrieks, but they were still loud enough to provoke one of the men into pushing another rag, tasting foully of machine-shop oil, into his mouth. Nauseated, his fingers pinpoints of purest agony, Sherlock had choked and struggled not to vomit.
The biggest thug, and the most impassive, had carefully closed the pliers levers, slippery with blood, around the nail of Sherlock's ring finger. The titanium ring, softly lustrous a few hours ago, was brownish-red and sticky, like the rest of his hand. Sherlock had kept his gaze focussed on it. If they'd only leave him alone for a half hour….
Someone had pulled the rags from his mouth. A hand had brushed over his hair. "What's your name? Your real name, now."
"I told you. It's Sig. Sig Sherrinford. Check my passport, my driver's licence. Please, why are you doing this to –"
"Go on," another voice said softly.
The rags had been forced back into his mouth as the levers tightened on his fingernail. He'd thrashed madly, pleading uselessly behind the gag, but the steel implement had pulled, upward, and the bleeding had begun again.
Incandescent pain. Excruciating. They'd make him scream until his throat ruptured.
But then, they'd stopped. Tied his free wrist – not that he'd have been able to use the hand – to the table leg. Tied a long shred of his shirt round his head to keep the rags in his mouth.
Rope. A possibility. He couldn't have managed cuffs with his hand in such a state.
"What's that?" Thick fingers had grasped his. He'd screamed, but feebly, this time, weakly. A child's wail. "Worth anything?"
No. No, don't.
"Could be. I'll split it with you."
"Fuck off. I saw it first."
No. No. No, no, no….
The fingers had pulled the ring off, scraping against the raw flesh of his exposed nail bed. Another shriek. The ring had disappeared, slipped into a pocket. Someone had yanked a dark pillow case over Sherlock's head, leaving him blind.
Those thick fingers had patted his backside. "Don't go anywhere, sweet thing. We'll be back."
The lights had gone out, and they'd left him alone. Bound, mute, bleeding, sightless, helpless.
Twenty euros down the drain.
*
His interior clock had failed him some time ago; he kept slipping in and out of a nightmarish daze of pain and exhaustion. The hard metal of the lathe table cut into the flesh of his abdomen, uncomfortable enough to force him into standing nearly on the tips of his toes in order to avoid it. He tugged now and then at the ropes twisted tightly round his left wrist, then tried to saw the ropes against the edge of the table, but there was no give and his skin was a raw circlet of fire; he'd wear the flesh to the bone before he freed himself.
He couldn't stop. They'd be back soon, and God only knew what they had in store for him next. A tool and die shop seemed to hold infinite possibilities of suffering for the imaginative torturer.
A soft whimper escaped him as he tried his right wrist. Sweat dripped into his eyes. He was amazed that he had any moisture left in his body at all. Nearly thirty-six hours had passed since he'd last eaten or drunk; he supposed he should have been grateful that his dehydration meant that he hadn't pissed himself. He was grateful that he couldn't see the spongy, bloody mess his left hand had become. Focus. Focus. Sight is a distraction. If they haven't completely torn out the nail matrix, regeneration should be fairly rapid.
Sherlock's vision faded to a soft grey beneath the pillowcase. He jerked his left wrist against the ropes; agony wrenched a moan from his gagged mouth and drove him into full consciousness.
The pain won't last. Find the knot. Fast, you god-damned idiot. They're coming back.
Somewhere above him and to his left – the tool-shop office, then, at the top of a flight of concrete stairs – there was a loud crash. He froze, held his breath, waited for the screech of door hinges, heavy-booted feet, the bite of pliers. They would test the limits of his endurance, and he would fail. All that time spent, all his meticulous work. Gone.
Was that all?
Swallowing, he pushed the treacherous thought away. He couldn't succumb to sentiment now, not after…all this. He tugged on the ropes again, biting on the rags to suppress the scream that rose in his throat. Desperation gave him more strength, but it wasn't enough. They'd return. They'd torture him again. Eventually he'd talk, everyone talked eventually, even Sherlock, and he knew far too much to talk now, to betray himself and everyone he'd been trying to protect. With Moriarty gone, they mightn't go after Mrs. Hudson, nor Lestrade.
But John….
Another hateful whimper emerged from behind the rags. He yanked with both hands and the pain exploded white-hot in his fingernails. His consciousness faded, then snapped back as he heard the groan of metal hinges.
They were coming back.
No patience, these four. They hadn't begun with subtle interrogation and moved up the scale; they'd beaten him first, asked a few questions, then had gone straightaway into denailing. Brutal stupidity, or pressed for time? Neither mattered much, as the results were the same. Sherlock slowed his breathing. The Sig Sherrinford, hapless tourist, story hadn't worked. He'd have to move on. He had another eight or ten layers of legend to unveil, if he managed to hold out that long. The more time he could buy for John, the better. If only there were some way to warn him….
Footsteps sounded on the rough stairs, deliberate and measured, lighter-sounding than the four booted henchmen. Their ringleader, perhaps. Fear trickled a bright irrigating trail through his nervous system, leaving him exhausted and trembling like a miler after a four-minute sprint.
The machine's a bit defective, John. Mainspring's winding down, cogs and gears are worn. Sorry, sorry.
The footsteps moved toward him with quiet grace. Not leather soles; rubber or Vibram. Someone light on his feet, not a typical workman's solid tread. The footsteps stopped a metre or so from Sherlock's bound body. He smelled leather – aged, not new, treated with oil – a faint tang of petrol, and a soft accord of amber, spices, vetiver, wood. Bois d'Encens. A criminal with expensive tastes. Friend of Moriarty's.
"For someone so convinced of his prowess in all aspects of escapology, you seem to be incapacitated on a fairly regular basis."
Sherlock's gasp was muffled by the gag.
Impossible. Auditory hallucination brought on by hunger and dehydration and pain.
"Come on, Sherlock. It hasn't been that long, surely?"
The pillow case was pulled off his head, and Sherlock blinked in the dimness, but even in the gloom, the face and body was unmistakable.
Ian Adler smiled down at him. "Hi."
Renewed adrenalin surged through Sherlock's body. Still working for Moriarty. Couldn't resist. He struggled again and snarled through the gag, glaring at Ian.
"Hey. Hey! Relax." Ian put his hand out and brushed lank, dirty hair out of Sherlock's eyes. "Calm down. I'm going to get you out of here."
Lying. He's lying. Trying to lull you into cooperating.
"Sherlock, hold still, for Christ's sake. I'll cut you free." Ian pulled a knife from his jacket pocket and grasped Sherlock's left hand.
The pain was an icepick driven into raw, bleeding flesh. Sherlock cried out, too weak to give voice to a full-throated scream, and then lost consciousness with a sensation of the most profound gratitude. As he tumbled into oblivion, he heard Ian's voice echoing hollowly back through a night-dark tunnel.
"Oh, dear God. Sherlock. Sherlock?"
TBC....
Author: Alex
Fandom: Sherlock [BBC]
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sherlock/Ian Adler; Implied Sherlock/John
Disclaimer: A.C. Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss.
Summary: While on his mission to bring down Moriarty’s network, Sherlock encounters an old acquaintance.
Warnings: Violence, torture, explicit sex, discussion of rape.
Note: A sequel to If You Can't Move Heaven, Raise Hell. Best if you read that for nuance, but not entirely necessary for context.
Thanks to
kimberlite for the sharp-eyed beta.Can also be read on AO3
*
"Titanium. Strongest metal in the world." The man tapped the thin ring against the glass counter.
"Debatable. A case can be made for tungsten and osmium as well, depending upon the criteria under discussion. Tensile strength, density, thermal conductivity, that sort of thing."
The man behind the counter blinked. "This one's titanium."
"Apparently," Sherlock sighed. "Go on, then. Show me."
Slowly and with overweening theatricality, the clerk raised the ring and, from its interior band, slid out a tiny saw about fifty millimetres long. He turned the ring this way and that. "Five seconds to cut through rope and gaffer tape, ten through zip ties. Picks handcuffs as well." He winked. "Most of the fellows I sell it to have a certain lifestyle, if you follow. And I don't know when I'll get the next shipment in. I only have five left."
"One in every size, no doubt. Convenient." Sherlock ignored the lascivious wink and plucked the ring from the man's hand. Narrow-eyed, he scrutinised the tiny serrated edge, gleaming in the dull light of the shop. "The blade's not titanium. It's steel."
The man's face darkened. "It's not. Are you calling me a liar?"
"Not necessarily. You could just be stupid." Sherlock took the ring to a curio cabinet holding an odd assortment of porcelain miniatures, knives, and sex toys. He opened it and held the ring next to the interior closure; the ring trembled in his hand, then leapt to the little magnet on the closure, blade first. "Titanium is non-magnetic. This is steel." He tugged the ring away and folded the blade back inside. "Still, seems useful enough. I'll give you ten for it."
"Ten!" the clerk exclaimed in outrage. "I sell it for sixty." He spat on his already filthy floor.
"Good luck selling it to someone as stupid as you are. I'm certain you'll be wildly successful." Sherlock shrugged and sauntered toward the door.
"Thirty!"
Sherlock stopped in his tracks. His mouth twisted upward briefly before he turned back. "Fifteen."
"Twenty-five."
They settled on twenty.
*
They'd kept a close eye on him for a few hours, so he couldn't make use of the ring. Apparently careful guardianship was in order when the burly thugs denailed him, even though Sherlock was bent over a stained lathe table, his ankles and one wrist tied to the legs, a sharpened screwdriver tracing gentle arcs over his carotid artery. The rag they'd stuffed in his mouth had muffled the worst of his shrieks, but they were still loud enough to provoke one of the men into pushing another rag, tasting foully of machine-shop oil, into his mouth. Nauseated, his fingers pinpoints of purest agony, Sherlock had choked and struggled not to vomit.
The biggest thug, and the most impassive, had carefully closed the pliers levers, slippery with blood, around the nail of Sherlock's ring finger. The titanium ring, softly lustrous a few hours ago, was brownish-red and sticky, like the rest of his hand. Sherlock had kept his gaze focussed on it. If they'd only leave him alone for a half hour….
Someone had pulled the rags from his mouth. A hand had brushed over his hair. "What's your name? Your real name, now."
"I told you. It's Sig. Sig Sherrinford. Check my passport, my driver's licence. Please, why are you doing this to –"
"Go on," another voice said softly.
The rags had been forced back into his mouth as the levers tightened on his fingernail. He'd thrashed madly, pleading uselessly behind the gag, but the steel implement had pulled, upward, and the bleeding had begun again.
Incandescent pain. Excruciating. They'd make him scream until his throat ruptured.
But then, they'd stopped. Tied his free wrist – not that he'd have been able to use the hand – to the table leg. Tied a long shred of his shirt round his head to keep the rags in his mouth.
Rope. A possibility. He couldn't have managed cuffs with his hand in such a state.
"What's that?" Thick fingers had grasped his. He'd screamed, but feebly, this time, weakly. A child's wail. "Worth anything?"
No. No, don't.
"Could be. I'll split it with you."
"Fuck off. I saw it first."
No. No. No, no, no….
The fingers had pulled the ring off, scraping against the raw flesh of his exposed nail bed. Another shriek. The ring had disappeared, slipped into a pocket. Someone had yanked a dark pillow case over Sherlock's head, leaving him blind.
Those thick fingers had patted his backside. "Don't go anywhere, sweet thing. We'll be back."
The lights had gone out, and they'd left him alone. Bound, mute, bleeding, sightless, helpless.
Twenty euros down the drain.
*
His interior clock had failed him some time ago; he kept slipping in and out of a nightmarish daze of pain and exhaustion. The hard metal of the lathe table cut into the flesh of his abdomen, uncomfortable enough to force him into standing nearly on the tips of his toes in order to avoid it. He tugged now and then at the ropes twisted tightly round his left wrist, then tried to saw the ropes against the edge of the table, but there was no give and his skin was a raw circlet of fire; he'd wear the flesh to the bone before he freed himself.
He couldn't stop. They'd be back soon, and God only knew what they had in store for him next. A tool and die shop seemed to hold infinite possibilities of suffering for the imaginative torturer.
A soft whimper escaped him as he tried his right wrist. Sweat dripped into his eyes. He was amazed that he had any moisture left in his body at all. Nearly thirty-six hours had passed since he'd last eaten or drunk; he supposed he should have been grateful that his dehydration meant that he hadn't pissed himself. He was grateful that he couldn't see the spongy, bloody mess his left hand had become. Focus. Focus. Sight is a distraction. If they haven't completely torn out the nail matrix, regeneration should be fairly rapid.
Sherlock's vision faded to a soft grey beneath the pillowcase. He jerked his left wrist against the ropes; agony wrenched a moan from his gagged mouth and drove him into full consciousness.
The pain won't last. Find the knot. Fast, you god-damned idiot. They're coming back.
Somewhere above him and to his left – the tool-shop office, then, at the top of a flight of concrete stairs – there was a loud crash. He froze, held his breath, waited for the screech of door hinges, heavy-booted feet, the bite of pliers. They would test the limits of his endurance, and he would fail. All that time spent, all his meticulous work. Gone.
Was that all?
Swallowing, he pushed the treacherous thought away. He couldn't succumb to sentiment now, not after…all this. He tugged on the ropes again, biting on the rags to suppress the scream that rose in his throat. Desperation gave him more strength, but it wasn't enough. They'd return. They'd torture him again. Eventually he'd talk, everyone talked eventually, even Sherlock, and he knew far too much to talk now, to betray himself and everyone he'd been trying to protect. With Moriarty gone, they mightn't go after Mrs. Hudson, nor Lestrade.
But John….
Another hateful whimper emerged from behind the rags. He yanked with both hands and the pain exploded white-hot in his fingernails. His consciousness faded, then snapped back as he heard the groan of metal hinges.
They were coming back.
No patience, these four. They hadn't begun with subtle interrogation and moved up the scale; they'd beaten him first, asked a few questions, then had gone straightaway into denailing. Brutal stupidity, or pressed for time? Neither mattered much, as the results were the same. Sherlock slowed his breathing. The Sig Sherrinford, hapless tourist, story hadn't worked. He'd have to move on. He had another eight or ten layers of legend to unveil, if he managed to hold out that long. The more time he could buy for John, the better. If only there were some way to warn him….
Footsteps sounded on the rough stairs, deliberate and measured, lighter-sounding than the four booted henchmen. Their ringleader, perhaps. Fear trickled a bright irrigating trail through his nervous system, leaving him exhausted and trembling like a miler after a four-minute sprint.
The machine's a bit defective, John. Mainspring's winding down, cogs and gears are worn. Sorry, sorry.
The footsteps moved toward him with quiet grace. Not leather soles; rubber or Vibram. Someone light on his feet, not a typical workman's solid tread. The footsteps stopped a metre or so from Sherlock's bound body. He smelled leather – aged, not new, treated with oil – a faint tang of petrol, and a soft accord of amber, spices, vetiver, wood. Bois d'Encens. A criminal with expensive tastes. Friend of Moriarty's.
"For someone so convinced of his prowess in all aspects of escapology, you seem to be incapacitated on a fairly regular basis."
Sherlock's gasp was muffled by the gag.
Impossible. Auditory hallucination brought on by hunger and dehydration and pain.
"Come on, Sherlock. It hasn't been that long, surely?"
The pillow case was pulled off his head, and Sherlock blinked in the dimness, but even in the gloom, the face and body was unmistakable.
Ian Adler smiled down at him. "Hi."
Renewed adrenalin surged through Sherlock's body. Still working for Moriarty. Couldn't resist. He struggled again and snarled through the gag, glaring at Ian.
"Hey. Hey! Relax." Ian put his hand out and brushed lank, dirty hair out of Sherlock's eyes. "Calm down. I'm going to get you out of here."
Lying. He's lying. Trying to lull you into cooperating.
"Sherlock, hold still, for Christ's sake. I'll cut you free." Ian pulled a knife from his jacket pocket and grasped Sherlock's left hand.
The pain was an icepick driven into raw, bleeding flesh. Sherlock cried out, too weak to give voice to a full-throated scream, and then lost consciousness with a sensation of the most profound gratitude. As he tumbled into oblivion, he heard Ian's voice echoing hollowly back through a night-dark tunnel.
"Oh, dear God. Sherlock. Sherlock?"
TBC....
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PS: You don't know how jazzed I am at the possibility of sharing a fandom with you again. :D :D
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Would it be absolutely horrible of me to confess that I had the exact same thought slightly before Sherlock did? All that bargaining . . . oh, well.
Really sucks for Sherlock that he doesn't have pianist fingernails. I haven't been a serious pianist in years -- I'm more a string player and singer now -- but I still keep my nails shorn right down to the quick. Has the advantages of not clicking on piano keys and not being easily graspable with pliers.
I suspect that Ian's help is going to come at a steep price, and he won't be so easily bargained down as that ring salesman was.
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Ahahaha! Oh my god, my piano teacher used to get SO mad at me when I grew my nails past the tip. He actually smacked my hand once and sent me to cut them. I've always kept mine super-short as well, after that, anyway. :) Sherlock wasn't so lucky, poor guy.
I suspect that Ian's help is going to come at a steep price, and he won't be so easily bargained down as that ring salesman was.
Ah, we shall see! I hope to have the next bit up soon. Thank you so much for reading. :)
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Imagine Robert de Niro pointing at you and smiling: "You. Yoooooou. Yes YOU!"
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