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“You don’t need him John, you’ve got me.”
Pain, so much pain.
He is battling the urge to vomit. His veins are throbbing. His head aches when he tries to recall the events that had led to this situation.
John and Sherlock had received a missing person case, which according to Sherlock: ‘has the potential to be interesting’. In the beginning, they were supposed to go to the client’s premise together. However, half-way there, Sherlock got a call from Scotland Yard asking him to come for his statement on their previous case. The detective had been less than happy leaving his friend unaccompanied after reading the comments on John’s blog, and thus attempted to pull the doctor alongside him to the department. A part of John, the part that refused to be coddled just because some inconvenient things happened, protested. He convinced Sherlock to let him go alone. (“I was a soldier Sherlock. I think I can handle myself just fine.” He’d said. He truly regrets those words now.) The other man had gazed at him with concern and reluctant in his eyes. Eventually though, with a trusting nod, he told John to text him when he arrived there, and then promptly turned around and walked away. Then-
Nothing. He couldn’t remember anything after that.
Memories lost. Nausea. Weak muscles. Drugged. His mind supplies. He was drugged.
John should have known better, after all those creepy comments on his blog, yet he had brushed it off, thinking somebody was playing him to get to Sherlock. And now here he is, lying still on the bed, letting his captor violate his body. The worst part is: he can’t do a bloody damn thing to stop him.
“I’ll take good care of you.” A gruff, hoarse voice comes from above him. But no matter how hard he tries, he just can’t see anything clearly. Through his blurry eyes, he can only make out broad shoulders and large masculine figure. What scares him the most is that, even in his hazy state, he can still recognize his captor’s dark, fervid eyes looking down at him. It makes him feel helpless and vulnerable, and he hates it.
His body continues to bounce to the rhyme of the fast thrusting. Whimpers and moans and the sound of flesh hitting flesh all mix together, sounding like one of those bad porn videos that John used to watch when he was young.
“He doesn’t appreciate you as much as I do.”
Large hand and long fingers affectionately, sickeningly cup his face, and then slowly roams down his neck, chest, and ends up on his arse.
Sherlock, where are you?
“Gosh, you’re so tight, so perfect.”
A particularly strong thrust of the man’s hips makes John cries out, body jerks and trembles in sudden pain and to his horror, pleasure.
Oh no, please no.
He bites his lips, hard enough to draw blood, and wills himself not to give in, not to let out any sound.
“Don’t hold yourself back, love.”
Lips travel from his forehead to his cheeks, planting kisses on his jawline down to his neck, his wounded shoulder, and after that delicately sucking on his left nipples, causing him to shiver.
There are more thrusting. And waves of pleasure hit him again and againagainagain-
No more, he can’t take this anymore.
“You are so beautiful like this.” The man murmurs against his skin, blowing hot breath on his already hard nipple. “Make some pretty noise for me, darling.”
He doesn’t want this, doesn’t want to surrender, but it’s too much for him, too much and-
John lets out a loud gasp.
The combination of the drug in his blood and the continuous pleasure make him lose all the control he had left. He can’t think straight any longer. The only things he can feel now are pain and pleasure, to the point of agony. He can’t stop his hips from pushing back, meeting every thrust so the other man’s cock can go deeper, hitting that sweet spot inside him. He can’t stop his back from arching up so that sinful mouth can suck harder on his nipple.
He can’t stop his sobs either.
Hot tears are spilling from his eyes, leaving wet trails on his face. But it doesn’t matter, he doesn’t notice them anyway.
Gradually, he feels the hot pull in his lower abdomen. Fuck! He’s going to-
A hand all of a sudden abruptly appears and grips the base of his cock, preventing him from having his release.
John almost screams.
“I need you to beg for it. All you have to do is beg and I will give it to you. Let me take care of you, John.”
In the back of his mind, a voice is screaming at him not to yield. He was a soldier, a fighter; he had been shot before for fuck’s sake. But his body is betraying him, overpowered him with pleasure and there is nothing he can do about it.
“Say it John, just say it- ugh fuck.” John quickly realizes that he’s not the only one who loses control now. The thrusting is starting to become faster and more urgent.
Fuck! He has to come, he has to-
“Please-ugh, please.”
“Please what? Say the entire thing darling. I know you can do it.”
“Please just-fuck! Please let me come, please just let me come!”
The hand on his cock stops squeezing and begins to pump “Your wish is my command John.” The man whispers lasciviously in his ears, making him both want to shudder in fear and come violently. And he does just that, only a couple strokes and he is coming. With a final shout, John’s mind goes blank as pleasure is forced out of his body. At the same time, John feels hot liquid painted his inner walls.
After calming down from his orgasm, all he can feel are humiliation, shame, and exhaustion.
And John cries.
He cries as hard as the first time he saw his friends died on the battlefield, as hard as the time when he heard he was discharged and he had to go back to London.
A body presses against his, hot and so, so wrong. Kisses litter all over his face and a hand stroking his hips like it’s supposed to provide any comfort. But he doesn’t feel comforted, he just feels sick to his stomach.
“I’ve got you now. You don’t have to worry about anything ever again John.”
Come is dripping from his arse and on his stomach, sticky and sordid. Every inch of John feels used, filthy. He’s so tired, so worn-out, both emotionally and physically. He just wants to sleep, just closes his eyes and drifts away from this horrible nightmare.
He hears a chime suddenly, sounding awfully like the one he has on his phone. He wonders if it was Sherlock, trying to reach to him, trying to save him. But just before he could process his thought, he finds himself drown in unconsciousness.
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Erik Garret smiles to himself as he slowly sitting up, careful as not to disturb his little soldier from his much-needed sleep. His smile turns into a triumph smirk. Yes, John belongs to him now, not to those horrendous girlfriends that John mentioned in his stories, especially not to that Sherlock Holmes who doesn’t even know how to fully appreciate this precious treasure, this beautiful hero he had in his hand. Well, it doesn’t really matter anymore, John is Erik’s, and he has more than enough money and other sources to please his lovely story teller.
It was agonizingly easy for his men to hack into the Scotland Yard’s system and got the required information. All things considered, his employees are nothing but efficient. The following part of the plan was the fake call to Sherlock Holmes; the next was telling John there was an emergency so that John could come to the false location alone. But then Joh had reacted so prettily, volunteered to come to Erik all on his own. His heart melted at the scene displaying on the surveillance. Everything else soon fell into place, and all he needed to do was to wait for John to be delivered right to him on a silver plate.
Looking down at John, he can’t help but places a kiss on the smaller man’s forehead. He quietly slips out of his- no, their king side bed, and makes his way to the other side of the room, where John’s phone is sitting on the wooden table. He promptly picks up the thing. In a flash, his eyes harden. He glares at the lit screen, which shows new messages coming from that abominable detective. Does this bastard think he can take John back after how he treated him, after all he had done to this beautiful human being? With a sneer on his lips, Erik furiously types back the reply and sends it in record time. There, that ought to do it. Now the man will know not to bother John ever again. He smirks and dumps the phone in the top drawer. He’ll find a way to dispose of it later. However, at this moment, he wants nothing more than return to bed with his little lover.
From the second drawer, Erik pulls out a soft, black cotton rope. After all, he doesn’t want to hurt his John, well, not unless John wants him to anyway. He then turns around to look at the blond man, sleeping like a baby on their bed. The man looks absolutely ravishing spreading on the expensive, silky velvet sheets, the color contrast stunningly against his golden, tanned skin, glistening with sweat. His mouth waters, just the sight of John like this almost make him hard again. Maybe later, he reminds himself, John needs rest.
Gently, Erik lifts both of John’s hands up and firmly ties them to the bedpost. He doesn’t really want to do this, but better safe than sorry. John obviously will fight back once he regains his strength, like the good soldier he is. But that’s okay; he will understand soon enough, Erik will make him understand. After all, he only wants the best for his John.
The taller man climbs on the bed and settles himself beside his doctor. He throws an arm around the other man’s waist and possessively pulls him closer. With his nose buried in John’s hair and their legs tangled together, Erik closes his eyes and drifts to sleep.
He’s definitely keeping John forever.
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Text messages from SH to JW, left 24 February:
John – STAY WHERE YOU ARE. Imperative that you do not leave the premises under ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. I’ll be right there. –SH
Answer me if you received my last.
John, answer your phone.
Or text me.
If you see this, I’m on my way. If not – I’m on my way.
Text message from JW to SH, left 24 February:
John can’t answer his phone right now. –EG
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“Sir, we’ve got the address.”
From his position on the chair, Sherlock Holmes suddenly stands up and stalks to where the terrified agent is sitting. His usually blank face is now a mixture of relief, concern and murderous which make all the agents in the room, who have never once seen so much emotion on a Holmes, extremely uneasy. Therefore, they keep their mouth shut when the detective snatches the piece of paper on the women responsible for tracing John’s location and manages to run off so fast that they can only see the swirl of his coat before he disappears behind the slammed door.
Outside Mycroft’s gentlemen club, Sherlock hails a cab and angrily shouts the address to the cabbie, ignoring the obviously annoyed look from the other man. The detective is seething with himself. The signs were all there, of course, how could he have missed them? And now John has to pay the price. It was his entire fault.
Sherlock clutches his phone tightly in his hand, knuckles turn white. There is only one thought in his mind:
John, I’m coming to save you.