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The Man Who Beat Sherlock	By : deklava Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 2461 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock. No profit is made from this story.

Chapter List
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It’s been so long since a husband and wife requested his services that Ian Adler has almost forgotten how much fun it can be to have two pets instead of one.
After the money arrives in his account, he visits them in their luxury suite at the Montcalm hotel. They’re a stereotypical power couple: good-looking, fashionably dressed, and treating the place as if they own it. Maybe they do.
Ian can tell that neither the man nor the woman is an experienced BDSM player, but they are willing to pay obscene amounts of money to learn. Believing that everyone should ‘start as a bottom’, the Man orders ‘Mr. and Mrs. Myers’ to kneel, and then unpacks his sleek leather suitcase full of toys.
Ian lets himself forget about Sherlock Holmes long enough to relish what his own devious mind can think up during the four hours that follow. He ties the woman spread-eagled on the bed, clamps her nipples and treats her body to alternate drips of hot wax and ice water while her husband buries his face in her cunt. Then he blindfolds the man, crops his white buttocks until a vivid red blush covers the skin, and makes him bend over the huge four-poster bed while the woman plunges into his arse with an electrified strap-on. As the man moans his pleasure into the luxurious sheets, Ian remembers how Sherlock makes noises just as pretty during their post-midnight games.
He can’t wait for Saturday.
Finally, the allotted time is up. Mr. and Mrs. Myers get dressed in their bedroom while Ian goes into the sitting room to pack his suitcase. When they return, the husband goes directly to the crystal bar set while the wife, a beautiful brunette, approaches. She is positively glowing.
“Thank you, Mr. Adler. You were all we expected and more.”
Ian opens his mouth to give an equally courteous reply, but the only sound he makes is a gasp of surprise as a needle sinks into his neck. Acting on instinct, he turns around to swing, but the movement throws him off balance and he crashes to the floor, right at the feet of the tall and stately Mr. Myers. When he tries to rise, a high-heeled shoe plants itself on his back, anchoring him to the Moroccan carpet.
The last thing Ian hears before passing out is the soft, elegant voice of Myers saying, “After you’ve rested, Mr. Adler, we have an important topic to discuss. Namely, my brother Sherlock.”
******
When Ian wakes up, he’s surprised to find himself still in the hotel suite. But circumstances have changed while he was asleep: now he’s the one lying on the bed, limbs secured to the posts by detachable restraints. His mouth is sealed by one of his own gags.
He’s not naked though: his black silk shirt is open, but his tight leather trousers and Salvatore Ferragamo leather boots are still on. Whatever ‘Mr. and Mrs. Myers’ have in store for him, sexual abuse is likely not on the agenda. He doesn’t discount the possibility, though, which is why he automatically cringes when he detects movement to his left.
There’s no sign of the lovely Mrs. Myers, but her ‘husband’ is sitting on an upholstered armchair, tall and rapier-slim in a grey pinstriped suit. When he sees that Ian is awake, his face splits in a broad smile that gives him an uncanny resemblance to a shark.
“Mr. Adler,” he says solicitously, “My name is Mycroft Holmes. I do apologize for this turn of events. But I had to understand what my brother finds so fascinating about you.” He rises and approaches the bed, hands in his pockets. “I must say, you were an excellent birthday present for my dear assistant. She’s been working so hard lately. Thanks to your magic touch and creative way with erotic theatre, she’ll be happy for weeks.”
After giving the Man’s bound form a final once-over, Mycroft Holmes returns to his chair. Ian notices that it has an extra cushion added: the beautiful assistant had been quite rough with the strap-on, he remembers.
Once he’s comfortably seated, Mycroft picks up a dossier.
“Ian James Adler, aged thirty-six. Born in London to Israeli father and British mother. Orphaned at the age of sixteen, when your parents were killed by a bomb in Tel Aviv.”
Ian’s instinctive reaction is hot, surprised anger, but he forces himself to calm down. He cannot change the past. At one time grief and desire for vengeance fuelled him, but he knows for a fact that the terrorist who set that bomb is dead. He saw to it personally.
“You spent two years in Ashfield juvenile prison for assaulting your foster father. The fact that you left him a lifelong invalid would normally have warranted a much more severe sentence, but there were apparently extenuating factors.” Mycroft eyes him thoughtfully over the dossier. “You’ve channelled your aggression into much more profitable- not to mention pleasurable- endeavours.”
Ian makes an irritated noise. He wants his suave captor to get to the obvious point of this confrontation: Sherlock.
Mycroft lays the file aside. “So tell me. What is the exact nature of your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?” When Ian flexes his jaw around the gag and gives him an annoyed look, the other man sighs.
“Of course. How thoughtless of me.”
He stands up, undoes the gag’s straps, and extracts it carefully from his prisoner’s mouth.
“There. Better?”
Ian shifts his jaw about and licks his lips. “I don’t suppose I could have some water?”
“Certainly. And since we’re both gentlemen who have come to know each other intimately, I am presuming that you won’t be so childish as to spit it on me.”
Ian had actually been thinking about doing just that, but with the element of surprise gone, he shook his head.
“Good,” Mycroft says as he brings an open bottle of water to the Man’s lips. “I’m glad you changed your mind.”
Ian takes several swallows to soothe his dry mouth. Then he says, “Discretion is the bedrock of my profession, Mr. Holmes. Therefore, what Sherlock and I do is none of your business.”
The elder Holmes brother sets the bottle on the bedside table, next to the lube container and box of latex gloves, both mementos of the earlier adventure. “It could be,” he warns in a tone that suggests less uncertainty than the words imply.
“I genuinely doubt it.”
“I take my brother’s well-being very seriously, Mr. Adler. He’s a grown man with the intellect of a great philosopher and the impulses of an incorrigible child. Keeping him safe has become a full-time occupation.”
“He’s in no danger with me.”
“I wonder if that’s really true.” Mycroft sits on the edge of the bed and places a cool, graceful hand on Ian’s bare chest, just above the sternum. “I’m sure Sherlock is safe physically, but everything I’ve learned about you leads me to believe that you’re negligent in other matters. Take the Baron and Baroness of Rothes. You were a catalyst in their terrible divorce last year by having an affair with each of them separately.”
“Are you telling me Sherlock is married?” Ian rolls his eyes. He knows he shouldn’t provoke Mycroft: the man could kill him and dispose of his body as effortlessly as most people throw out their rubbish. But he hates feeling helpless, and verbal rebellion keeps panic and fear at bay. Besides, he’s figured out by now what this whole situation really represents: a concerned older sibling who’s basically saying, “Break my brother’s heart and I’ll do the same to your neck.”
Not necessarily a life-threatening confrontation. Is it?
“Most amusing. But I require you to take my concerns more seriously if we are to proceed.”
Mycroft looks almost apologetic as he brings his fingers down hard on the Man’s sternum.
Pain shoots through Ian’s chest, robbing him of breath. His lungs feel like they’re contracting to half their size and being stabbed with hot needles.
“What you’re undergoing is known as compressive asphyxia,” Mycroft explains, as calmly as if they’re discussing driving directions. “I’m mechanically limiting expansion of your lungs by compressing your torso, interfering with breathing. If I continue for much longer, you will lose consciousness and, unfortunately, die.”
Ian tries to breathe but it hurts, so he gasps and gurgles and locks stares with his tormentor, not wanting to plead for mercy but knowing that in a few seconds, his body will start doing it for him. He hasn’t wet himself since he was a child, but a warning twinge in his bladder suggests that the ‘dry spell’ is about to be broken….
Mycroft releases him, clearly feeling that he’s now got an appropriately captive audience. “I hope I won’t have to do that again. I prefer not to inflict pain during discussions like these. It makes us adversaries, Mr. Adler, when we should be attempting to reach an understanding.”
Ian waits until his coughing is under control before replying. “An understanding about what? Are you telling me to stay away from Sherlock?”
“Not at all. It would be futile, anyway, because my brother is very headstrong. He’s fixated on you, and to affect an adequate separation, I’d have to incarcerate or kill you.” Mycroft lets those options weigh heavily in the air before continuing. “Sherlock, as you well know, is a virgin. But I understand that he intends to change that status. With you.”
“And you want to know what I’ll do with him… afterward.”
“That’s correct.” The elder Holmes inclines his head. “I worry about my brother constantly and wish to forestall any possibility of him being hurt. I know he’s not been compensating you financially for your services, so if it’s your intention to abandon him after he’s been… altered… I’d be glad to pay you to keep fulfilling his needs.”
For the first time in his professional life, the notion of accepting money for intimacy makes Ian Adler cringe. He knows that Mycroft Holmes is wealthy enough to make his life even more comfortable and decadent. But he thinks of Sherlock, who slips into his bed after midnight unannounced, trembling so violently with need that the young man can barely speak, and his answer comes fast.
“No.”
Mycroft looks intrigued. “No?”
“That’s right.” Despite the refusal, he’s not afraid: for the first time since this pseudo-interview began, he’s on the same side as Mycroft, and that makes him safe. “I’m willing to see Sherlock for as long as he wishes to visit me. I find your brother fascinating. He’s a refreshing exception to what I see daily in my line of work. To most of my clients, I’m a male prostitute with an excellent whip hand. To Sherlock, I’m….” He fumbled for the right word. “I’m a saviour. He not only craves my talents, he needs them. I could never betray him.”
Mycroft gets up from the bed and studies Ian for what must only be a few seconds, but under that laser-bright stare, feels like several minutes. Then he bends over, so close that Ian can see the intricate birdseye pattern in his wool suit, and unfastens one wrist restraint. Before he does the other one, he stands up straight again and says, “I believe we understand each other now?”
Ian looks him in the eye. “Yes. I believe we do.”
Mycroft undoes the other wrist cuff. Ian sits up carefully, stomach muscles rippling, and shuffles down the mattress so he can free his bound ankles. When he finally climbs off the bed and stands, Mycroft presents him with a glass of 30-year-old Lagavulin from the bar set.
“You know, Mr. Holmes,” he says as he accepts it, “you could have simply asked me what my intentions were.”
“Yes, but I preferred to ensure your honesty.” Mycroft takes a well-bred sip of his drink. “I do believe the ends justified the means. Sherlock is a great responsibility, Mr. Adler. I hope you’re prepared. He’s headstrong, demanding, and unpredictable. Not dissimilar to yourself, I suspect.”
Oh, you really have no idea, Ian thinks. But he takes a swallow of the scotch, relishing its smoky-hot aftertaste, and says, “You suspect correctly.”
He sets the crystal glass on the bedside table and bends toward his left boot, whose side zipper is partly open. When Mycroft doesn’t stop him or even comment, Ian knows that the older man never saw him unzip it deliberately while he was freeing himself.
He moves quickly. With a lightning-fast flick of his thumb, he removes the cap from the short, narrow syringe. It’s a special blend that he uses mostly for defense, but occasionally for recreation. This situation is a little of both.
Mycroft realizes that something is up, but not before Ian plunges the needle into his shoulder and injects the contents. He hisses in pain and surprise like an outraged Persian cat and lurches forward, but the motion sends him crashing onto his front.
Most people would be informally sentenced to death for a move like this, the Man suspects. But he believes that his brazen effrontery has actually earned him a reprieve: anyone capable of outsmarting Mycroft Holmes would be perfectly suited to the task of keeping Sherlock safe, and he and Mycroft both know it.
Ian has just proven that he’s more valuable alive than dead.
“Sherlock will always be safe with me,” Ian says as he tosses the empty syringe onto the bed. He’s sure that Mycroft’s people will want to analyse its contents later, to verify that he hasn’t used some poison that takes thirty years to act. “And you, Mr. Holmes- you’ll be fine. I’ve used this lovely concoction on a lot of people. You’ll sleep for a few hours, and enjoy the most interesting dreams. Maybe I’ll be in them, yes?”
Ian knows he should leave now, before bodyguards come to check on their employer. (He also wouldn’t be surprised if ‘Mrs. Myers’ was deadly with a Sig or stiletto.) But not before he gives some parting advice.
He goes to his suitcase, which sits next to the bedroom door, opens it, and takes out his favourite riding crop. So many famous arses have been blistered with its polished tip that he frequently considers insuring it. When Mycroft rolls onto his side in an approximation of the recovery position and glares up at him, Ian smiles like a fallen angel and runs the crop edge across that nobly formed cheekbone.
“It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Holmes. I hope you don’t take this personally, but I’ve always believed that the bigger you are, the harder you eventually fall… at my feet. Good evening.”
Then, in a whisper of black leather, the Man leaves.
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The Man Who Beat Sherlock