Adult-FanFiction.org : Television / Streaming

The Prey	By : amandalee Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3756 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: The authors do not claim ownership to Sherlock or any of its characters, and we make no money from writing this.

Chapter List
- 29
- 30
- 31
Chapter 30
Pain shooting through his arm was what awoke Sherlock. He nearly wanted to cry. Or throw up. Somehow he could not do the latter at the moment, almost as though the meat he had been forced to swallow was determined to digest in his stomach. Opening his eyes - which in turn triggered a headache - he saw that his bonds were being unlocked from the bed frame. He could have tried to struggle loose once no longer attached and... no. He was too weak. He hurt too much.
Listening to the heavy breath above, which beat against his face like a foul smelling steam, he lay limp as he was lifted from the bed by the giant.
Would he be raped again? Would part of him be eaten? Sherlock's brain still worked well enough to deduce that he would not. He heard no cackling from the skinny psycho that might indicate the excitement of oncoming torture. Glancing aside, he happened to see the idiot standing nearby, yawning and rubbing at his solitary eye. It was then that Sherlock realized the darkness of his surroundings was not from weakened vision, but rather from the approach of night. Obviously the hunters wanted to use their beds, and their wretched guest was taking up too much space.
Sherlock expected to return to the likely now repaired plywood prison from which he and John - oh, dearest John - had escaped, but instead he was lowered onto a tattered, lumpy cushion on the floor. He yelped when his arms were deliberately moved, binding him to the rusty leg of a heavy iron stove, but otherwise, he was left where he lay.
He blurrily watched the three mountain man retire to their beds, the leader getting his own while the idiot and psycho shared another. Seemingly in but a few minutes, they had fallen asleep while Sherlock lay on the floor in the dark, wide awake.
Sherlock's head drooped as he wondered how long it would take him to fall back into sleep. He preferred being there as opposed to hellish consciousness. In fact, the waking world was beginning to feel more dreamlike than the realm of sleep, and the notion frightened him. Had he not known better, he would have thought the huge man who carried him from the bed had been Sebastian Moran.
***
2003
Sherlock began to doubt if moving in with Sebastian had been such a good idea, after all. Granted he now had a place to sleep, food (when he required it, which was not very often) and he no longer had to walk the street to support his expensive habits. Sebastian had that all covered, and all he demanded from Sherlock in return was sex. Sex and companionship. Two things the 22-year-old cocaine addict was more than happy to offer, because he liked Sebastian. He liked him a lot, even though at thirty-seven, he was fifteen years Sherlock's senior and so different from him that they might as well have been from two separate worlds.
Sebastian was a soldier; a Gulf war veteran, to be precise, and held the rank of colonel. He could probably have risen further, had he not been dishonourably discharged from the British Army for punching a senior officer. According to Sebastian himself, it had all been one great misunderstanding where he had received an unjustly harsh punishment, but despite his general distrust in authorities, Sherlock was inclined to believe they had made the right decision discharging Sebastian Moran.
Sebastian was a people person; the polar opposite of Sherlock himself, and it was no secret that he used gambling and card play to add to his meager army pension, sometimes with great stakes involved. Also, like Sherlock, Sebastian was a cocaine user. People, men and women alike, were susceptible to his charms, and Sebastian utilized this to its full extent, not the least bit hesitant to use other people for his personal gain.
This notion didn't particularly bother Sherlock; Sebastian looked out for him, and that was all that mattered. Plus he made sure the young man's needs were provided for, thus sparing Sherlock the danger and indignation of having to sell his body or trade it for drugs. But Sebastian had a temper. Not in the way that "normal" people did, Sherlock himself included, but Sebastian had a *really* short fuse, and once his temper flared, something in him… changed. Sherlock had noticed it in his eyes. Sebastian's eyes were a lighter blue than Sherlock's own, but when the older man became angry, his pupils dilated until they filled the entire iris, making Sebastian's eyes seem black. Black with rage.
Yesterday Sherlock had been on the receiving end of Sebastian's anger for the first time. The argument had started with a harmless discussion as to whose time to was to go out and get takeaway food, and some good-natured teasing from the younger man had suddenly provoked the army veteran into a fit of violent rage.
"Takeaway again, Seb?" Sherlock asked with mock-surprise. "Do you ever eat anything else? Have you perhaps heard of the four food groups?"
Sherlock had expected Sebastian to respond with a jab of his own, still in good humour, but instead the army veteran's weathered features contorted into a menacing scowl, and the "black" appeared in his eyes. Sherlock had seen it happen before, naturally, but this was the first time it was directed at him, and suddenly he was frightened.
Sebastian's thickly muscled, tattooed arm shot out like a snake - a black mamba came to Sherlock's mind - and grabbed the younger man by the hair, yanking his head toward himself. Sherlock cried out from the pain of having his neck twisted in a most unnatural angle, but he was too flabbergasted to object to the harsh treatment, let alone put up any kind of resistance.
"Don't you dare lecture me, you lazy little bitch!" Sebastian hissed in Sherlock's ear, and his grip tightened further to the shock and horror of the younger man. "I take you in, I feed you, I provide you with snow, and this is how you choose to thank me? You think you're so clever, don't you? You think you can order me around suddenly because you grew up in some fucking mansion and speak with a posh public school accent?"
"Seb, no! Stop it!"
"Stop what?" the bigger man taunted. "You want to leave now, is that it? You want to go back to the streets? Sucking cock and spreading your legs for paying customers, is that how you want to live your life? Sleeping under bridges and smelling like a hog's arsehole?"
"Let me go, Seb." Sherlock's voice was trembling, and the rest of him wasn't far behind.
A few second passed, during which Sherlock feared Sebastian Moran might decide to break his neck then and there. Then the ex-colonel let him go and finished by shoving him off the couch where they'd both sat watching TV until the topic of today's dinner came up. Sherlock rubbed his sore neck and swallowed rapidly one time after the other to restore moisture to his throat that had become bone-dry.
Then he glanced up at Sebastian. The red-haired man looked completely unfazed as he lit a cigarette and took a draft from it, blowing smoke out of his nostrils like some kind of dragon. A dragon in human guise. Sherlock wondered if what just happened was even real. Sebastian's anger seemed to have evaporated as quickly as it had built up. His eyes were back to their usual shade of pale blue without a hint of black.
He involuntarily twitched when the older man reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a 20-pound note, which he then handed to Sherlock.
"Now go make yourself useful," Sebastian said with casual grin. "Pick up something at that new Thai place around the corner. Thai Phat. Yeah, that's what it's called. Fanta for me, pick whatever you want for yourself. Oh, and you can keep the change."
He then affectionately stroked the neck he had almost twisted out of place a minute ago and continued smoking as Sherlock slowly got up and left the apartment. He was still smoking when the younger man returned twenty minutes later carrying two white plastic bags of takeaway, but now there was also a glass of whiskey on the coffee table next to him.
That was yesterday. Sebastian had left early in the morning and now it was eight o'clock in the evening and he still wasn't back. Sherlock had spent the day chain-smoking and busying himself by solving crossword and Sudoku puzzles in old magazines that lay stacked in piles all over the flat. It was boring. Booooriiiiiiiing. It required absolutely zero effort on his part. Sherlock derisively thought of the tiny little minds of other people who tried to solve these and found it challenging, and the even tinier minds of the ones who had made them, believing they had created a challenge. Pathetic.
Sherlock lit yet another cigarette - his 28th so far that day - and leaned his head back against the sofa cushion. He was beginning to feel the familiar post-high depression setting in. Sebastian and he had done several lines last night before bedtime, and now there was nothing left. Seb would get more, though. He always got more. Sherlock did not care how or where he got it, as long as he was willing to share.
Another hour passed, and the young Holmes smoked another three cigarettes. His ashtray was full to the brink of overflowing and needed emptying, but Sherlock was too disheartened and dejected to care, let alone do something about the problem. Damn it, Seb! He needed to come back, preferably with enough cocaine to last them both through the night.
When he finally heard the sound of the front door opening and quickly slamming shut, he breathed a sigh of relief, but Sherlock did not want to appear too clingy or desperate, so he did not rise from his spot on the couch to greet Sebastian.
The older man did not even have to enter the room for Sherlock to know that he was in an intensely bad mood. His footsteps gave all that away before his physical appearance. Sebastian Moran was a man with ginger hair and fair skin that burned easily when exposed to sunlight, and the shade of red currently on his face suggested Sebastian had either spent too long in the sun without proper sun screen, or he was angry. Sherlock was willing to bet on the latter.
The younger man gave his lover a quick look-over and instantly deduced a few possible reasons for Sebastian's anger. One: he had lost a great deal of money in card play. Two: he had been humiliated. Three: he was afraid - genuinely so - and overcompensated by showing a disproportionate amount of aggression. There three reasons combined made for one volatile mix, and Sherlock suddenly wished Sebastian had stayed absent.
The red-head threw his leather jacket on the couch next to Sherlock but otherwise acted as though he hadn't even seen him. Sherlock stayed where he was and glanced up at the older man from behind his dark curls, trying hard to predict his next course of action. Seb was not like most other people in that sense. One never knew what made him tick, and thus he became extremely unpredictable.
Someone had been making trouble for Sebastian, and Sebastian's way of dealing with trouble was to spread the wealth. Truth is it wouldn't have mattered what Sherlock was doing when Sebastian came home. The older man simply wanted an excuse to start a fight, and since Sherlock had not (yet) given him a reason, he had to come up with one of his own.
"What the hell are you doing sitting here lazing about?" Sebastian growled. "I *told* you to clean up this motherfucking mess!" He gestured at the living room, packed full with stacks of old papers, milk and fast food cartons, empty liquor bottles, beer cans and other disposable items that could be expected to pile up in a not-so-tidy single man's household. Although Sebastian hadn't been single for the past three weeks, it did not mean Sherlock would be the one to clean up his messes for him. Sebastian hadn't even mentioned it until this day. Never, not once, and Sherlock was not going to take this crap.
"No, you didn't," the young Holmes calmly replied, suspecting Sebastian knew the truth. "And even if you had, what makes you think I would want to do that? I'm not your maid, Seb. Clean up your own messes."
"What'd you say?"
Sherlock did not have to look into Sebastian's eyes to know they were back to black. But when he did, he also couldn't help but notice the lack of expression in them. Seb's eyes were as glassy and dead as shards of glass twinkling on black asphalt on a hot summer day.
Dear God, the man's insane, he began thinking, but before Sherlock could take his thought process any further, a fist collided with his head, causing first a shocking jolt of pain, followed immediately by starry darkness, which, Sherlock later realized, was a brief fainting spell. When he came to, he was lying prostrate on the floor with no memory of how he'd gotten there.
Sebastian Moran stood over the younger man, his glassy black eyes fixed intently on Sherlock. His rage had not yet passed. There was more to come.
"Seb…" Sherlock began, his speech slightly slurred from the blow to his head, but he never made it further with his protest because Sebastian quickly sat astride him and delivered another blow to his face, this time using a backhand. Sherlock's head rang from the abuse. His feet pedaled weakly, unsuccessfully trying to move him away from his attacker.
Blood flowed from the younger man's nose, tricking into his nasal duct and from there down his pharynx, which caused a vehement bout of coughing to occur. His head felt heavy in a way it hadn't felt since he was nine years old and swerved his bicycle to avoid a pothole in the pavement… and instead ended up hitting the asphalt headfirst. Sherlock still had a scar on his temple from that incident, which had required seven stitches and an overnight stay at the hospital. Mycroft had stayed with him throughout the night, sleeping uncomfortably next to him in the narrow children's hospital bed, and only because Sherlock had insisted on it.
He had been punched before, and even kicked, but not by anyone with Sebastian's strength and technical accuracy. This was a man who outweighed Sherlock by fifty pounds minimum and had been trained to kill with his bare hands. For a fleeting moment Sherlock wondered how many "enemies" Sebastian had killed during his military career and if he'd enjoyed the killing itself. If he lived through this, he wanted to ask Sebastian that very question.
IF he lived through this.
A hand closing around the lower half of his face brought his attention back to the man he considered his lover. The vice-like grip squeezed against hollow cheeks. He would doubtlessly have bruises afterward.
"You should see yourself right now," Sebastian growled. "How stupid you look. You look much better when that mouth of yours is closed or around a fucking cock."
Sherlock did not speak. While his lover's breath was deep and hard, he barely dared to breathe, cursing himself for being so frightened, but damn it, he really was. But he did not show it. Never show fear to a vicious animal.
Sebastian's nostrils flared as he exhaled through his nose, and he finally let go of Sherlock, tossing him aside with nearly enough force for the smaller man's head to hit the floor. Shuffling out of reach, Sherlock composed himself as he listened to the heavy footsteps which trailed away towards a table. Telltale sounds of a thin object clacking and scraping against the surface made Sherlock perk up, and he stood up on wobbling legs, movements of a foal learning to take its first steps. His head was still ringing, but the sound of the preparing of cocaine was stronger than the urge to sit down and recover from the assault.
Moran's back was turned to him, bent over, as the sound of a snorted inhale filled the room. Slowly approaching the table, Sherlock noted with some element of pleasant surprise that a straw and several lines had been made for him.
Then it occurred to him that he could not possibly snort the substance with his nose swollen and gushing like a faucet. Sherlock pressed his forearm against his face to stop the bleeding and swayed slightly on his feet. Sebastian had hit him. And not just give him a small smack or a slap, but really beat him up. And for what purpose? He had given Seb lip before, and usually the older man took it in stride or responded with a barb of his own to counter Sherlock's smart remarks.
Sebastian went about his business as if nothing special had happened, and once he had done his two medium-sized lines, he leaned back in the couch and momentarily closed his eyes as he waited for the drug to take effect. Sherlock stood riveted to the spot, unsure of how to proceed, and a faint 'plip' noise could he heard when drops of blood from his abused nose hit the hardwood floor beneath him.
When the colonel opened his eyes and saw what was going on, he scowled disapprovingly and snapped his fingers to bring Sherlock out of his haze.
"Go clean the fuck up, you dumb shit! You're dripping blood all over my floor!" he shouted.
Sherlock jumped at the angry roar, and he numbly turned to retreat into the bathroom. Only when he shut the door and turned on the light did he truly lose composure, shaking like a tiny animal in a cage. Not caring to wait for the faucet to bring him water that was not brown, he splashed the result on his face. Breathing deep, he looked at his sunken, bloodied reflection. At present, a cage was definitely what he felt like he was trapped within. Seb was acting as both the iron bars and the guard who ensured he did not escape.
For not the first time, Sherlock thought about leaving, about running away from Sebastian. But where would he go? And considering the red-haired man's behavior tonight, would he be the sort of man who would track Sherlock down? Kill him as well?
Convincing himself he would make a proper decision after he had some sleep, he grabbed some toilet paper and began to stop up the bleeding.
Sebastian had really done a number on his face. When paper alone did not suffice to stop the nosebleed, Sherlock soaked a towel in ice-cold water and pressed that to his face instead. It did not do much for the pain, but at least he could feel the flow gradually cease, and it also helped reduce the swelling. Was there a chance his nose might be broken? Sherlock didn't think so, but if it was, it would have to be set right manually. Meaning he'd probably have to go to a hospital to have it done properly.
Sherlock loathed hospital, and if he went, everyone would know how he'd acquired the damage to his face. Mycroft would show up, give his standard lecture followed by condescending remarks, and then use force to make Sherlock go with him if the younger Holmes still refused to comply. "For your own best", the pompous fat bastard would say.
Mycroft hadn't liked it one bit when Sherlock announced he was moving in with Seb. He had loudly proclaimed that Sebastian Moran was a scoundrel, unreliable, violent, and possibly even dangerous and that Sherlock was making a very big mistake believing that such a figure was looking out for his well-being.
"He's using you, Sherlock," Mycroft stated grimly. "When he tires of you, which he will, because he's a sociopath, he'll either kick you out on the street or kill you. Whichever he does will depend on his mood at the time. You have noticed it can change in a heartbeat, haven't you?"
Sherlock had told his brother that he was wrong. Sebastian was good to him; he'd even offered him a place to stay with no charge for food or utilities, as well as access to all the drugs he ever needed.
Mycroft didn't plead, but he came dangerously close to it when Sherlock could not be wooed by warnings, admonitions or even threats. Stubbornness was a very prominent Holmnesian trait, shared by both brothers, and it was the reason most of their arguments ended with a stalemate with neither willing to give an inch. Sherlock had gone victorious out of this particular power struggle, and he was absolutely certain Mycroft would not quickly forget.
If he went to a hospital with a smashed face, it would be the same as admitting to his brother that he'd been right. Mycroft would gloat, and Sherlock might never get to see Seb again. Despite what had happened just now, Seb had been exclusively good to him in the past three weeks. And then there were the drugs. He could not live a life without drugs. Every attempt so far had failed. The world was intolerable for someone of Sherlock Holmes' nature without the help of artificial stimulants or suppressors.
Seb had been very good at fulfilling those needs on a daily basis, demanding very little in return. Leaving him now would be stupid. Was the danger and humiliation of life as a street prostitute really preferable to being slapped around a little every now and then? It wasn't as though Sebastian had tried to kill him…
Seb did not tolerate insolence. Sherlock had to respect that, to learn how to. Doling out insults was as natural to him as breathing, but he could change. Yes, he could change. He'd have to. He must not jeopardize what he had now because he had trouble keeping his tongue in check. He was difficult; he'd been told so most of his life by everyone around him, family included.
"Difficult" at his best, "impossible" at his worst. Those had been his father's words shortly before the Holmes patriarch had stuffed his pockets with rocks and walked into the Thames, having decided life was not worth continuing. Mycroft had never said it out loud, but Sherlock knew that his sibling at least partially blamed him for their father's worsened mental state and consecutively also his suicide. And who knew; perhaps Mycroft was right. All Sherlock did was ruin everything.
Gathering up some crumpled clumps of toilet paper to stop the last of the bleeding, he considered remaining in the toilet for the rest of the night, but Seb wouldn't have that. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and returned to the table.
Sebastian did not seem to pay him any regard at first when he approached, sprawled out on the sofa. Sherlock's share of the lines remained on the tabletop, not a priority to look after for someone already high from his own dosage. At first he looked to be sitting perfectly still, but upon stepping closer, Sherlock realized the bigger man was practically vibrating. Already an irritable man, Sebastian would be even worse with so much blow in his system. Where someone high on cocaine would be loud and frenetic, the soldier was thankfully quiet... but this did nothing to comfort Sherlock.
In one jittering hand, Seb held some rolled up weed, which had already been lit. The sight of it inspired Sherlock to grab for his own cigarettes, plucking a small box from his pocket and removing a fag.
Damn it, where was his lighter?
Feeling he had nothing else to do before finding the damnable thing, he placed the fag between his lips to pat himself down, seeing it quiver in his peripheral vision.
Sebastian must have finally looked at him, because he sat forward and handed the young man not a lighter, but his dope. Hesitating, Sherlock stared at the joint for a moment, wondering for a split second if he should take the offer at face value, or if it was a lure to get him close enough for another slap. However, he only wondered for the briefest of moments before finally accepting. He inhaled as he slumped onto the sofa next to Sebastian, welcoming the high which finally came to him. It was not cocaine - he imagined his remaining share of blow would eventually be going up Seb's nose as well - but it was something.
A long while - perhaps an hour, perhaps longer; the weed made Sherlock's perception of time unreliable - passed without neither man speaking a word. Sherlock began to gradually relax around Sebastian again when the colonel showed no signs of wanting to 'discipline' him further. Perhaps it was simply an isolated incident and they could go on as before, preferably forgetting this ever happened? Sherlock realized he was very willing to forget, even though his nose would have none of it at the moment.
"You know it's your own fault, right?" Sebastian Moran said suddenly; the first words uttered since Sherlock returned from the bathroom. "I can't take it when people mouth off to me, not when I'm in a bad mood. You had it coming for provoking me. Couldn't you tell? I mean, you like to pretend you know everything, so why didn't you know I was gonna lose my temper?"
Sherlock said nothing. He hoped Seb would not interpret his silence as insolence and beat him up a second time. But he also feared anything he might say would make things worse. He'd never been a very proficient liar.
Sherlock's nose had become numb within the duration of being stoned. In fact, if he imagined well enough, the rest of him was quite numb as well. The lack of sensation seemed somewhat appropriate for his present dilemma. He waited until Sebastian looked away from him before he finally decided to speak. He hoped his current drugged state had not slowed his reaction too much.
"I'm sorry, Seb."
Sebastian looked back at the smaller man, his face unreadable, even for Sherlock - although this could have been because of the marijuana. Sherlock gave what he hoped was a sad, guilty expression.
"I'm a stubborn little arsehole," the younger man said. "I just needed some sense knocked into me. I promise it won't happen again."
Sebastian continued to stare, almost as though he were uncertain with how to interpret the apology, and Sherlock felt more than a little frightened that he had not convinced his lover whatsoever. Hopefully the weed had dulled the colonel's senses as well.
"We'll see," he listlessly said. "Give me the remote."
Obeying the command - like a dog retrieving a bone, he thought - Sherlock kept his distance on the otherwise intimate closeness of the sofa, allowing Sebastian to turn on the telly and switch to some episode of Brookside where a corpse had been found under a patio. Sherlock found himself wondering if Seb would have the drive and determination to do such a thing to hide his body if he were to mouth off one too many times. Would he ever be discovered? Would Mycroft still gloat?
TBC...
- 29
- 30
- 31
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

The Prey