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Emergency Contact	By : RueRambunctious Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 1534 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any related adaptations (inc. Professor Moriarty) and make no money from this story.

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The rain has finally stopped, but the night is dark and the glare of street lamps and neon signage bounces off of puddles everywhere. It hurts Arty's eyes and somehow even at this hour there is enough traffic noise to make him want to crawl out of his own skin.

Everything aches, his arms and torso a steady burn that is not helped by Basher manhandling him towards a cab.

Arty cannot quite get a read on the man; cannot determine whether his motives are that of a do-gooder or something darker.

Sebastian pulling Arty around amidst the lights and the sound is disorientating, partly because of the recent and significant blood loss. The brunette struggles, but it is clear he is weak, and Sebastian pins the younger man close to his chest lest the boy hurts himself further.

Arty recognises the futility of his efforts but continues anyway, frustrated. Sebastian opens the door to the hackney, guides Arty into the back and closes the door behind them both.

“Conduit Street, Mayfair,” Sebastian tells the apathetic driver. “And can you put the child locks on? My bratty little step-brother knows he's in big trouble when he gets home.”

The driver nods, a thin smile on his lips as though naughty little rich boys getting their comeuppance is the closest thing to justice he's known in this world.

Arty dives for the door before it clicks locked, but Sebastian wrangles him back into the seat and buckles him in.

“Just settle down, will you?” Sebastian mutters. “You're going to pull your stitches.”

“I wouldn't be pulling anything if you'd just give me my meds and leave me alone,” Arty spits back.

“And how are you going to manage to change the dressings by yourself? Or keep them clean when you only seem to have the clothes on your back and can't give an address for where you're staying?”

Arty's gaze glitters dangerously. “That's my concern; not yours.”

Sebastian leans closer. “I think you'll find it is my concern because I'm the one you let them call in the middle of the night and I'm also the one that signed you out under the agreement that I'd administer your meds, help with your dressings, and monitor your wounds.”

“I'm sorry that they called you,” Arty retorts, his throat still evidently painful, “but I don't want your help.”

Sebastian sighs and scowls, vividly reminded of certain pigheaded friends injured during combat. “I saw the state of you when you got changed,” Sebastian states. “You let anything that nasty get infected and your pride is the last thing you'll need to worry about.”

“And yet that still wouldn't be any of your business,” Arty retorts icily.

Sebastian sits back and gives the brunette a disparaging look. “Too bad. Get used to it.”

Arty feels like hitting Sebastian but his forearms have been slashed to shreds and their constant dull throb persuades him not to. He's angry and frustrated and vulnerable, and he absolutely detests it.

Sebastian looks over at his companion. “That bloke said for you to come back in ten days to see how you're doing and to take the staples out. You can last ten days, can't you?”

“I can take the staples out myself,” Arty bites.

Sebastian gives him an uncomplimentary look. “No way. What you can do doesn't bother me. What you will be doing is coming with me in ten days to have things dealt with properly.”

The brunette glares blackly, but slumps against the seat. Everything hurts and he's tired.

Sebastian notes the temporary surrender and relaxes slightly into his seat, shooting Arty the occasional sidelong glances.

The boy is still simmering. Sebastian gets the feeling this whole night is going to a be a fight.

He could do without the aggravation, but then… there's no way he could just abandon the kid in the pathetic state he is in. Especially if it's true that he's barely an adult.

Arty abruptly unsnaps his seatbelt and lunges, his tiny arm fitting through the money tray in the cab's partition wall and snatching at the driver's own belt.

The driver looks around with an exclamation, startled, and swerves the car.

Sebastian hits down on Arty's bandages and drags the brat back against the seats.

The driver gasps, righting the car amidst the blare of horns, and pulls up against the curb.

Sebastian's stomach sinks. He fully expects to be quite rightly kicked out. They're near the east end of Hyde Park so far, and trying to get Arty to walk the rest of the way is going to be murder.

Sebastian starts to apologise, but his stomach turns cold as the driver reaches into the glove box.

In an instant Sebastian has removed his own seat belt and has positioned himself between the driver and Arty. He considers the head rests, wondering whether there would be enough time to break the window or the partition before the gun is drawn.

Only it's not a gun.

The driver passes through a hairbrush and Sebastian stares at it for a beat.

“Brat needs some sense knocked into him,” the driver comments. “Coulda killed somebody. And I'd have killed him if he'd wrote off this car.”

Sebastian is aware of the blood in his ears and the rise and fall of his own chest.

He remembers how nervous Arty became around the belt, but there's a sick tingle in Sebastian's stomach that reminds him that he has a taste for fear. His own or another's…

And Arty is very still.

Sebastian reaches for the hairbrush and gestures mockingly with it. He notes how the brunette's eyes follow its path.

“What's it to be, little boy?” Sebastian asks. “Are you going to sit nicely and behave, or am I going to have to punish you?”

Arty looks paler (if that is even possible) but narrows his eyes. There is an Arctic chill to his voice as he bites out a curse.

Sebastian tuts, tilting his head a little as though he's watching big prey that he's stalking. “That doesn't sound like the response of a good, contrite, little boy to me.”

Arty crosses his sore arms, glaring.

Sebastian's eyes glitter in assessment and continues, “So either you apologise to our very patient driver and sit back down nicely, wearing your belt and behaving perfectly, or we can find out how long it takes me to make you cry. What's it to be?”

Arty curls his fists, grimacing, and looks like he's going to get himself into bigger trouble.

Sebastian wants to give the brat a chance to back out. He taps Arty's thigh with a moderate, warning firmness. “It's very simple Arty: you sit back down and behave yourself and I'll put this away; but if you don't back down I'm going to have to surmise that you want to be even sorer than you already are. That doesn't seem very sensible to me.”

The brunette knows fine well that the sensible thing to do is to back down, shut up, and play nicely, but that is not who he is, and it is certainly not how he feels tonight. It's late; he's tired; he's sore; he almost died and not only is this ex client bullying him, he is humiliating him in front of a stranger.

Arty ignores the fire along his arms and pushes Sebastian is hard as he can in the confined space.

Sebastian gives the brunette a look that sends fear down his spine, and spins Arty around, landing three hard smacks over the thin tracksuit bottoms. Arty has to close his eyes to prevent tears, but when he opens them he tries to spin around, tempted to punch Basher in the throat.

Sebastian increases the pressure of his grip. “You're going to want to keep still,” he warns. “We don't want your arms and chest to feel any worse than they already do.”

He lands a lighter, teasing blow to Arty's bottom, and chuckles at the younger man's inability to hold back a flinch.

“Are you going to be a good boy, or do I need to bare that arse of yours and light it on fire?” Sebastian asks, stroking the back of the brush tauntingly against Arty's rear.

Arty is going to pull out Sebastian's eyes the instant he gets free.

Sebastian taps the bottom before him. “Pardon? I didn't hear a reply there.”

“Go to hell,” Arty mutters.

He cries out, the effort straining his burning throat worse, as Sebastian rains down a short flurry of painful smacks.

“Naughty, naughty,” Sebastian whispers mockingly.

Arty is certain the sick fuck is getting pleasure out of this. “No marks, remember?” he hisses.

“Oh, you won't be working this week,” Sebastian declares. “You will be under house arrest for the next ten days if that's what it takes to ensure you're safe and well and healing.”

He swats Arty again lightly.

“And if you struggle with my rules,” Sebastian purrs, “you'll know what to expect.”

He pulls the elasticated waistband of Arty's tracksuit bottoms down, momentarily admiring the pink marks on the skin, then delivers a quick succession of teasing, stinging smacks.

“So,” says Sebastian, turning his punishing hand around so that he can soothe the sorry bottom with his cool skin, “are you going to be my good boy?”

Arty sniffs, hating himself. “Whatever,” he mutters softly.

Sebastian places the hairbrush on the coin tray behind them and pinches the brunette's sore bottom. “You can do better than that.”

Arty huffs and squirms. “Fine,” he bites out.

“Little boy, does this bare bottom need more smacking? That tone of voice certainly sounds like you want more,” Sebastian drawls.

Arty knows he has taken worse pain and worse humiliation, but his temper often gets the better of him. He throws his skull back, aiming for any part of the other man he can reach, and is gratified by the burst of pain that means he connected.

Sebastian steps back for a minute, pain blooming and mind dazed, then snatches Arty, throwing him carefully but forcefully over Sebastian's own thighs, mindful of Arty's terribly red torso.

Sebastian uses his large, strong hand to deliver a fierce volley of burning slaps that make Arty gasp and whimper despite his pride.

Rubbing the same hand soothingly, tauntingly, across the warm, reddened skin, Sebastian teases, “I certainly know a well-smacked little boy who's going to find it uncomfortable to sleep tonight.”

“Shut up,” Arty says in a quiet voice.

Sebastian draws his short nails lightly over Arty's stinging, exposed skin. “That stubborn tongue in your head won't do you many favours,” Sebastian warns softly.

Arty makes a noise of acknowledgement in his throat, as though he dare not risk a comment.

“So the boy can learn,” Sebastian drawls. He pats the burning bottom under his fingers sympathetically. “Be a good boy now and maybe there won't be tears from you before bedtime.”

Arty grunts softly in response.

Sebastian pulls the boy's waistband carefully over the mistreated, pretty cheeks, doing his best not to cause further pain.

“Put your seatbelt on,” Sebastian orders, lifting Arty with care. The older man runs his gaze over the brunette's torso for wetness or any indication of burst stitches.

There are none.

Arty squirms in his seat, stone-faced, and directs his glare at the floor instead of Sebastian.

“Conduit Street, you said?” the driver asks loudly.

“Please, mate,” Sebastian replies, fixing his seatbelt and keeping a firm grip on Arty.

After being thus dealt with, the brunette is reluctantly quiet for the rest of the ride. Everything hurts, including his ego, and he promises himself fair retribution.

They eventually pull up on a street that makes Arty's breath catch.

Sebastian fishes in his pocket and pulls out more money than demanded by the glowing meter, pushing it through the partition with half an eye still on the brunette.

“Keep it,” the driver offers. “It's enough to know that you love your brother.”

Sebastian blinks, but his lips half curl upwards anyway, and he pushes the money again. “Consider it a thank you for getting us home safe.”

The driver sighs and accepts, giving them both an oddly wistful look.

Sebastian removes Arty's seatbelt and helps him out of the car, being very careful of the brat's wounds.

The brunette cannot understand these changeable moods.

“Come on brat,” Sebastian declares, “let's put you to bed.”

Arty glares heatedly at the side of the man's head.
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Emergency Contact