|Unconventional Cures - Sherlock Holmes - Holmes/Watson
||[Jan. 17th, 2010|05:59 pm]
where the daydreams reign
Title: Unconventional Cures
Pairing: Holmes/Watson (Blackwood/Holmes/Watson)
Word Count: 3366
Warnings: Dub/non-con of the "fuck or die" variety; lol!science
A/N: This is a filthy, ridiculous PWP. I would blame sherlockkink for corrupting me, but I think I was already a lost cause.
Summary: Blackwood injects Watson with a poison for which there is only one cure. Holmes feels it is in their best interests to administer it.
Watson's heart is beating far too fast, far too hard. From the position of his hand against his slick neck, Holmes can feel every heart beat. It's dangerous.
His breathing is ragged.
His pupils are blown.
His skin is damp with sweat.
He's on his knees, nude, on the concrete floor, but shows no sign of pain from his abused leg; yet his gaze has connected with Holmes's, fuzzy through the haze of the drugs woven into his bloodstream, and it is a desperate, begging thing. It is something that is almost impossible to say no to.
"You'd better make your mind up, Holmes," Blackwood suggests, stood on the other side of the room. His voice is nothing more than a gleeful purr.
Holmes looks up at him. His hand clings onto Holmes's trouser leg and he closes his eyes, screws them shut. Holmes can almost see the physical effort that it takes him to retain some sort of grip on his sanity. In any other situation than this, he might find this drug fascinating.
"Go, Holmes," Watson says. The words barely manage to escape from their position behind his clenched teeth. "Get him."
Holmes is frozen for a moment as he tries to make his decision. In his mind's eye, he can see every weakness and point of attack waiting for him in Blackwood's frame - but he came here to rescue Watson, not to seek his own revenge.
"I don't think he has much time left," Blackwood elaborates. He seems as if he will be unaffected by the outcome in either direction. "I've told you what the cure is."
"Lie," Watson gasps. His breath flashes hot through Holmes's shirt. "It's a lie. It doesn't-"
He is cut off from any further medical advice when a cry of pain that he is unable to muffle is ripped from him. A lesser man would have been reduced to screams by now, and probably tears. Holmes brushes his fingers against the side of Watson's face. The skin there is rough with the faintest stubble, as it has been hours since Watson was near a razor.
"What's it to be, detective?" Blackwood asks - he sounds delighted, as if he already knows.
Holmes's decision has already been made. It was made for him, in fact, before he ever entered this room. The jag of a needle into the side of Watson's neck, the chemicals that flooded his bloodstream, the pain barely hidden on his face, the fire roaring through his limbs and the achingly hard erection that throbs between his dearest friend's legs - and, for all of it, there is the most simple and natural cure.
His clothes are shed with no ceremony, while Watson falls fully to the floor once his grip on Holmes's leg is dislodged. He sprawls onto his front and, after one shaky attempt at using his weakened arms to push himself upright, he gives up. The drug has worn away all sense of pride and that alone makes Holmes long to watch Blackwood suffer a long and preferably painful death. It is highly unnatural to see Watson in such a state.
"You don't have to," Watson groans when Holmes moves to kneel on the ground behind him. They are both naked, yet there is nothing that feels particularly intimate about this. It is a medical procedure, Holmes attempts to tell himself. Nothing more than that. "Really, you don't- I'll be fine. I will be fine."
"You are minutes away from a cardiac arrest," Blackwood informs them helpfully.
"Do shut up," Holmes says. He isn't entirely sure which one of them he is talking to. "It will be over in no time at all," he promises Holmes - because, yes, he is hard and ready for this, and all the more ashamed because of it. He finds it most disconcerting when his body reacts without his permission, especially as this is one of the few areas over which he does not have absolute control.
He reaches out for Watson, and when he breaches him with two fingers he finds that he is already slick, already stretched. It makes his arms stiffen and he looks up once more, towards Blackwood.
He finds that he has taken a step closer, and shed his leather jacket in the process. This cannot be a good omen at all; Holmes can't say that he trusts his intentions. "Relax, I haven't violated him. I merely eased the way before you arrived."
And Holmes doesn't want to think about that; he doesn't want his mind to focus on Watson and Blackwood alone in this dank place. He can tell from the collection of bruises and deep cuts upon Blackwood's face that Watson put up one hell of a fight, even as the drug began to take over. He gathers that Blackwood would have had rather more than he had bargained for, expecting a meek doctor and getting a trained veteran.
It is almost enough to make him wish to taunt him, but a sudden squirm of Watson's hips prevents all further thought. "Holmes," Watson pants.
His voice is utterly unlike anything that Holmes has heard before; it is perfectly desperate and wonderfully depraved. Watson does not seem like the kind of man to have such a tone within him.
"Holmes, please." Watson has dropped to a whisper by now. "It hurts. Everything hurts."
Such a simple confession, and one that Watson has fought hard against. It is heart-breaking in its own definitive way.
"We are going to kill him after this, Watson. I'll make sure it's painful," Holmes informs him as he pulls his hand free. He is rushing now, his movements messy and undefined. Watson deserves better than this - they both deserve more than this - but the situation is what it is and needs must go before desires. On the admittedly frequent occasions that Holmes's mind has envisioned them in such a situation, it has been an extension of their friendship; it has been soft and supportive, and an excellent method of wiping away Watson's smug smirks.
But this is not soft. He pushes his prick inside of Watson with one harsh glide, buried deep as he can get. His breath freezes in his chest and he doesn't move for a moment or two, can't move. There is something both hyper-real and fantastical about this precise moment; too many details to take in, with his heart pounding in his chest. The skin of Watson's hips is so slick that he is hard to grip hold of; it is only through brunt force that Holmes can keep hold of him.
Barely a second has passed before Watson begins to squirm in his grasp, trying his utmost to push himself back further and impale himself on an extra length Holmes didn't have. He removes a hand from Watson's hip to press it against the small of his back instead, using the leverage to pull himself free. The most unmanly whine echoes from Watson's chest and it takes all of Holmes's control not to hurt him when he slams back inside.
The pace is soon punishing in a way that Holmes knows they will feel in their muscles tomorrow. The heat radiating from Watson's skin is burning against his palms, and he can see the way that Watson's legs are trembling from the effort of holding himself up; yet it is a reaction to the exertion and the intensity, not an adverse response to the drug. Watson feels so perfect around him, so right and so his, that Holmes can only curse Blackwood with added intensity. This is something that has been stolen from him. Here, with Watson and this forced encounter, a world of possibilities slips away.
"You're going to be fine," he murmurs in panted assurance when he hears Watson begin to groan in pained ecstacy. Watson gives no indication of being able to hear what he's saying, but it reassures Holmes to hear himself saying it aloud. "Everything is going to be fine."
"I quite agree," Blackwood says - and he is suddenly close, so close, too close. Lost in the distraction of Watson's body and well-being, Holmes had forgotten their audience. It is an over-sight that he curses himself for now, when he looks up to find Blackwood directly in front of Watson. He has lost his shirt, although it is a relief to find that he is still contained within his trousers. Holmes's pace slows to a stop. Having Blackwood so close, having him speaking, it feels like an invasion. This is bad enough for the pair of them without him becoming any more involved. "You ought to carry on, Holmes. This won't end until you're both done."
He spots the minute twitch at the edge of Blackwood's mouth and knows that he is fighting back a smile; it is an expression he would want to destroy utterly, but a sob torn from Watson's chest stops him. "Holmes," he gasps, as if that is the only word he can remember. "Holmes..."
Holmes pushes deep inside of him, aiming with analytical accuracy at the precise point that makes Watson shiver out a moan. He keeps a careful eye on Blackwood, who is looking down at Watson with more fascination than he should. Watson is nothing; he is a doctor, he is an innocent man mixed up in the affairs of a foolish detective. This shouldn't be happening. By all logic, Watson should be with his cunning fiance right now.
Blackwood's fingertips find the edge of Watson's jaw and glide along the line to his chin. He guides him up with the gentlest of touches until Watson props himself up on his hands. His eyes are half-closed and his mouth is half-open. If Holmes could reach with more ease and without over-balancing, he would slap Blackwood's hand away with all the strength he could muster.
"How do you feel?" Blackwood asks Watson with all the emotion of a scientist. "Is it good? Are you enjoying Holmes fucking you?"
Watson doesn't respond with words, just a silent shiver followed by a tired, blissful groan. It is hard to tell whether it was Holmes or Blackwood that caused the reaction. Watson's entire body is jerking and shifting on rhythmical impact as Holmes grows stronger, his own climax gleaming at the edge of his vision.
"Don't listen to him, Watson," he instructs. It is, perhaps, out of an irrational sense of petty jealousy. Blackwood should not be here. None of them should be here, in fact, but especially not him. "Pretend he isn't there."
Blackwood continues as if he hasn't spoken at all. "I can tell that Holmes is. He's quite the sight right now, Watson." Holmes wants to punch Watson's name out of his mouth. After what Blackwood has done to him, he does not deserve to address him. "I chose you for this particular enchantment because I wanted to get under his skin. Ms Adler would have been the obvious choice - too obvious. The slightest observation made me change my target. He thinks of you, doctor. When he pleasures himself, he thinks only of you."
With one hand he has cupped the back of Watson's head, his fingers sinking into the soft, short hair at the nape, but with his other hand he aims for his trousers. Holmes can see the prominent bulge, and even the most simple-minded of folk could deduce his intentions. With Watson moaning and whimpering, mindless now, he could easily consent to anything.
Holmes pauses the movements of his hips for long enough to move his grip around Watson's sides, guiding him up and away from Blackwood's hands. They end up standing on their knees, joined together, and Holmes's mouth nuzzles against the curve of Watson's shoulder. It ought to be comforting, but in Watson's state he doubts if he notices it.
"Touch him, and I will ensure that you are neutered before you are hung. I will be happy to perform the procedure myself. Do I make myself quite clear?"
It really is incredibly hard to sound threatening while Watson is squirming in his arms and attempting an inhuman twist in order to drag his lips against Holmes's jaw, his cheek, anything he can reach. He is whispering too, though he can only think of two words: "Please, Holmes. Please."
Blackwood's eyes are dark as he watches them together, an outsider, yet after a moment his hand slips away from the button of his trousers. His head nods, once. "Very well," he says, "but you ought to set him down again."
Holmes is loath to accept advice from such a man, but Watson is squirming and writhing enough against him to be almost incontrollable. In this kneeling position, Holmes doesn't have the leverage and strength to take him in the way that he needs to, and the sound of pained whimpers begin to pass through Watson's trembling lips. He looks at his friend, into eyes that are lost behind pain and pleasure, and then with a gentle push he guides him back down onto his hands.
He doesn't look up. He knows that Blackwood is smirking at him and he doesn't want to see it.
He looks down at Watson's back, at the sweat-slicked pale skin, and he reaches underneath him, determined that this needs to be over with now. Watson is in such a state that it should take very little effort to make him come, and with the tight grip of friction around his own cock Holmes knows that it will not take much to cause him to follow. He wraps his hand around Watson's prick, and-
And Watson lets out a scream of pain that is far worse than anything Holmes has heard before. He has been with Watson for the most grievious of injuries, but he has never in his life heard a sound like that. He flinches back as if his palm is burnt.
"Careful, Holmes," Blackwood suggests, with an amused smile carried in the tone of his voice. "You wouldn't want to over-stimulate the dear doctor while he is in such a state."
Blackwood's death, Holmes decides, is going to be very slow.
"Holmes is unnaturally cruel to you, Watson," Blackwood says, looking down now. "I should have done this myself, shouldn't I?"
Very, very slow.
True to his word, Blackwood has not laid a hand upon Watson - but that doesn't stop Watson from reaching out for him, his hands slip-sliding over Blackwood's bared torso as he uses him to hold himself up. Blackwood looks down at him with something like interest, amusement or affection. Whatever it is, Holmes doesn't like it.
"Watson, don't do that," he says as sternly as he can when he is panting for air and can feel the tingling in his balls that means he is so close now. "Let go of him, good man."
Watson doesn't respond. He holds onto Blackwood's sides and his mouth finds his stomach; his head obscures the view for Holmes, but he can tell that something unpleasant is going on from the way that Blackwood's eyes flutter closed for a bare moment or two.
"Watson, stop that," Holmes snaps.
No effect. No damned effect.
Blackwood opens his eyes to look straight at Holmes, and he obediently tucks his arms behind his back. He is playing by the rules of their own making, refusing to touch Watson, but Watson defies all rules and laws for once. Holmes watches as his hands move from Blackwood's skin to begin to open his trousers instead, the trembling and jerking of his body making it a difficult task.
Holmes won't have that. This is humiliating enough without Blackwood getting anything out of it. He places a hand on Watson's shoulder, and with a shove that is slightly more rough than it needs to be he pushes him down hard. Watson loses his grip and falls against the ground, held up only by his legs with his arse in the air.
With a new, deeper angle, it doesn't take much more before he manages to get Watson to come helplessly. His hips jerk away from Holmes and he splatters white liquid against the damp floor, his mouth open as he groans. His body tenses and tightens and all it takes is one, two, three more snapping movements of Holmes's hips before it hits him too. His eyes close and he spills deep inside of his friend; it feels good, too good. This is forced, this isn't the way either of them would have wanted, and he has to hate himself for how good it feels. His hands have tightened their grip on Watson to a degree that will leave large bruises behind, tender and painful.
He pulls free and pants for air, watching as Watson does nothing more than slump against the ground, still gasping for air. There is no immediate recovery, no instant cure.
"What's the matter with him?" Holmes demands, looking at Blackwood the creeping sense of suspicion running down his spine. He should have known - Watson had known.
"It'll wear off soon," Blackwood assures him. He smiles, crooked teeth on show.
There had never been any risk. Holmes looks down at his friend, mussed and despoiled on the ground, and he can't understand how he allowed himself to be fooled so willingly. A drug to increase the heart rate and sexual appetite, nothing more; no threat of death, no imminent heart attack, and certainly no cure in the form of a good, hard screw. Usually, Holmes would have been alert enough to realise such facts, but when it comes to Watson's life his senses are always muddled. It is difficult to use reason when he is in danger.
He looks up again a fraction of a second too late. There is a cloth pressed to his mouth while Blackwood grabs the back of his head to prevent him from jerking away. He recognises the sweet scent of chloroform a moment before it blackens his vision; apparently, Blackwood is not in the mood for a foot race.
When he wakes up sometime later - in this dank place, with no natural sunlight, there are no clues to tell him how long it has been, although the growth of a puddle formed by dripping in the corner implies that it is somewhere in the region of a mere half-hour - he is fully clothed, and Watson is standing nearby, leaning upon his cane with the awkward heaviness of a man who wishes to be sitting down.
"Blackwood is long gone," Watson informs him as Holmes begins to groan to life. "It's such a maze down here that I doubt we'll have much luck tracking him."
"We can give it a shot," Holmes says as he begins to clambor to his feet. His waistcoat is closed with mismatched buttons and holes, suggesting that Watson was in rather a hurry when he dressed his heavy form for him. Holmes does not allow himself the luxury of embarassment. "How are you feeling, old boy?"
"The effects of the drug appear to have passed," Watson says. He brushes a self-conscious hand over the front of his mouth, as though trying to wipe away stains that are not there. "Thank you, Holmes. You did what you thought was best."
He fell into a trap of Blackwood's making, but it appears that Watson does not wish to discuss the details. For that, Holmes can be thankful. He trains his face into an emotionless mask and he tries not to allow his brain to linger upon such illicit memories.
He also tries incredibly hard not to allow himself to say, 'it was my pleasure'. In such circumstances, it doesn't seem an appropriate response.
"I'm glad you didn't die," he says instead.
"As am I. Shall we head off?" Watson suggests.
'Carry on as normal' appears to be the name of this game, and Holmes is more than willing to play it - but, he knows, as sadistic as men such as Blackwood are, they always have an ulterior motive. Normality is an illusion and it will not take long for the cracks to appear; when Watson is ready for a true reaction, Holmes will be there - whatever it is.