prompting part XXIII

[sherlockbbc_fic]

All new prompts go on Part XXIV
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(prepared by anonymous)

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LINKS AND AFFILIATES
Delicious Archive - Delicious Prompt Archive
Filled Prompts Post - Page-A-Mod

Part I - Part II - Part III - Part IV - Part V - Part VI - Part VII
Part VIII - Part IX - Part X - Part XI - Part XII - Part XIII - Part XIV
Part XV - Part XVI - Part XVII - Part XVIII - Part XIX - Part XX 
Part XXI - Part XXII
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Comments

The Choices we made 2

[(Anonymous)]

Mycroft stuffed the gag back in, not wanting to hear his little brother beg and plead. Sherlock tried to bite his fingers but Mycroft pulled his hand back just in time. He grabbed a fistful of Sherlock’s dark curls and pulled back, grimacing when his little brother made a muffled sound of pain.

Mycroft glared at the tiny camera at the side as he reached for the scalpel, still enclosed in plastic. He tore open the plastic and made the first cut.

He pressed down. Hard enough to break skin, hard enough to draw blood, hard enough to hurt but not hard enough to kill. Sherlock keened as the sharp metal was dragged across his skin, just below his clavicle. Mycroft pressed his lips to the wound, licking up the blood that welled up in the wake of the blade.

Sherlock’s chest was heaving. His jaw worked furiously, as if trying to say something. Mycroft made the second cut parallel to the first, half an inch below the first. The noise that escaped Sherlock’s throat made Mycroft want to sink the knife into his own skin just so that his little brother wouldn’t have to feel this. He was a giant failure of a older brother, not being able to prevent this from happening.

His little brother struggled briefly as Mycroft continued to mark him. He tried to treat Sherlock’s body as a canvas, cutting in patterns that Sherlock might have found intriguing on a normal day. When Mycroft finally dropped the scalpel, his brother’s chest was a mess of shallow cuts. Mycroft licked the blood away, bathing each and every wound with his tongue. Sherlock shivered under him.

Mycroft nearly cried when he looked at Sherlock’s face. The blindfold was wet with tears, whether from pain or humiliation, Mycroft couldn’t tell. He pressed kisses Sherlock’s bared throat, whispering apologies in his head as he left a trail of love bites.

Sherlock was quiet. Mycroft pulled out the gag and replaced them with his fingers.

“Suck.” He said quietly. Sherlock responded by swirling his tongue around Mycroft’s digits. Sherlock made a sound like a half strangled sob when Mycroft pulled his fingers out. His tall frame trembled when Mycroft pushed his legs apart and knelt between them

“Mycroft.” He sounded like he used to when he was eight and begging Mycroft to bring him to the circus so he could experiment on the bearded lady. Mycroft let out a choked laugh at the memory.

“What?” The older brother asked as brusquely as he could.

“You don’t want to do this.” Sherlock repeated, sounding scared. His lips quirked slightly and he coughed.

“This isn’t you. You don’t want to do this.” He repeated, as if more to convince himself than to convince Mycroft.

“But I do.” Mycroft said firmly. To save you.. He slid his fingers between Sherlock’s legs and pushed. His little brother yelped in pain and tried to struggle away from the intruding fingers. It was if Mycroft’s words had broken Sherlock. The detective fell quiet, only whimpering slightly when two fingers became three and then four. He didn’t even cry out when Mycroft mounted him roughly.

He didn’t make a sound when Mycroft wrapped his belt around his neck and then pulled, cutting off oxygen. He didn’t even struggle when Mycroft forced him into different positions.

Mycroft did all that he was supposed to in a mechanical fashion. He had to jerk himself off just to keep his erection going. He didn’t know how many times he kissed Sherlock’s skin, apologizing to each welt, each mark, each bruise. He didn’t know what to think anymore. Sherlock had stopped responding completely.

After what seemed like forever, Mycroft finally pulled away. Sherlock was a black and blue mess on the floor, shivering slightly from the cold.

“Jerk him off.” The hated voice said. Mycroft looked over his shoulder and glared at the man who had forced him to do such a thing to his brother.

“Fuck you.” Mycroft snarled. Moriarty tutted and waved what look like a remote device at him. Mycroft hastened to obey.

The Choices we made 3

[(Anonymous)]

He gathered Sherlock into his arms and curled his fingers around Sherlock’s limp cock. Sherlock made a noise of protest as Mycroft started to move his hand. The muffled whimpers filled Mycroft with guilt. He wished he had been smarter, wiser, more connected. Then this wouldn’t have happened. This shouldn’t have happened.

Mycroft tears dripped onto Sherlock’s crown.

“Don’t cry.” Sherlock whispered. His voice was hoarse. His lips quirked up into a smile as he gathered his strength, leaned forward and kissed Mycroft’s cheek.

Then promptly latched onto Mycroft’s ear and bit down. Mycroft jerked in pain. He felt Sherlock ejaculate over his hand. Sherlock’s teeth left his ear almost immediately and the detective sagged bonelessly in Mycroft’s arms. Mycroft could feel blood oozing down the side of his head.

“My, my, what a show.”

Mycroft wished all manners of pain, torture and death that never came on Moriarty.

The crazed man laughed and raised his hand, twirling the remote device in his hand.

“But, it failed to meet my expectations.” He sneered. Mycroft watched in horror as Moriarty moved his thumb over the little button.

The sharp crack of a gunshot made Mycroft flinch.

Moriarty let out a howl of pain. The remote device clattered to the floor as the man clutched as his hand. Mycroft noted with some sick satisfaction that the hand seemed to be missing a few fingers. He lunged for the remote device and kicked it hard, sending it skittering into the darkness of the warehouse. He looked up just in time to see John come striding out of the shadows as Moriarty pulled out his own gun. John lifted his shot gun and fired again.

Mycroft didn’t know where the man had managed to procure a shotgun in such a short time but he definitely approved. John didn’t even break stride as he walked over to Moriarty and kicked him onto his back. He swung the shotgun around and slammed the butt of it into Moriarty’s knee. The scream of pain was extremely satisfying.

Mycroft scrambled over to his little brother. He undid the catches on the belt and then flung it far away. Sherlock groaned as he was moved but made no other protest.

Behind them, Moriarty screamed again as John did goodness knows what to the man. Mycroft heard John shouting abuse at the man as he eased the blindfold off his brother’s eyes. Sherlock blinked owlishly twice up at Mycroft, obviously taking in the bleeding ear, the tears and the foul language John was using.

“He won’t be bothering us again.” John remarked in disgust as he limped over. He tossed the shot gun on the floor. There were disturbing little bits on the butt of the gun.

“I trust you can fudge my prints from the system.” He said as he pulled off his jacket and used it to cover Sherlock. Mycroft nodded, unable to process how easily it had been over.

Sherlock let himself be bundled up into the car that was waiting a block away. He nodded at Anthea, cuddled up to John, then promptly fell asleep. Mycroft felt severely displaced. The whole ordeal from the start of the kidnapping until now had taken about seven hours but he felt as if he hadn’t slept in a month.

“How did you find me?” He asked John.

The doctor jerked his head at Anthea. The woman was texting but her fingers were trembling slightly.

“Your shoes.” She said quietly. “We replaced all of them the week before last, remember?”

Mycroft did remember. She had cleared out all his shoes and returned them two days later.

“Tracking devices. Prototype. That’s why it took so long to find you.”

Mycroft didn’t know what to think.

“What about Moran?” He asked John. A dark look came over John’s face.

“I had two shot guns.” He said evenly. “I might as well have used both of them.” He raised his eyes to meet Mycroft’s stare in an unspoken challenge. Mycroft let his eyes close in relief. He took a deep breath then forced a smile.

“What shot guns?” He asked innocently. Anthea made a muffled noise that sounded somewhat like a amused snort. Opposite him, John smiled.
 

The Choices we made 4

[(Anonymous)]

Mycroft had Sherlock kept under close observation in a ‘small’, ‘public’ government facility. His little brother had stayed awake long enough for John to wash and dress all his cuts then went back to sleep. His tall form was now resting on one of the pristine white beds in the facility.

Mycroft watched the rise and fall of the scarred chest, silently thanking every God and Deity in existence for the presence of one John Watson. The curtains were pushed aside and John entered. He took a seat on the other side of Sherlock and looked at Mycroft. Mycroft looked away in shame and guilt

“Masterfully done.” John remarked. “Deep enough to look painful, shallow enough not to matter too much.” He said and smoothed Sherlock’s hair down. “You managed to make it look like torture, but still managed to make it safe. The physical scars will fade, probably within the year.”

John gave Mycroft a sideways glance.

“That ear however.”

Part of the lobe had been torn off when Sherlock bit down. They could have reattached it but Mycroft wanted it to stay that way. It would be reminder of the mistakes he couldn’t afford to make, ever again.

Sherlock stirred.

“You.” He began, insult clearly on the tip of his tongue. “You shouldn’t blame yourself.” He said finally.

“It was rape.” Mycroft pointed out.

“You didn’t want to do it.” Sherlock countered. “He raped us. You’re just as much of a victim as I was. Don’t think I didn’t hear you trying to get it up just to get it in.” He snarled.

“I don’t blame you.” He finished in a more subdued tone.

“So you shouldn’t blame yourself.”

Mycroft let a smile grace his lips. Maybe they would be okay.

He watched as Sherlock started to praise John’s amazing use of the foul language and a blunt object to render a person’s phalanges utterly unusable. John was making annoyed noises and telling him it would be easier to track him around town if he actually let someone know where he was going.

Maybe, in time.


A/N I'm supposed to be studying.

Re: The Choices we made 4

[(Anonymous)]

Deviously delicious... gods, and that picture of John with a shotgun!

Re: The Choices we made 4

[twizzel.livejournal.com]

Awwww, poor little Holmesies :(

Re: The Choices we made 4

[(Anonymous)]

OP

I'm very glad you decided to forgo studying and do this instead. Excellent use of your time! :D

In all seriousness, thank you for the fill! It's exactly what I asked for. :)

Re: The Choices we made 4

[(Anonymous)]

Holy crap, this was very well written - just a great job!