sherlockbbc_fic | Prompting Part XXXV

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Prompting Part XXXV

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He could go on, test function as well as form, but there’s little point to it. Under all this sedation, performance would be lackluster at best. He gives it a squeezing caress, but on its own the soft flesh is uninteresting. If he tries for more, Holmes will retreat into his mind, and Charles wants him here. If he does it while Holmes is physically incapable of resistance, he’ll rise hating Charles, rather than despising himself as he will if he keeps willfully still. Charles might have him, like that. It would be amusing to see him try to hide it in his walk, just after. He can make proper use of those dry, long-fingered hands then. The idea of wrapping one of them in his own to touch himself as he likes has some merit. Is the effort worth it though, when as much struggle as trying to pull his hand away has so drained the man? It’s no use when there is no resistance, internal or otherwise.

He decides not, and gives a harsh tug before releasing him and snapping the pants back into place. The painkillers make even that a futile act.

This has been enough, he thinks, to convey his message. He pulls back to wipe his hand on the blanket, and that pulls it back, revealing just the slightest hint of further skin with the most interesting mark.

A cigarette burn – no, more is revealed as he reaches out to touch it – a grouping of cigarette burns litters Sherlock Holmes’ inner thigh. Old, very old. Self-inflicted, if he’s right, and he very much does think he’s right. He lets slip a chuckle for his picturing of it, a lonely, angry, emotional powder keg of a teenager, always so self-destructive. One more sign of exploitable weakness.

“My, my,” he inquires, running his fingers lightly over the scarred flesh, “what do we have here?”

He could, if so he chose, avoid the hit, but it’s funnier to let it connect. Holmes’ left hand strikes him, as graceful and forceful as a frantic moth, the littlest finger sliding over Charles’ wrist before the entire movement collapses into what might as well be a floppy attack on his own thigh and genitals.

“Ah, yes, thank you.” Charles grasps the hand and raises it for inspection. He draws his fingers over the marks left on musicians’ fingers. “This one,” he squeezes at the second knuckle of the ring finger, “if it were broken, you’d never play again, hmm? Not without pain.”

Sherlock Holmes makes another wheezing sound of distress. He could collect those.

“I could snap it back right now.”

Holmes tries to curl his fingers into a protective fist. Charles pries it open as easily as if he were a baby.

“Shh, shh, shh,” Charles soothes as he runs his fingers over Holmes’. “I’m not like your other friends. I don’t break things I can still use.”

He places Holmes’ hand gently aside, then replaces the sheets and tucks them tight. Holmes’ eyes don’t follow him; they flit about, panicked and never landing anywhere for long. Perhaps he’s hallucinating.

Charles sits back and traces his fingers over Holmes’ right hand again. From that last little display, it’s clear he has more strength than Charles had thought. Enough strength to make a poor show of resistance, at least.

Charles considers the risk. He doesn’t have to worry about anyone walking in, he’s made sure of that, and though the room has many windows, no one walking by will be foolish enough to see anything through them. Mr. Holmes isn’t lucid enough that he needs to fear a report. Even if he were willing to court the shame of making an accusation before he’d thought through the consequences, he can’t expect anyone else to take him seriously when he can’t be sure of himself. Charles sees how he can use this, a memory Sherlock Holmes won’t know for real or imagined.

He unbuttons and unzips, and pulls himself out. He won’t need long. The objective is not to draw the experience out, but to make it quick and questionable.

He stands, leaning over Mr. Holmes, and grips himself, palm no more damp than usual, but slick enough to slide. He reaches for Holmes, curls his hand around Holmes’, and curls that around himself.

Holmes doesn’t give any indication of distress until the movement has become repetitive. The man grunts and tries to pull away, but of course, his success is unthinkable. He flexes his fingers under Charles’ palm, trying to straighten them out. His uneven attempts are almost a massage. Holmes’ harsh breathing runs counterpoint to Charles’ own, louder.

“I can do what I want, to you and to anyone else. Do you understand? There’s nothing you can do about it.” Charles tells him, simply because Sherlock Holmes, in his current state, seems to need an explanation of why this is happening. He can’t be sure that Holmes even hears the words; his pathetic struggles grow no less frantic. His soft groans of distress don’t cease.

“You make the funniest noises,” Charles tells him, but still there’s no change in his vocalisations. The man really isn’t all there.

It’s barely a relief to come. He’s careful to release all of it onto Holmes’ palm, to not let any of it dirty his own. If he weren’t trying to hide his action, he’d push Holmes’ hand up to his mouth, smear it over his lips so he could taste Charles’ mark on him. But no, not this time.

He sets himself to rights, then wipes Holmes’ hand clean with a medical wipe, throwing it in a bin filled with identical refuse. It will be emptied before the next nurse takes over the shift, long before Holmes can piece together enough of the encounter to think to check it. Good luck to him if he decides to try rooting through the hospital’s accumulated medical waste looking for proof.

Holmes has quieted by the time Charles sits again and clasps his hands. He waits until Holmes’ eyes have tried to focus on him twice before he decides the man is lucid enough to bother speaking to.

He talks about his would-be murderer as he slips the monitor back onto Mr. Holmes’ finger.

He rises to lean over Holmes again, even closer this time, bringing their faces together. He appears almost completely lucid, terrified and trying to focus on Charles’ words.

He closes his eyes again as Charles finishes, a dismissal, but Charles Augustus Magnussen’s belongings do not dismiss him.

Mr. Holmes needs at least one more warning.

Charles pulls back and brings his hand up to caress the length of Sherlock Holmes’ jaw, up to the curve of his ear, and over, to the outer corner of his right eye. The man’s forehead creases and his eyelids wrinkle with the effort of keeping them forced closed. Stupid, really, but it would be unfair of Charles to expect better of him right now.

He brushes his fingers over eyelashes, once, twice, then gets to work.

Charles positions his pointer and middle fingers above and below Holmes’ eye, close enough to press the eyelashes down, and draws them apart to pull it wide. He starts in at the sclera, from the outer corner, but makes no effort to avoid the cornea as he licks across. He lets his tongue pull along the conjunctiva, lifting at it. Judging by the high whine from Mr. Holmes, it’s likely painful for him. His eyes close again when Charles pulls back, but this time it strikes Charles as a product of resignation, exhaustion, and discomfort. He’ll allow it. It is, after all, his sweat drying into the skin around Holmes’ eye. Mr. Holmes understands now, or he’ll grasp when he wakes, exactly what it is that he’s wandered his way into. Charles suspects it will take more than this to convince him to accept it, but he doesn’t expect that whatever follows will be a chore.

He thinks, as he leaves, that he should find some way to thank the new Mrs. Watson. Mr. Holmes is such a prize of an acquisition, and he could hardly hold him without her. He’ll have to watch closely, to see what becomes of them, but now that he’s so close to having what he wants, he’s hardly going to let it fall apart. No matter what happens now, Sherlock Holmes will never, ever be rid of him.

OP here: That was exactly the kind of creepy I was thinking of. Thank you for exorcising it from my brain with this brilliant piece of writing.

Thank you. I'm glad it was what you wanted!

This is perfect! So beautiful and cteepy! :O I'm in love with this story... I wish there was more.

Thank you! :D

I don't have any plans for a continuation at the moment (I have no idea where I'd go with it) but it's good to know that there would be an interest in one.

I almost feel ashamed of myself, because I can't stop reading this. If only there was more.... :)

". If he tries for more, Holmes will retreat into his mind, and Charles wants him here. If he does it while Holmes is physically incapable of resistance, he’ll rise hating Charles, rather than despising himself as he will if he keeps willfully still."
This is perfect. This is how he thinks. Wow. Great work. And the bit about not knowing what's real and what's imagined is also the perfect level of shattering.

Thank you very much! It's wonderful to know what stood out, and I'm glad my attempt to get into his head worked well.

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