Title: The Gilded Room

Author: Dayja

Summary: Sherlock wakes up in a strange room and the sense that something is very, very wrong.

Pairings: Blackwood/Holmes (non-con), mentions of Watson/Holmes, Watson/Mary

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic non-con, male/male, work-in-progress

Spoilers: Sherlock Holmes (2009 movie)

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes.

Author's Note: This story is the slightly tamer version of one under the same name posted to other sites (which allow higher ratings on their fics). Very slightly. Still graphic non-con. But if you read this elsewhere and noticed it's a bit different towards the end…that's why.

Chapter 1

Sherlock awoke slowly with a vague, unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach that something was wrong. He was in a bed, was his first observation, but he dismissed that as the reason behind the wrong feeling because he almost always awoke in a bed. Unless he fell asleep on the couch, or passed out on the floor, or had been injured and knocked unconscious but awoke again before anyone could either transfer him to a bed or kill him and thus negate the necessity of one. All of this went through his mind with the usual speed before he even opened his eyes.

When he did open his eyes, he discovered that the familiarity of waking up in a bed was slightly ruined by the fact that it was an unfamiliar bed. The entire room, in fact, was not his room at all. He frowned slightly, his sharp eyes taking in everything. The room itself was not threatening; in fact it was quite a pleasant room to awake in. It was large and bright with great tall windows to let in light and heavy red curtains that could make it dark, if they were closed. Only one was, the closest one to the bed. Judging by the angle of the light splashed across the floor from the other windows, if it had been opened Sherlock would have awakened to sunlight in his eyes. He thought it very decent of the curtains to decide to be closed.

The bed, he noted, had a large heavy covering of the same red color but not, he didn't think, from the same material. For one thing, the curtains looked course and the covering felt soft. He was not, however, close enough to the curtains to feel them and confirm this hypothesis. Aside from the bed and the curtains, the room looked mostly empty. This was an illusion, however, created by the size of the room, for it was actually very nicely furnished. There was a table large enough to seat two, in fact having two chairs seated at it, set out near the windows, most likely to take advantage of the light. There was also one large chair near to the bed and the closed window. The chair was a dark blue which did not quite seem to match the curtains but perfectly matched the sofa and second large chair that was set out across the room near to the fireplace. A second, smaller table and a smaller chair was also laid out in the same area. Perhaps that was why something felt wrong. The blue chair had been isolated from its friends. Poor chair, all alone, even if it was placed in a prime position to see out the window…or would if the curtains were opened.

Altogether, the room was pleasant and elegant. The furniture was of good quality, there were nice carpets on what he could see of the floor, bookcases filled with books and curious objects lined one wall, paintings and drapes hung from others, and a large man was standing near the lone chair, also in nice attire. There were definitely worst places to wake up in. He moved to sit up, still feeling off and disconcerted in a way that he didn't really think a misplaced chair could cause, and discovered to some alarm that his arm was tied tightly against his chest. He stared down at it, frowning, still struggling to sit up.

The man moved, making Sherlock jump. Somehow his mind had processed right over his presence, taking little more note of him than of any of the furniture. The man was large, huge in fact, of a size that it occurred to Sherlock that he could be frightening, yet somehow he wasn't. He was, in fact, somewhat familiar, which was odd, because Sherlock didn't think he knew any very large men with skin the color of coffee.

"I know you," he announced to the man as he moved to help Sherlock sit propped up.

"Yes, sir," he answered, his voice gentle, as were his hands as he helped to arrange the pillows under Sherlock's back. The help was appreciated as his body was feeling distinctly odd, slightly floaty and weak and his thoughts didn't seem to be quite connected. He studied the familiar stranger, trying to force his mind to piece this strangeness together.

"Would you like a drink, sir?" the man asked, gesturing to a table next to the bed where a tray of tea was laid out. Without waiting for an answer he was already pouring. Sherlock's deductive skills told him that the man was knowledgeable in his role, expertly preparing his tea in exactly the way Sherlock usually took it. From his accent and skin color, he determined that he was not native to England. Many facts swirled swiftly through his mind, taking in his stance, his clothes, his looks and his accent, but the facts all whipped about uselessly without coming together as they usually did to give him a complete picture. He knew the man was not native. He tried to think what that meant. He remembered, briefly, of a people of similarly colored skin, but in his mind's eye their clothes and habitat were vastly different and therefore unconnected to the man standing at his side, encouraging him to drink the unasked for tea, patiently offering it even as Sherlock continued to stare blinkingly at him.

"Please sir, won't you have some tea?" he asked when Sherlock still made no motion to drink. Perhaps…the thought surfaces slowly, feeling heavy and foreign in his mind…perhaps if the man was not from England and he was not from a foreign country…perhaps he came from some place further. A story came from the far reaches of his mind, a story of men from the moon. Was this man from the moon? He opened his mouth to ask but before he could the man was pushing the tea to his lips and he found himself drinking. The tea was warm and there was nothing in the taste that suggested drugs and he was, he realized, thirsty. The man made a motion to pull the cup away and he lifted his free hand to hold it, drinking it empty. The man gave him a pleased look. He continued to hold the cup even after Sherlock took a hold of it, which was just as well because he suspected he might have dropped it if left to himself.

Perhaps that was why he felt so unsettled. He seemed to be ill. And there was another wrong thing. If he was ill, where was Watson? Watson was always there when he was hurt. He didn't really hurt even if he was ill, though there was a strange ache in his arm and shoulder. It wasn't pain, or if it was it was so disconnected from himself that he could study the feeling without actually feeling it. It occurred to him that the ache in his arm and shoulder might have something to do with the reason why his arm was tied to his chest. He turned his head to try and look at it, finding his arm and chest swathed in white.

"Are you in pain, sir?" asked the man and he jumped slightly, having forgotten he wasn't alone.

"No," he answered the large moon man, because it didn't hurt, which seemed odd in itself. Cautiously, he poked at his arm with his free hand until a large, warm hand covered his and gently pulled it back.

"You are called James," Sherlock remembered suddenly, "And you prefer coffee to tea."

"That's right," the man agreed, pouring more tea to offer him, but Sherlock wasn't quite so thirsty anymore and shrugged the offering away, frowning slightly. The mothering behavior reminded him once again of his absent friend.

"Where's Watson?" he asked, looking about the room just in case he hadn't missed his friend the first time around. The room was still quite empty except for him and James. The disturbed feeling was growing of something being desperately wrong, lost memories dancing about just out of reach of something dark and looming. The ache in his shoulder began to grow stronger.

"He had to leave," James answered, "But he left me to help you. He left this tea for you to drink."

Sherlock considered this. "Watson wants me to drink the tea?" he asked slowly, brow still furrowed. That made sense, but something still felt off, not least of which was how James's consoling tone reminded him of the way one reasoned with an unruly child.

"Yes sir," he answered, still holding the tea towards his face. While Sherlock tried to work out if he would have obeyed Watson even if he were there himself holding the tea, James took advantage of his distraction to hold the cup to his lips and he found himself drinking it before he quite realized. He drew the cup away again after Sherlock managed to swallow a couple of sips, luckily without choking. This time Sherlock didn't stop him from withdrawing as he frowned slightly.

"You make a very good Watson," he decided, though he looked around the room again in hopes that the real Watson might have appeared while he wasn't looking. He hadn't. James smiled at him, still holding the cup of tea ready to offer him more but no longer pushing it on him. Sherlock turned his contemplations back upon the room and the wrong feeling. His final conclusion was that the room was nice but boring. And that he remembered, sort of, that he had been there for some time. His memories seemed disjointed in a way that ought to be alarming but the floating feeling that hid the pain of his shoulder and arm also blanketed his fears and unease.

Then the door at the far end of the room opened. A man strode through, followed by a stream of men carrying trays. The men with trays walked to the largest table and started to lay out plates of food. The first man ignored them, walking to the bed. He was tall with short, dark hair and he dressed in nice clothes that spoke of someone with power and money. Like with James, Sherlock got a feeling of instant familiarity despite feeling too disjointed to remember the man's name. With James, the familiarity had come with an instinctive trust, almost a fondness. His instinct towards this new familiar stranger was complicated. He didn't know what he felt towards him. Unease warred with familiarity. Everything was too disjointed.

"Hello, Sherlock," he said, smiling. It wasn't a pleasant smile like James's, and left Sherlock feeling confused.

"Hello," he answered, still analyzing and trying to puzzle the situation out. He was beginning to suspect it wasn't the situation that was so wrong, but himself.

"Are you hungry?" the man asked, reaching out a hand to gently touch his face in an intimate manner. Sherlock allowed the motion, feeling too confused to pull away, not to mention his instincts told him that was a bad idea. Belatedly, it occurred to Sherlock that a question had been asked and that he hadn't answered, but the man didn't seem to really care. "James," he said, his eyes still on Sherlock, "We are going to dine now."

"Of course, my lord," James answered, and when the stranger pulled away James pulled back Sherlock's covers, his great arms maneuvering beneath him to support his back and legs. Before Sherlock quite knew what he was intending, James had lifted him with a practiced ease as though he were a child. Sherlock's good arm went automatically around James's neck as he was carried towards the table.

"You are very strong," Sherlock remarked, staring at what he could see of James's face from this up close in wonder. He was already being placed into the chair before it occurred to him to be indignant or wonder why he couldn't have walked. Shaky as his limbs felt, surely with James's help he could have managed. Unless something was wrong with his legs? He looked down at his lap but his legs were hidden by his clothes. He was able to note that he wasn't really dressed to dine so much as he was for sleep, particularly as his top seemed completely bare but for the bandages. Noticing that, he started to shiver. James was already prepared however, helping his good arm through the sleeve of a robe and draping it around his bad shoulder, tucking it closed. Once he was settled, James drew away.

"Comfortable, love?" the stranger asked, sending that thrill of wrongness once more running through him. Avoiding an answer, Sherlock looked at the table. It was laid out with all kinds of food, all of it expensive and expertly made, but he didn't think he felt particularly hungry. Not to mentioned that he had only one hand with which to serve himself and he still felt uncoordinated and floaty. If he tried to eat anything he'd probably end up dumping it in his lap, or on the floor. The stranger was not so encumbered and ate with a healthy appetite, occasionally pausing to speak about his morning. Mostly he spoke in terms of who he met with, who was insufferably boring and what had pleased him, without going into the details of what exactly it was he did outside of Sherlock's rooms. Sherlock reacted on instinct alone, making the odd noise to show he was listening and occasionally giving a cautious smile when the man said something he obviously thought was amusing. After nearly fifteen minutes of this had gone by, the man finally leaned in, drawing his chair closer. Sherlock didn't think he liked it but something akin to fear, if he could feel something like fear as disconnected from everything as he felt, told him not to draw away.

"Aren't you going to eat, Sherlock?" the man asked, and he lifted a grape and brought it to Sherlock's lips. When Sherlock hesitantly opened his mouth, the man slid the grape in and his fingers as well, drawing them out slowly and running them over his lips. Feeling slightly sick, Sherlock managed to choke down the offered tidbit.

"My poor Sherlock, you look so lost," the man said, one hand drifting to pat him in a comforting manner on his thigh, "Do you remember who I am?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered quickly, though he didn't really, and the man smiled before taking a fork from his plate and bringing the food to Sherlock's mouth. He ate obediently, something deep inside him chaffing at being fed like an infant by a stranger who gave off weird vibes, making his shoulder twinge, but something equally as deep restraining him from any form of resistance. Trying to put names with faces, to remember, brought his thoughts back to Watson. Automatically he searched the room again for his friend, but the only people there was a man and a woman serving at the table and the man. Even James had vanished.

"Where's the moon man?" Sherlock asked, frowning slightly at his disappearance.

"What?" the man asked, startled and laughing, "Who?"

"The man who is strong and not from England," he answered, frowning in a way that closely resembled a pout at being laughed at. The stranger only laughed a bit harder.

"You know, I think I quite like you, like this," he said, and then, "James will come back when I call for him. Has he been taking good care of you?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered, "He gave me tea. I wasn't going to drink it, but he said Watson left it. Where is Watson?" The man stopped laughing, and though he didn't look annoyed, not really, there was something sharp about his smile.

"I suppose he will be by sometime later," he answered. He looked into Sherlock's eyes, staring deep and searching and intense. "What's my name?" he asked abruptly.

Sherlock frowned, the information dancing just out of reach. He had an impression of thorns and darkness. "Blackthorn?" he guessed at last, cringing slightly as he half expected the man to turn violent. But the stranger merely sighed in a manner of a disappointed schoolteacher having to correct the same mistake for the hundredth time.

"That's Blackwood, Sherlock, 'wood. And don't you remember, love, I told you to call me by my first."

"Henry," Sherlock remembered suddenly, and the stranger smiled.

"Yes, love," he said, patting Sherlock's thigh once more, "Henry. Are you still hungry?"

"No," Sherlock answered quickly, feeling slightly queasy, in fact, and Blackwood had the food sent away with the servants. James was suddenly by his side again.

"The bed, James," Blackwood answered, and before Sherlock could protest that he could walk, surely, he was being carried to the bed. James had a strange look on his face as he arranged him up on the pillows, as though he were not truly comfortable in his actions though his hands remained as sure and gentle as ever. He took his time at it, too, helping Sherlock to set up with at least four pillows stuffed between him and the headboard. Blackwood eventually became impatient.

"You can go now, James," he said, his eyes still on Sherlock with a strange, almost hungry look that Sherlock couldn't place but that sent a thrill of unease down his spine. Finally James did leave, and they were alone in the room. Sherlock knew because he looked around just to be sure, and all that he found was the room just as it had looked when he first awoke, except that the chairs to the table had moved slightly, and Blackwood was at his side instead of James. And the light on the floor had moved.

"Sherlock," Blackwood whispered and moved closer, "Love…" And he came closer still until his lips touched gently against Sherlock's own, strong hands wrapping around the back of his head and against his back to draw him closer. The feeling of wrong grew, but so did the disconnectedness, and he felt strangely passive as the other man's lips continued to move against him. Blackwood moved over him, easing him back against the pillows though the top of his head was touching against the uncomfortably hard headrest, and then Blackwood was straddling him, his lips demanding and tongue pressed into his mouth.

The taste was wrong. He tasted of wine and blood and incense and not at all like a kiss was supposed to taste…it was meant to taste of smoke and coffee or tea…and possible tinged by the faint smells of a hospital. This was wrong. And abruptly he remembered that he really wasn't supposed to be kissing other men and tried to draw back. Blackwood didn't let him go right away, no matter how he squirmed, and the feeling of being very very wrong grew, but finally the other man drew back.

"No," Sherlock told him quite firmly, trying to sound sure of himself but not quite able to suppress the cringe at Blackwood's expected reaction. Once again, the man surprised him by not turning to violence.

"What is it now?" he demanded instead, waiting semi-patiently for Sherlock to explain. Sherlock might have felt more at ease if Blackwood didn't spend his time waiting to remove his own shirt.

"I can't…" Sherlock answered, still feeling so disjointed it was hard to make his mind work properly to give out sentences.

"Why not?" Blackwood asked, as though he honestly had no idea why Sherlock might not want to do this.

"Watson wouldn't like it," Sherlock decided upon, in the same tone and method he used to use as a child, to make it sound as though his actions had nothing to do with him and couldn't be helped. It occurred to him only after that the correct, normal response might have been something more like 'it's illegal and immoral' but he suspected that wouldn't matter. That those reasons had been thrown out the window long ago.

"Don't be ridiculous," Blackwood answered, stroking his face gently, "We've already discussed this. It's just like his arrangement with Mrs. Watson." Sherlock frowned at this. That made no sense at all. He just wasn't completely sure why. "Shhh," Blackwood whispered, descending upon him again, this time to suck at his neck, one hand sliding down and beneath his pants.

"No," Sherlock murmured, whimpering slightly, but this time Blackwood paid him no mind at all. Most disconcerting to Sherlock was the feeling of familiarity. Blackwood fit against him with the sureness of a lover. Memories flitted disturbingly past, moments of touch, of pain, and then flitted away again before he could catch them. This time, he let them go, and a part of himself drifted away with them.

He felt Blackwood's movements but at the same time he didn't feel like himself. He felt it all, but in the same way he had felt the pain of his arm and shoulder…a distant ache that belonged to someone else. The ache was growing as Blackwood's passion grew almost violent, jostling his injuries in a way that didn't seem entirely healthy.

"You look so confused, Sherlock," Blackwood whispered after a particularly deep kiss, one hand in his hair, "You'd think you'd be used to this, love."

"Sorry," Sherlock answered, squirming slightly at the uncomfortable touches. They felt wrong against his skin. There was no returning passion in himself nor enjoyment at heat or touch. There wasn't really revulsion either, just a floating sensation. Blackwood laughed and kissed his forehead in a strangely parental fashion before easing his legs apart and positioning him as he liked.

Through it all, Sherlock let his mind dwell upon sensations without thought, analyzing, timing, feeling but not feeling. There were moments of clarity, of sudden sharp pain, when his mind fell back into the utter, terrible clarity, that he was being raped by Lord Blackwood, that he was hidden in a pretty, gilded room as his pet lover. Then the pain faded along with the clarity and he was lost once more. Then, at some point during the ordeal, Blackwood's arm fell across his throat.

All thought, all analysis, all memory, pain, fear, anger, wrongness, faded to the background as his lungs pulled desperately for air that couldn't come. His throat hurt, his lungs hurt, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't seem to move, and the world was turning black at the edges. Blackwood didn't stop, didn't let up, groaning deeply with pleasure. And as the world finally faded completely away, one last thought occurred to Sherlock. That he might actually prefer it if he didn't wake up.