Chapter 3

John slept fitfully, as if he were on call and waiting for his bleep to go off, with one ear open for Sherlock.

He was almost glad of it when his friend began to fidget in his sleep, as at least he could gauge how Sherlock was responding, and it put an end to the waiting. John listened as his resp rate increased, as his head tossed from side to side, and the odd little moan escaped. He was on the verge of waking Sherlock up, when the detective gave a sharp intake of breath, and John could just make out that his eyes had flown open in the gloom. He decided to keep quiet, to just wait and see what would happen next. His friend was usually so intensely private, he didn't want to embarrass him now.

He was close enough to feel that Sherlock was in a cold sweat and trembling. Then, the body lying next to him gently turned over and curled in towards him, so they were touching at several points. He gave a long inhale, then spoke:

"John?"

It was a very soft whisper, but John guessed the observing machine brain had already realised he was awake. He unthinkingly reached over and ran his fingers gently through the damp curly hair. Before he could berate himself for the automatic gesture of intimacy, Sherlock was nuzzling his head into the touch. Oh. Well, this is something new.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?"

"Almost. Bad dream. Not unexpected. Not sure I can get back to sleep though."

"That's OK. Will the violin or a hot drink help?"

"Not right now", he murmured softly, and he arranged his long limbs to enable him to lie even closer, burying his face against John's shoulder, and giving a deep sigh.

John, not sure exactly what was happening, but knowing he liked it, continued to stroke the soft hair until his arm began feeling heavy, and he felt himself drifting off again.

Sherlock, somewhat to his surprise, fell asleep again too. He half-woke, still snuggled close against his wonderfully dependable flat mate, finding the room filled with grey early morning light. He shifted position slightly, and then felt his leg brush against... oh. I see. How interesting. Well, it is morning.

As he moved, John gave a little moan... which just sounded a little bit more... emphatic than a normal sleep-noise. He definitely was asleep, just very lightly. Sherlock watched, fascinated, as his companion breathed in deeply, then smiled slightly and gave a tiny thrust of his hips.

OH. Stupid, stupid, of course. It's been obvious for a while now, and I've been overlooking it. Why would I do this?

Usually, Sherlock was as ruthlessly honest with himself as he (when he wished to be) was towards other people. It now appeared his sub-conscious had been concealing things from him, and Sherlock Holmes would never usually allow any part of his well-modulated mind to behave in ways he had not first approved. Curiously, yet still in a half-awake state, he examined this new-not-so-new information.

John is attracted to me. His pupils dilate when I am in close proximity, his respiratory rate increases and his carotid pulse becomes more apparent. He puts up with behaviour that would infuriate most people and derives considerable pleasure from helping with my cases. I would assume that he is simply an adrenaline junkie using my cases for his fix, but he seeks to spend time with me even when I don't have a case on. Conclusion: it's more than a physical attraction. But, more importantly, why has my system security not picked up on this potential threat?

Sherlock risked another look at his sleeping flat mate, and felt a warmth spreading in his stomach, and a smile quirking his lips. Ah. It's rather more serious than I assumed.

Sherlock's hand was resting next to John's face, and, softly, just the veriest touch, he stroked the back of his index finger down the doctor's cheek, ghosting over the corner of his mouth, stopping at his chin. A groan this time, another deep inhalation of Sherlock's scent, and a slightly bigger thrust of the hips followed.

Suddenly, Sherlock realised his entire body was flushing and responding. He could feel blood pooling, feel the bristling sensation as he began to match John's state. Abruptly, he was fully awake... and then, the memories of yesterday's ordeal came crashing back to him with such clarity, for a moment he was transported clean out of the room and back to that vile house, with that vile pervert standing over him.

His breath caught in his throat, and he sat bolt upright, unable to catch it, chest heaving, but mind trapped far away.

He was handcuffed to the bed. His hands were too far apart to free himself. The Bastard came towards him with a lascivious grin, looking him over as if he were a particularly delicious steak.

"Well, you are a pretty boy, aren't you? Such fine cheek bones..." he ran the tip of a carpet beater (he thinks he's in James Bond) over the features as he listed them..."... Such perfect blow-job lips... Such long eyelashes... They give you such an air of elegant stupidity. Such a lovely cock, too - you're quite a lucky boy, aren't you? But it's so soft..." ...suddenly, he bought the beater down on it with a sharp crack, and Sherlock yelped in pain - damn - should have seen that one coming - and then he was touching it with his horrid, stubby little fingers, and whispering, menacingly, "we'd better do something to get it hard, hadn't we?

Panic. The brute would become very aggressive if he felt himself to be slighted, but Sherlock was about as far from being aroused as it was possible to be.

The man growled in annoyance, and Sherlock knew that annoyance in this psycho translated into actions that would be better suited to furious rage in normal criminals. He started to shiver, as the man, an ugly look on his face, clipped a metal cuff around each ankle - better not to fight - and attached a long leather thong to each of them. He pulled and tied them to the bed posts - oh, God, how humiliating - I think this is known as the lithotomy position in medical terms - then looked at his prisoner with a sickening leer.

"Are you feeling ready to satisfy me yet?"

He followed up his words with a vicious, double direction slash to the flank with the carpet beater. Ow ow ow that fucking hurts... God ...Reminds me of that experiment in the morgue... What?...ugh, even my internal monologue's inappropriate. Another two vicious blows... Sherlock had to give a physical response, but this was all too distracting.

He was flipped over. The man was giggling now. He began using a variety of implements to cause pain - too much to possibly be titillating - or anything but excruciating. Sherlock, to his own disgust, was crying now; inflaming his disgusting persecutor still further.

Every now and again, he was flipped back and inspected, and his lack of physical response to this situation berated. He was becoming desperate, and quite seriously frightened - would he be killed if he continued to offer this perceived snub? He had to think of something, he was Sherlock Fucking Holmes, supreme actor, for God's sake, and right now, his role was meant to be sex worker, and performing might quite literally save his life.

Through a barrage of pain, he tried to remember his best past encounters - and there had been many (71% female, 29% male at the last count, supplied his data-centre, uselessly) - but they were of of such transitory interest as to be insufficiently useful now. Concentrate! He wasn't even sure which thought it was that enabled him to respond, but finally, respond he did, and he hoped that the repellent predator would hold off on the pain games now... That was a mistake. He took it as a come-on, and Sherlock only realised how much worse the next option seemed than even the filthy torture until it was too late.

Or perhaps it wasn't quite a mistake? He was still alive, wasn't he? There was something else. He searched his hard drive for the elusive data on why this had felt even more wrong than he had expected it to. Some overriding disgust was to be expected, but there's another emotion there. Guilt. Why guilt? The answer was what caused him to start hyperventilating and heaving whilst safe in bed in Baker Street.

I aroused myself for that sadistic pig by thinking about John.

-oOo-

Nasty nasty - but I think John will forgive him.

Thanks for the request for a flashback - hope that suited. How will John react to this? Well, I have some idea, but I can be influenced - please read, review, and feel free to request. Thanks!