Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock.

Warnings: Strong non-con incident, digital penetration, verbal humiliation

A/N: MASSIVE THANKS to starrysummernights, magirl0413, Nisiria, Aliit Vodeson, , hjohn302, Asher, RoseGlass, InsideYourDreams24, Zonya, Grac3, Yaoi Queen the 13th, RainyDays-and-DayDreams, Hidingtobeseen, Raxacoriocofallapatorius, ArthurDent2, happysue115, IceBug, , cumbercollected221B, GlOmP3R, TheOneWhoStoleYourCheese, coleys17, YaoiReaderGalor and JustMijke for your most excellent reviews! Special mention to Don't touch my Seaweed Brain for kick-starting me back into action.

So Sherlock Series 3 came back before this fic did. I am so ashamed I don't even know what to say. Bad Polomonkey. 0/10, must try harder.

Seriously though, I really apologise. I lost my inspiration for this fic and I didn't know how to get it back. But my block is gone and I'm back in action now. As ever, I appreciate it so much that you guys are still following and reading and commenting on this fic, it's amazing and it really makes a big difference to me. Sorry to let you down and I will endeavour to make it up to you!

I've come back with a really nasty chapter for some reason, read at your discretion.


Jim didn't come to the cell this time. He left it to the henchmen to drag them out and frogmarch them down the corridor. Sherlock had spent the last half hour since John had fallen silent trying to strategise.

He knew events were escalating. Jim didn't have patience enough to defer his gratification much longer; and Sherlock feared that his latest assault on John was just the tip of the iceberg. Jim seemed to be heading into some kind of frenzy and Sherlock could not bear to watch another attack on John.

It had been the worst moment of his life. He thought nothing could compare to J.J., but it turned out seeing the person you loved in pain was more terrible than anything he'd ever experienced.

John had looked so…

He shook his head fiercely, trying to collect his thoughts. He had to make a plan. The way things stood now, there were three probable outcomes.

The first was that Mycroft would rescue them. This seemed the most likely of the scenarios at this point, considering his brother's vast resources and capabilities.

The second was that he would get them out. Either by trickery or brute force or… or bargaining. If he could get Jim to let John go, he would happily stay behind.

The third was that they'd die here. Or John would die here and Sherlock would be forced to aid a madman in his quest for world domination.

Outcome three was unthinkable. Outcome one was beyond his control. Therefore, outcome two was his only viable focus.

Jim was smart but he had to be smarter. He had to manipulate him somehow; take the focus off John.

As it transpired, he needn't have worried. This time Jim had only eyes for him.


"Are you feeling neglected Sherlock?" Jim's voice echoed off the stony walls of the room. It was a room they hadn't been in before, Sherlock noted, not that the realisation was worth much.

"I have been awfully focused on Johnny. Thrill of a new toy, you know? But I'd hate for you to feel abandoned, darling."

Sherlock was bound to a chair next to the hospital trolley from before. He shifted uneasily and looked across the room.

John was seated on a metal chair opposite him, hands tied behind his back. His face was ashen, blank. He hadn't yet reacted to anything Jim had said, as though he couldn't hear him.

As a tactic, it was useless, Jim loved chasing a reaction. But Sherlock suspected it wasn't a tactic at all, simply an automatic defence mechanism on the part of John's traumatised psyche. Slowly but surely, John was breaking down.

It made his heart hurt.

Jim had stopped behind John now and began idly running his fingers through John's hair.

"It's funny, how different you are. Johnny here's been around the block a few times, and I like that. You, Sherlock, have been precisely nowhere and I like that too."

Sherlock had the sinking feeling Jim wasn't talking about life experience.

"From our little dalliance earlier, I think I can safely deduce that wasn't your first time on your knees," Jim crooned in John's ear.

John didn't even flinch, and Sherlock wondered if he was aware of what was happening.

"But you, lovely," Jim said, leaving John's side to approach Sherlock. "You… are untouched. Pure. Virginal."

Jim drew the words out sensually, rolling his tongue around them. Sherlock's heart began to beat faster.

"Other than our good friend J.J., have you any experience at all?"

Images flashed through Sherlock's mind; a girl kissing him drunkenly at a party when he was fifteen, a fumbled hand job from his housemate Victor in the second year of university. A kiss from John, barely twelve hours ago, the hard stone floor beneath him and Jim's gaze upon them.

"Sexual relations hold little interest for me," Sherlock said, trying his best to sound imperious.

Jim shook his head in reproach.

"But how do you know? With no experiential evidence, with no first-hand knowledge?"

"You don't have to fall off a cliff to know it hurts," Sherlock said archly.

Jim clucked his tongue.

"I must say, I'm disappointed love. I thought you were a scientist. Where's your data, where's your research? Your academic rigour? I thought you wanted to know everything."

"Sex is not exactly cold fusion, is it?" Sherlock sneered. "I think I'm safe to draw my own conclusions."

"I think you're being a little hasty, love. Luckily for you, I'm a scientist myself."

Jim turned to wink at John.

"Amateur, I admit, but still. I've actually been conducting a few experiments of my own. Would you like to know my research topic, Sherlock?"

"Hot air?" Sherlock said flatly.

"Stimulus!" Jim beamed. "I find myself very interested in observing how test subjects react to stimulation of all kinds. Pleasurable and painful. Nice and nasty. And now I have an ideal lab rat!"

He leaned over Sherlock's chair, face close to his.

"You're a rare commodity, my darling. Everything I subject you to, you'll be feeling for the first time. Every touch, every caress. All brand new. You're a blank slate for me to write on…"

He suddenly released the straps on Sherlock's hands, smoothly backing away to stand next to John before Sherlock could even get to his feet.

Sherlock wasn't surprised to see the knife pressed against John's throat but he still gritted his teeth.

"Strip, Sherlock!" Jim sang out. "Standard procedure for all test subjects, you understand."

There was no need to make an explicit threat; the hovering knife was more than enough. Sherlock removed his clothes without ceremony, knowing that Jim would prey on any sign of discomfort.

He still felt horribly exposed though, standing in front of Jim like this. And John… The circumstances in which he had desired John to see him unclothed had been entirely different.

But he kept his back straight and his face clear of reaction as Jim approached with a deliberately lascivious smirk on his face, knife still firmly in hand.

Sherlock's chest was wrapped around with bandages, covering the scars Jim had left. Gently, Jim unravelled the material until Sherlock was fully bare. He smiled at the words cut into Sherlock's body; like Sherlock was some kind of canvas for his art.

"You're like a china doll," he breathed, trailing a hand down Sherlock's arm. "Such a waste to hide yourself from the touch of others. Such a waste…"

The touch made Sherlock's skin crawl but he didn't make a sound, even when Jim pushed him down onto the trolley on his back and strapped him firmly in place.

The metal was cold against his skin, but it didn't matter because he felt heated all over, his skin prickling.

Jim gave him a lingering look, eyes roving over every inch of him. Then he discarded the knife and climbed onto the trolley to straddle Sherlock.

He sat there for a minute, just staring into Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock tried to use the time to steel himself. He wanted to switch off, to shut his thoughts down and let his mind wander. But his brain wasn't cooperating. It was distracting him, whispering about pain and violation and John being there to witness it…

He snapped back to the situation in hand as Jim finally made his move.

"Let's start at the top," Jim murmured and pressed his lips to Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't turn his head, but he did clamp his lips together, preventing Jim's nudging tongue from finding a way in.

He should have known that Jim would play dirty. Without warning, Jim reached down and squeezed his cock viciously. Sherlock let out an involuntary gasp at the pain and Jim took the opportunity to force his tongue into Sherlock's slightly parted mouth.

Sherlock felt sick. Physical pain, while undeniably unpleasant, was mostly bearable. It was no picnic (the throb in his tightly bandaged hand attested to that), but he could survive it.

This was different.

The very feel of someone else's tongue in his mouth felt inalienably wrong. He'd felt the same when he was fifteen at the party. Foreign saliva mixing with one's own, the slug-like feel of an unfamiliar tongue, it was all faintly grotesque to him.

When John had kissed him in the cell… that hadn't been grotesque. Sherlock didn't know why, but something about John's mouth on his had felt natural somehow. Right, in some indescribable way.

Jim's kiss made him want to gag. But he kept a tight control on himself, knowing that he couldn't crack now, right at the beginning.

"Hmm," Jim mused when he finally broke the kiss. "Not bad at all, Sherlock. A little nervous on your end, but that'll pass."

His eyes swept down Sherlock's body.

"No arousal yet, I see. I'll try not to take it to heart."

Then Jim was sliding his hands down Sherlock's chest, stopping at his nipples. The scars started directly below them and Jim ran a loving hand over the words, before bending to blow gently on Sherlock's chest.

He tweaked one nipple then began rubbing at them both. Then, horrifyingly, he bent his head to suck at one, swirling his tongue around it.

Sherlock could feel his nipples peak and stiffen. An expected physiological reaction; Sherlock told himself there was no need to feel ashamed, ignoring the spasm of fear uncurling in his stomach.

Jim seemed satisfied.

"Now we're getting somewhere."

Then he reached out and twisted Sherlock's right nipple harshly, eliciting a sharp cry.

Jim giggled and Sherlock closed his eyes for a second to compose himself. He'd been taken by surprise, but he shouldn't have made a sound. It only fed Jim's sadism.

Unbidden, his gaze flicked over to John. The other man's face was still blank but Sherlock was sure that John's body had tensed up, a sign that perhaps he was more aware than he looked.

Sherlock hoped that wasn't the case. He'd much rather John didn't see this.

Jim hummed softly as he trailed his hands down Sherlock's body. He lingered on his lower stomach, smiling slightly.

"All this virgin territory. I feel like Columbus. The first person to conquer you."

Sherlock would have laughed at the inapt metaphor, if he hadn't felt so tense.

Jim produced a small bottle of lube from his pocket, and proceeded to squirt a small amount on his hand. Sherlock knew what was coming next as Jim snaked his hand downwards.

But instead of reaching for his cock like Sherlock anticipated, he slipped his hand underneath, exploring with his fingers until he found what he was looking for.

Sherlock bit back a gasp as Jim's finger circled round his hole, cool and slick. He found himself keeping completely still, hoping that the man was only threatening him, trying to unnerve him.

If he kept completely still, if he didn't rile him…

Jim leaned in, his mouth close to Sherlock's ear.

"I bet you don't even masturbate, do you? Not even on long, lonely nights with John in the next bedroom; nights when frustration overwhelms you and you want to feel something, anything, just this once. But you don't. Because you like to think that you're a machine, a superior being, above such petty concerns as humdrum human sexuality.

Guess what, my love? You're not."

As the last word left his mouth, Jim thrust his finger violently inside Sherlock. Sherlock couldn't help but whimper in pain at the sudden invasion; like a blunt instrument had been thrust into him. Physically, it throbbed; emotionally he felt violated beyond belief. Jim was grinning down at him, dark and wicked.

"It's only one finger, darling! How are you going to cope when I shove my whole fist up there?"

Sherlock flinched, unable to disguise his reaction and Jim laughed.

"Don't worry; we can save that for another day. For now, let's see if we can…"

Jim withdrew momentarily, then thrust back inside with two fingers. Sherlock's back arched in agony, though he managed to bite back the cry at the last minute.

"There we are, that's a good boy," Jim said soothingly, stroking the hair back from Sherlock's damp forehead.

He pressed a kiss to his head, before casting his eyes down to Sherlock's limp cock and tutting.

"We better do something about that," he murmured and nausea rose through Sherlock's body as he realised Jim's fingers were moving around inside him.

Then Jim took his cock in hand and began stroking.

Sherlock could almost bear the manual stimulation, but being penetrated at the same time was too much. He could feel sweat tricking down his back; hear the pounding of his heart in his ears. His skin was even hotter than before and the scars on his chest were stinging.

It was horrible and painful and disgusting. And then Jim's finger brushed up against something that sent a frisson through Sherlock.

Again Sherlock told himself that arousal was an expected physiological response. The prostate was a source of sexual pleasure for most men. But it was harder to believe it this time with the heady mix of fear and pain and arousal coursing through his veins. He felt over-sensitised; every nerve ending in his body seemed to be screaming out at the same time. He found himself bucking up off the table, trying to loosen the damn straps so he could get away somehow, but Jim just laughed.

"Easy, darling, I can go faster if you want."

Jim began stripping Sherlock's cock in earnest. Sherlock realised to his horror that he was half-hard.

"No-" he forced out against his better judgment. "Just stop… I don't want-"

"You don't want this? Why do you lie to me, Sherlock, when your body tells me the truth?"

Jim smiled beatifically down at him.

"Look at you, all desperate and needy. Practically rutting yourself against my hand. Is it possible for a virgin to be a slut? Because I think that's what you are."

Sherlock closed his eyes against the words, shame washing over him in spite of himself.

Stop. You're better than this. He's just trying to wind you up. Get yourself together.

But Sherlock couldn't get himself together. It was all too much; Jim's fingers inside him and his hand tugging at his cock, thumbing the slit.

Suddenly Jim wrenched his fingers out again and waggled them at Sherlock.

"Are you ready for a third, love?"

"No," Sherlock gasped, abandoning his attempts at dignity. "Please, no more."

His head was spinning, he felt like he had pins and needles all over, he couldn't take any more…

"But Sherlock, you need to be prepared," Jim said, mock concerned. "I'd hate to hurt you when I finally get my cock inside you."

Sherlock just shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut as Jim increased the speed of his strokes.

"Very well," Jim said softly. "I'll let you off… if you come in thirty seconds."

Sherlock panicked. Every inch of him was fighting against being aroused, and now he had to turn that around to avoid further pain?

He kept his eyes shut, pretending it wasn't Jim palming his cock; pretending he was on his own and it was just another experiment. Like all the others he'd conducted back in Baker Street, just a scientific test. He needed to make himself ejaculate so that's what he was doing, he was touching himself in his own flat, and when he was successful, he would record the results and then he would be able to make his deductions like he always did, and everything was fine, it was a perfectly normal experiment…

Jim stuck two fingers suddenly back inside him. Sherlock came with a shout.

He lay there for a few moments, breathing through his orgasm. It was not the crashing wave of pleasure that literature had described; more like a sudden release of unbearable pressure. Sherlock did not feel relieved or relaxed; he felt weak and humiliated.

Jim clambered down off the table and grabbed a washcloth. He approached Sherlock, triumphant in victory.

"Sherlock's first orgasm! What a momentous occasion."

Jim regarded him for a second.

"You do make quite a sight, you know. All flushed and spent and freshly fucked. It suits you."

He leaned forward to dip a finger in the quickly drying pool of come on Sherlock's stomach.

"Want to taste?"

Sherlock turned his head away in disgust. Jim shrugged and licked his finger clean.

He then wiped Sherlock down with the washcloth, making sure to dip between his legs and cleanse him thoroughly.

For maximum humiliation, Sherlock thought bitterly.

He then removed the straps and Sherlock got to his feet. He thought vaguely about taking a swing at Jim, doing something, anything, but he was too exhausted to move properly. He silently accepted his pile of clothes back and dressed himself mechanically. Something pricked at his eye and he scrubbed at it furiously.

Behind him, Jim was speaking to John.

"I'm sorry you couldn't have him first, pet. But I'll make sure you get a chance, don't worry. Everyone gets to play."

Quite abruptly, Sherlock turned his head and was sick all over the floor.


Lestrade and Mycroft are back next chapter. The plot is advancing, I promise, even if it doesn't seem like it! Thanks very much for reading.