I wasn't originally going to post this, but I have nothing else to offer at the moment. This is part one of two parts, I'll try to have the latter half posted later once I have it finished.
Warning: Non-con. JW/SH later. Don't like, don't read.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes or anything related to it.
Sherlock awakens from his drug-induced slumber, one that for once wasn't of his own doing. He shields his eyes from the bright light overhead, as it sears into his eyes and sends him writhing in pain. The room is spinning, and he grips at the edges of the mattress he's lying on like it's a life boat being tossed amongst the waves.
There's a blob standing over him, and it's speaking to him. His ears and mouth feel like they've been stuffed with cotton, so there's not much he can do in response.
Then he feels a painful prick in his arm, and a rush of liquid into his veins. All of a sudden, things become startlingly clear. It's a doctor that's standing over his prone form, as the man's dressed in a suspiciously stained white lab coat. Whether or not he's certified to be wearing it is another matter entirely. His hair is grey, and slicked back from his face, and his piercing blue eyes appear large and bug-like behind his thick glasses.
"Ah, there he is," the "doctor" says, his voice suddenly booming loud in Sherlock's ears. "How is my patient doing? Better than the last ones, I hope."
Sherlock tries to ignore that comment, for his own sanity. He already knows that this man is the serial killer the Scotland Yard has been looking for, and that he's been murdering his victims in this very basement. The man is delusioned into thinking that everyone but himself is insane, and when he fails to "help" them, he cites them as a lost cause and kills them.
The detective is startled out of his thoughts when a hand reaches down and touches his forehead. The hand feels uncomfortably warm, and Holmes twists away as if he has been stabbed with a fire poker. He presses against the cobblestone wall that's beside him, sighing contentedly as the coolness sinks into his clothes and soothes his flushed skin.
"It appears the patient is running a rather high fever," the doctor mused to himself. "This added to his peculiar behavior suggests that his psychosis has taken over him. I begin to wonder if he is beyond help." Sherlock feels wary as a wicked smile lights upon the man's features. "I suppose, though, that it won't hurt to have a little fun with him before I dispose of him."
Sherlock feels his eyes go wide with terror. The man hastily lowers himself onto the mattress, so he's positioned over Holmes. He straddles the ailing man's waist and pins his wrists above his head, laughing gleefully as he does it. Sherlock tries to wrestle the smaller man off, but he's still weak from the sedatives that were injected into his system hours ago. He struggles as the doctor leans down and starts undoing the buttons on his white collared shirt, and growls as he feels hot hands run down his now bare torso.
The doctor tries to capture his lips with his own, but Sherlock turns his head to the side, and tries desperately to buck the man off of him as he feels those same lips on his neck. A hand suddenly snakes down between them, undoes the fly on Sherlock's trousers, and then slips inside, all while the detective is preoccupied with the mouth attached to his neck. But then he feels fingers curl around his member and give it a sharp tug, and he is made all too aware of what the doctor has planned.
Holmes thinks he's going to be sick as the hand begins pumping him, bringing his shaft quickly to attention. He tries to resist thrusting into the hand, but he can't control what his body does at this point. It's only made worse by the doctor grinding against him with his own rock-hard length, as if trying to remind him that this is only the beginning.
With a groan, Sherlock comes, feeling pangs of guilt and disgust as he does. The doctor pulls his hand out of Sherlock's pants, and wipes it off on his lab coat. He then grabs the waistband of the pants, but before he can yank them down, Sherlock is able to push him off with the last of his strength. The doctor falls against the stone floor and his head ricochets against it, effectively knocking the brittle man out.
He's too tired now to even sit up, but Sherlock manages to do up his pants and shirt with shaky fingers-he doesn't want to be found that way, especially not by Watson. And he knows he's going to be found, because he can hear the footsteps and shouts overhead as the police infiltrate the house. He finally allows himself to slip into unconsciousness, into a darkness that eases the tension from his body and blocks out the world around him.