A/N: This is story number 6 in my Diogenes AU series. For those of you who haven't read my stuff before or weren't aware of the series itself, the other stories are Silent Sanctuary, Shelter in the Storm, Sounds of Silence, Silent Treatment, and Slave to the Silence. Special thanks to chasingriver: I'd be lost without my beta!


Sherlock lounged in the back of the cab, smirking as he tapped a message to Mycroft on his mobile.

Remember- you promised that I wouldn't be bored tonight. SH

His brother's response was swift in coming.

Since when are you bored at the Diogenes? MH

But a party, Mycroft! Really? How pedestrian. SH

Mycroft's reply made a delicious mix of fear and pleasure run through him.

Odd choice of words, since you won't be on your feet much. MH

Sherlock grinned broadly and reclined against the seat. Observing that he was almost at his destination, he reached under his coat and squeezed his crotch, not caring whether or not the cabbie noticed. It might be his last chance to touch himself for awhile, so he pressed his palm against his hardening cock and sighed loudly at the resulting pleasure.

The cabbie glanced sharply into the rear view mirror. "You all right, mate?"

Annoyed at the interruption, Sherlock snapped, "Yes. Why?"

"You just sounded like you were going to be ill."

"Well, your breath is somewhat nauseating so it's possible. Now do be quiet and drive."

To Sherlock's surprise, Lestrade opened the door when the glowering cabbie dropped him off at the Diogenes back entrance. The DI was attired like one of the club's regular attendants: black trousers, dark silk shirt, and brilliantly polished shoes with soles that enabled silent movement. One thing he wore was not standard club issue though- the thick leather collar with the platinum tag that marked him as Mycroft's property.

Sherlock's brows rose. He respected the concept of being owned: whenever he visited Mycroft here, needing the firm hand and mental silencing that his brother provided so well, he wore an identical collar. But seeing it on Lestrade engendered the same contrary spirit of competition that made him lock wills with Mycroft so often.

Well, Lestrade, he mused in the regulation 'Diogenes whisper' as he breezed into the foyer. Fancy seeing you here tonight.

Lestrade closed the door before following him. Mycroft wanted me to help get you ready.

That made Sherlock pause and turn slowly around. Get me ready?

That's right. This way. The DI pointed toward a set of double doors. Sherlock knew that they opened onto a corridor that led to the kitchen, employee change rooms, laundry area, and other functional facilities.

The detective smirked. I don't think so. Being an errand runner may be your kink tonight, but it's not mine. Now do stop boring me and tell me where this party is being held.

Lestrade's eyes narrowed. Are you going to come with me, Sherlock, or do I have to drag you?

Sherlock crossed his arms, his obstinate stance belying his climbing arousal. The thought of being bodily seized and forced to comply with Mycroft's agenda excited him, and they both knew it.

I'd like to see you try.

What happened next made Sherlock resolve to never underestimate the older man again. Lestrade smiled slyly before grabbing his wrist, twisting it behind his back, and kicking him behind the knees, forcing him to the ground. Sherlock had no time to even exclaim before four more men surrounded them. Strong but careful fingers prised his jaws apart so that a bit gag could be inserted and fastened in place. A padded leather blindfold slipped over his eyes before his handlers yanked him to his feet.

Lestrade's breath tickled his ear. You're as hard as a rock and dripping like a broken faucet. You like being forced like this, don't you?

Sherlock nodded frantically. His heart rate spiked when a broad palm descended on his arse. His coat and trousers muffled the sound to an acceptable level, but he still felt a burst of pain and deep, delicious after-burn.

When I tell your brother, there'll be more of it, you mouthy little slut.

Sherlock willingly let them haul him down the corridor. Curiousity now surged as strongly as sexual excitement, making him light-headed. He was grateful for the tight hold on his arms as he was guided into a room that the humid air and smell of cooking food identified as the kitchen. He could hear the staff going about their business, never pausing to contemplate the new arrivals.

Hold still, one of the attendants ordered. Sherlock obeyed, trembling in anticipation as they quickly and impersonally divested him of his clothes. Fingers –Lestrade's- gripped his hair and guided him firmly backwards until a wooden table edge bumped against his upper thighs. Then his escorts picked him up bodily, laid him on the hard surface on his back, and held him in place.

You love attention, Sherlock. I picked up on that soon after I met you, Lestrade said. Sherlock shivered and moaned through the gag as he felt the policeman's fingers tease his nipples with too-light pinches. You'll enjoy what Mycroft has planned for you tonight. But first he wants us to prepare you.

When Sherlock felt Lestrade buckle his personal collar in place –he recognized its rich leather scent and the cool weight of the platinum tag with the Holmes family crest- his pleasure gave way to resentment. As far as he was concerned, only Mycroft had the right to put that precious accessory on him. He growled, and was rewarded for the insubordination with a firm nipple pinch.

Shut it. You don't dictate anything tonight.

A drawer underneath the table opened. When Sherlock turned his head toward the sound, two of his escorts gripped his legs and raised them. He felt their silk shirts glide against his skin as they leaned inward, pressing his thighs closer to his chest while spreading them wide. A second later someone's finger, cold and slippery with lube, pressed into him, slicking up his tight channel. When he grunted and clamped down on it reflexively, Lestrade chuckled.

As if you don't love having things up your arse. Mycroft said to tell you that you'll be getting plenty of that tonight.

Those words did nothing to calm Sherlock's excitement. His cock was dripping fluid all over his stomach, and he knew that if his prostate was stimulated now, he'd start spouting like a fire hose. Someone either read his mind or had a perfect sense of timing, for a moment later a cock ring was fitted around his erection's base. His frustrated whine made Lestrade –whose digit now dragged wickedly across his swollen gland- laugh again.

Christ, this is fun. Why can't we get along this well at crime scenes, hmm?

When Lestrade removed his finger, Sherlock grumbled in disappointment, but he wasn't left empty for long. The grip on his legs tightened and a lubricated object that felt like a silicone butt plug pressed into him. He breathed deeply through his nose as its considerable girth relentlessly stretched his sphincter muscle. When his hole finally closed over the narrow base he moaned, feeling its solid weight roll across his sensitive insides.

They gave him a few seconds to adjust. Then his legs were lowered and strong arms lifted him carefully off the table onto his feet. The plug shifted inside him, making him groan again. The pleasure was so intense, yet the cock ring denied him any release. He was ready to moan in frustration, but refused to give Lestrade the satisfaction of seeing him so uncomfortable and needy.

His thoughts were interrupted when someone unbuckled and removed the gag. The cool rim of a water glass nudged his lips, urging him to drink. Grateful for the distraction as well as the refreshment, he complied, letting the water re-moisten his mouth and throat. Thank you, he whispered when the glass was taken away.

Lestrade's whisper was laden with approval. Now that's a better attitude. Open your mouth again.

Sherlock obeyed, and was rewarded by a piece of sushi –unagi eel, with a hint of sweet sauce and sprinkled with sesame seeds- being placed on his tongue. He chewed and swallowed, relishing the salty, warm taste.

Did you like that?

Yes. Thank you.

Here's some more.

This time Lestrade fed him a piece of avocado roll wrapped in fresh ginger. Sherlock ate it with relish, licking his lips as the soya sauce dribbled down his chin.

Fuck, Lestrade groaned softly. Sherlock felt fingers twist in his thick curls again and, knowing what the DI was thinking, opened his mouth widely to indicate consent. He let himself be guided to his knees on the smooth kitchen tiles – he could hear someone with a partial limp stirring a pot of Portobello mushroom bisque a few feet away- and widened his throat just before a fat, moist cockhead pushed past his lips. He remained in place while Lestrade slid forward until coarse pubic hair brushed his nostrils.

Lestrade's hips rocketed against his face at a speed meant to be controlling, but Sherlock did not flinch, choke, or pull away. He rested his palms on his thighs, letting the older man fuck his mouth until accumulated drool spilled past his lips and dripped to the floor. His back remained straight and his expression, even with the blindfold, was triumphant. Topping from the bottom, Mycroft always called it.

Lestrade noticed. That's all right, Sherlock, I'll allow you your pride, he panted as his orgasm neared. But by the end of the night, I swear you'll be begging for mercy. Cocky slut.

Sherlock's upper lip curled back from his teeth in a mild sneer. When Lestrade went rigid and spurted down his throat, he made one more defiant gesture: raising his hands, he clasped the policeman's buttocks and tugged, implying that he could easily have swallowed more. Lestrade slapped his hands away and hissed, Fucking smart little whore. Am I not enough for you? Just wait. Let's see what shape you're in by sunrise. Help me, gents? I believe it's time?

He grabbed one of Sherlock's arms, while an attendant took the other. They yanked the younger Holmes to his feet, led him out of the steaming kitchen, and into yet another corridor. When Sherlock's bare toes sank into deep and luxurious carpet, he knew they were taking him into the club proper now. He listened eagerly for any new voices as Lestrade and the attendants conveyed him up a flight of stairs –the Visitor's Room was on the second floor, he recalled- and into an a silent chamber with an already-stoked fire. Its heat felt marvellous against his cool, naked skin.

They guided him forward until his hips collided with a leather-padded beam of some kind. Someone fixed a leash to his collar's D-ring and tugged down until he was doubled over the device. Curiousity and anticipation kept him still and silent as the other end of the leash was fixed to a floor attachment. He remained compliant as they attached leather cuffs to his wrists and ankles and secured his limbs to what he now recognized as a sawhorse. Lestrade's hand roughly massaged his upturned arse, jostling the plug inside and sending heat flooding through his bound limbs. Sherlock groaned, which was someone's cue to re-apply the gag.

In retrospect, it was perfect timing, for at that moment a leather chair creaked as someone got up. Footsteps approached and a second hand- one he would have recognized anywhere- fondled his other buttock.

Ah, brother-mine. So kind of you to join us.