A Good Choice is No Choice
By Rose O' Sharon
Rating: M for 'Mature' – Remember, this means ADULT TYPE STORY
Disclaimer: None of the members of Sherlock belongs to me (I'm not sure they'd be happy if they did). Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss own them, but I'm borrowing them for now. I will return them when I'm done . . . or out of simple preservation of sanity, they'd grab them and run away while they can. :D
Warnings: Major male/male sex (Johnlock my OTP – For now), The 'F' Bomb is dropped liberally throughout. Mentions of male rape, slightly graphic depictions of torture, mentions of suicide ideation . . . Um, come to think about it, this is actually a rather dark story and if this totally makes you ill, I'd avoid the story or have a friend spoil it for you, because well, there's a third story to this series, and this is kind of necessary to get the whole feeling of that one . . . as the first one was to get the feel of this one . . . but this story now . . .
Summary: Sherlock and John are kidnapped by a Lunatic who wants to do what!? And what consequence will it have for John?
Comments: Yes to all comments, as long as they're nicely phrased and if they have nothing to do with the warnings. Seriously, you are warned what kind of story this is, so really, paying attention to the warnings is a good thing, 'K? :D
This is the second in what I have decided to call the 'Choice' series; the first being No Choice is a Good Choice
Sherlock opened his eyes and promptly wished he hadn't as he saw that he was in what he could tell from a mere glance was a cell and that he was chained by his wrists, waist, and ankles to the wall. As his aching head and blurry eyes slowly cleared and allowed him to adjust to the dimness of the cell, he looked around and his heart and stomach leapt into his throat as he saw John and his condition.
The older man lay completely naked, his hands handcuffed together to the headrail of a large cot, his legs spread-eagle on the bare mattress, and his ankles chained and shackled to the footrail. A deep bruise spread along the side of his face to his neck and Sherlock saw that even though John's eyes were closed, he was awake.
"John?" He asked, his voice rough from the effects of being drugged unconscious and the worry about why his friend was naked on a cot and yet he was fully dressed chained to the wall. John's eyes opened and he slowly turned his head, as if it ached, over to Sherlock. His blue eyes were open, and Sherlock frowned as he saw that only dullness and pain were reflected back at him.
"You're awake." John blinked and Sherlock's frown deepened as the normally vibrant timbre of John's voice was as hollow and as empty as his eyes. Sherlock resisted the urge to tell him he was speaking the obvious. "Welcome back to the land of the living. As you can probably deduce and/or remember, the plan didn't work."
Sherlock nodded. He did remember, but he also deduced that for some reason, John thought it had been his fault . . . but it hadn't. It hadn't been anyone's fault, really – just bad timing. Neither he nor John had known that the person John had been sent in to impersonate had escaped from the Asian jail only hours before Sherlock and John had been sent into enemy territory, and they'd received Mycroft's text about it five minutes too late for it to have done them any good.
"You did your best," Sherlock said, and John acknowledged it with a shrug, even as Sherlock pulled experimentally on the chains, shackles, and metal bar with which he'd been attached to the wall.
"Looked pretty solid from my point of view," John said almost conversationally. "Nice to see I haven't lost my eye for these kinds of details as I've aged."
Sherlock frowned and wanted to tell John what he thought of his age, but the timing wasn't right, if it ever would be, and he scowled. "I assume, since you were aware before me, that you know why I am fully dressed and you are not?" Sherlock finally addressed the elephant in the room and forced his voice to remain steady.
"Oh," John turned his head away and looked up at the ceiling, where Sherlock had already noted the placement of one of three cameras in the cell as well as two small vents at the top. He'd also seen the speaker in the wall and knew that the chances of there being a microphone or microphones in the room was a foregone conclusion.
"You noticed that," John's voice went flat and reflected no emotion at all, and Sherlock knew that meant that the man was actually quite scared though to someone who didn't know him, it would appear the exact opposite, and his rage grew. If John were frightened as badly as he so obviously was, there was something that was going to happen that John couldn't bear to think about or to deal with.
Sherlock forced himself to listen to what John said rather than try and fight his way from the chains, a useless endeavor at best, but with each word he only grew more and more angry.
"Remember the briefing, Sherlock?" John asked and Sherlock almost growled with impatience. However, he knew that John questioned him not only to put off having to tell him what was going on, but to see if Sherlock had been in any way injured after he'd lost consciousness, and he reigned in his impatience.
"Of course I remember," He looked offended. "Mycroft said the man we were after was a lunatic, and he capitalized the 'L'. Rather dramatic, I thought at the time . . ." he looked down at John. "Though I have since amended my opinion on that."
"Dramatic or not, Mycroft called it. The guy is a lunatic," John's voice dropped. "I met him, obviously, while you were still under the effects of the drug. He dosed you with a higher dose then he did me, specifically so he could talk to me without you interrupting us."
John stopped, and Sherlock nodded. "Obviously. But that still doesn't explain why I am fully clothed and you are not."
"I'm getting to that," John licked his lips. "Apparently the guy is on a serious revenge kick of some kind, and as his Neanderthal-like thugs cheerfully," he shuddered. "Cut off my clothes, he informed me that since we were so obviously together, meaning you and me," his voice broke and he audibly swallowed. "Well, he decided that the best way to get to you was to . . . to fuck me," John looked at the ceiling rather than at Sherlock, and the taller man froze. He'd actually thought that, but he'd been so hoping in this one instance he was wrong. However, John wasn't finished, and the second half of the bomb dropped. "And he's going to make you watch."