Disclaimer: Sherlock does not belong to me.

Warning: Contains graphic sexual content. Slash (male/male). Don't like, don't read.

Anything At All

The heated warmth hit his face, making his eyes flutter open. Everything was blurry and out of focus. Where he was, he couldn't be sure. With a glance to the side he saw objects that had an air of familiarity about them. With a long blink he tried to focus on something else. A white roundish object is what his eyes found. For a second, it came into focus and he realised it was a skull.

The flames in the fireplace grew higher, crackling with heat. He blinked rapidly, trying to get his vision clear, trying to push out all the confusion and focus on what had happened and where he was now. But, at the moment, it was proving impossible. His hand then jerked making his eyes widen and a harsh groan rolled from his mouth as his body sunk further into the armchair he was in.

"I hope you don't mind."

The voice made Sherlock's head jerk to the side and look up, wanting to put a face to the voice.

"Well, you gave me your address."

His head collided with the back of the armchair as he continued in trying to look around it. Pushing his body out he finally saw the man who spoke. It was the cabbie that had murdered all those people, the one he had approached outside the restaurant. The one that had wanted to meet him.

"You've only been out for about ten minutes."

The realisation of the situation he was in sunk in and panic rushed through his veins. He had been drugged. He had to move and get the police. With all the effort he could muster, Sherlock pushed himself out of the chair and with a big heave managed to grab hold of the mantelpiece above the fireplace.

"You're strong," the cabbie commented, his tone showing faint surprise. "I'm impressed."

Sherlock's head rolled on the warm mantelpiece, his eyes glued to the skull.

"That's right, you warm yourself up. I made everything nice and cosy for you."

Sherlock's face pressed heavily against the wood as things became a little clearer. "This is my flat," he whispered, barely audible.

"Course it is, yeah," the cabbie said, pulling something from his pocket. They rattled and he waved them at him. "Found your keys in your jacket. I thought, well, why not? People like to die at home."

Twisting his body awkwardly, Sherlock faced the cabbie, staring at him through blurred eyes, his mouth hanging wide open. A small course of anger ran through his body and with a push off the mantelpiece, Sherlock made to fling himself at the man before him. But his legs didn't work properly, sending him down fast, hitting the floor with a loud thud.

Instantly, he groaned at the pain that it caused.

"Now, now," said the cabbie, amused, moving to stand a few feet from him. "Drug's still in your system. You'll be weak as a kitten for at least an hour," he added as Sherlock reached forward, his arm flopping uselessly, pulling his shirt and jacket up his back, exposing a small patch of pale skin. The cabbie stepped directly beside him and looked down, smiling. "I could do anything I wanted to you right now, Mr. Holmes. Anything at all."

Dread crept into Sherlock's chest at the words, making knots fill his torso, pulling and contorting in all directions. Leaning on his arms, Sherlock pulled his legs up, managing to keep his knees steady on the ground. He pulled back, exposing his behind, the jeans on his legs tightening with the strain. Sherlock groaned again, unable to move any further.

Above him, the cabbie looked up and down his body appreciatively. "Do you know how it's going to begin?"

Sherlock's head rolled side to side, showing that he either didn't know or didn't care, or perhaps both. His hand clawed at the top of the small step again, his eyes rolling towards the door. It was open but no sound came from outside. It was quiet and it was something that made Sherlock's chest constrict even further.

The cabbie took one step forward before bending over, pressing his hand against the back of Sherlock's head. The consulting detective jumped but was unable to move away. The fingers clawed through the mass of dark curls, losing themselves in it, the stubby, wrinkled digits massaging the scalp gently. They then trailed down the back of his neck and down his clothed back, soon reaching the exposed part of Sherlock's body.

He pressed his hand against the exposed flesh, making Sherlock squeak timidly. The skin was cool and Sherlock soon flushed with goose bumps at the man's warm hand. Sherlock gasped as a couple of nails dragged across the skin, leaving visible marks behind.

"So soft, Mr. Holmes," he commented with a smile.

After a few more minutes, his hand left the soft, white skin and moved around to the front of his body, grabbing at the denim clad crotch. A whimper escaped Sherlock's lips and he felt his blood run cold. It was beyond clear what the cabbie had been hinting at. He held a hand against Sherlock's back, keeping him in place which was relatively easy thanks for the drug, while the other hand ripped open the black jeans and began to fondle his placid member.

Sherlock's head dipped at the touch, the words he wanted to say becoming muddled in his brain although it screamed for him to stop. Tears formed in his eyes and as he felt his sex organ harden slightly, he moaned, a pink blush creeping up on his cheeks.

Not soon enough, he released his hold of Sherlock's cock and pulled his black jeans down along with the grey underwear until his bottom was completely exposed. Sheer panic rushed through Sherlock's body and despite the hand on his back, he tried to crawl away. A heavy weight bore on top of him and as Sherlock still attempted to crawl away in vain, a zipper was heard. Taking his earlier position, he positioned himself behind Sherlock.

After a tense silence, the cabbie took Sherlock in one hard, uncaring thrust. Sherlock's drugged scream resonated off the walls as the man's cock filled his dry entrance. At the third thrust, a string of muttered words were heard and the cabbie slowed and bent over Sherlock's back to hear him a little better.

"It hurts... please... stop... hurts... please... don't..."

The cabbie chuckled and took no pity on the fact that Sherlock was hurting, that the pain was slicing through each raw nerve. It only encouraged him. His hands gripped Sherlock's hips so hard he could feel the nails digging into him as he was fucked raw. Sherlock's upper body slumped against the floor, the effort of keeping himself up while the drug still pumped through him becoming too much.

He lay there, motionless while trying to ignore the pain and the drops of blood that trickled down the backs of his pale legs. Sherlock closed his eyes and squeezed them shut tightly as he felt his cock harden fully as the man behind him deliberately brushed against his prostate. The consulting detective's agonising screams turned into moans as the cabbie concentrated on keeping his rhythm.

When the ordeal came to an end the cabbie exploded inside him with a heavy grunt. The weight was quickly lifted off his back and Sherlock simply lay there out of shock and fear. The cabbie shifted to Sherlock's side and took his erection in hand, rubbing it hard and fast. A mumble of swear words fell from Sherlock's mouth but none of them were heard clearly. He didn't want the murderer touching him, but the sensations flowing through his body were incredible and were hard to ignore. Sherlock moaned, thrusting into the hand, the warmth in his abdomen pooling intensely.

A cry ripped through the air as Sherlock focused, wanting this over with as quick as possible. He could feel the cabbie's fingernails pierce through his shirt, indenting in his chest. Within seconds, he came with a sob as the orgasm passed too quickly for him to enjoy. Sherlock's body weakened and when the cabbie let go of him, he collapsed onto the floor. The sound of the zipper sounded again making Sherlock groaned.

The hands returned to his body and Sherlock felt his own jeans being done up, looking almost as though nothing had happened. A small chuckle sounded but the cause of it Sherlock didn't know. The cabbie stood beside him once again and looked down, the same smile coming to his face.

"That ended a little abruptly, didn't it?" he asked. There was no answer. "Just relax. 'Cause now, I'm gonna kill you."

Bending over, he picked Sherlock up to his feet and dragged him towards the small table and chairs a few feet away, pushing him into the pulled out chair. Sherlock groaned, slumping against the table, his head rolling on his arm while the other lolled beside his legs which were bent at seemingly awkward angles.

"Whole house is empty," the cabbie reminded him, moving to stand behind the chair opposite. "Even your landlady's away. So there's no point in raising your voice. We're all locked in nice and snug."

Sherlock's head slumped sideways. Slowly, he met the man's eye. A sigh escaped as the realisation set in. There was only one way out of this. He'd have to play the rest of this man's twisted game.