Title: The Subtle Art of Misdirection
Pairings: Holmes/Watson very strong friendship, definitely slashy with hints at repressed feelings
Wordcount: ~33,000
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Dub-con/non-con, minor violence - see summary - and numerous stabs at the French language. (No, I mean that literally; I took a butter knife to a French dictionary.)
Disclaimer: I disclaim everything. No, seriously - everything. I even disclaim myself.
Summary: This is an old fill to a Sherlock kinkmeme prompt that I've only just gotten around to editing and x-posting: "Holmes has been missing for a few days or weeks. Watson is finally LED to him. Turns out Blackwood has had him. Anyway, Blackwood tells Watson he has a choice. He (Watson) can either take him and Blackwood watches, or Blackwood will do it himself. Both know Holmes suffers from Genophobia (fear of sex) and is a virgin. Watson decides to do it, and fucks him like he's breakable (lots of soft words, gentle touches, it's going to alright, ect ect). I know. I'm weird. Dubcon and gentle fucking don't usually go hand in hand, but I want it :(" So...this may squick some of you. If it's not your cup of tea, don't read. *points to prompt* (Author is not liable for any permanent mental trauma suffered on account of this fic, though she will take credit for it because permanently damaging people mentally should be an Olympic sport.)
A/N: Dear House fandom readers...um...oops. I'm working on it, I swears. D8

HWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWHW

Holmes had only been gone for three days, which was not unusual after one of their spectacular fights, especially when said fight involved the Morocco case, the syringe, and the 7% solution that Holmes just would not stop purchasing. In retrospect, it probably hadn't helped that Watson kept tearing their rooms apart in search of Holmes' hiding places, and then destroying the bottles of solution while Holmes was out. Other things certainly hadn't helped as well, like Holmes' boredom and the worsening black fit, and Watson's suddenly snappish temper over the fact that he felt harried by the demands of his practice and Holmes' oppositional nature both. He wasn't used to working like this, every day on a fixed schedule; Holmes had gotten him accustomed to days of leisure at a time, followed by days of non-stop hunting and chasing without proper rest or food. The whole idea of an endless routine was wearing Watson's nerves quite thin. In truth, when Holmes had stormed out and spit over his shoulder that Watson need not bother with him at all anymore, Watson had been relieved to see him gone. These tantrums never lasted more than a few days, no matter what furious promises Holmes made, and the distance always did them both a world of good.

No, the point at which Watson finally careened over into worry was when one of the Irregulars showed up in his practice room in the middle of the day to say that none of the boys could find Holmes in any of his six hidey-holes strewn across the whole of London. And what was more, the boy - Cartright - informed Watson that Holmes hadn't been seen at all by any of them for the past two days. It was true that on occasion, Watson was not able to locate Holmes to save his life. The Irregulars, though...those boys always knew where to find Holmes. Always. It bode seriously ill that they suddenly could not.

Another two harrowing days passed for Watson, mired in a sea of telegrams and Yarders, and more of Holmes' little lost boys. There were no cases pending, and no matter his anger toward Watson, Holmes never took on a case without at least informing Watson of it. In a fit of petulance, Holmes might forbid Watson's assistance, but never - never - had Holmes simply failed to tell him he had one.

By the time a full week had passed, Watson was beside himself. That was probably the only reason he didn't question the bruiser who sought him out on the sidewalk when Watson left Baker Street with the insane hope that if he simply wandered far enough, he would stumble across Holmes alive and well, and quite puzzled by Watson's hysterical concern. The only dialogue that passed between them was the brute's assertion that he knew where Holmes was and could take Watson to him, followed by Watson's over-eager sputtering and the hasty hailing of the first cab that clattered by. The brute called out an address in Whitehall, and they were off across the cobblestones at a quick enough pace that it was all Watson could do to hang on as the hansom jostled him around corners.

The house they drew up to was impressive, to say the least. And guarded. By the time Watson realized his blunder in failing to alert the Yard to this development, it was too late; the bruiser had a gun to his back and was already in the process of divesting Watson of his own revolver. As if that weren't bad enough, he took Watson's cane as well. Even considering its hidden weapon, taking a wounded man's cane showed poor manners. A gentleman thug would have offered him another, less potentially dangerous one, if only to sustain him through the walk to their destination. And yes, there was such a thing as a gentleman thug; Watson had met several, courtesy of Holmes' work. They were typically more dangerous than the average bruiser, so perhaps Watson should be grateful to be dealing with common lowlifes and their comparatively simplistic schemes.

The halls that the bruiser prodded Watson through were dimly lit by gaslights spaced evenly along the right hand walls. No servants were in sight, or even within hearing distance; Watson could only conclude that the house had been emptied for the night, and that disturbed him. He kept irrationally listening for the sounds of a struggle followed by Holmes' triumphant appearance and the speedy dispatch of the brute with the gun poking into Watson's lumbar vertebrae, but the only thing ringing in his ears was a deafening silence that betrayed dust settling, and the throbbing breath of shadows.

The bruiser eventually guided Watson down a set of worn stone stairs and into a cellar of sorts, not the kind used for food storage. The wood work gave way to crude stonemasonry on either side and Watson held a hand out at waist level, his fingertips trailing across the damp, porous stone for balance' sake. Even though he could walk well enough without his cane, he knew that his balance was at least slightly compromised. No doubt, that had been the intention, at least peripherally. A sudden fear struck Watson that Holmes wasn't even here - that Blackwood had lured him with the promise of his flatmate only to lock him up as bait in turn. The thought sickened Watson slightly; he was a fool twelve times over. He could only hope that he would live to be berated for it after Holmes came for him, and that they would both laugh about it years from now in front of the fireplace at Baker Street, brandies in one hand and pipes in the other.

Watson put an end to his thoughts in order to concentrate on the situation at hand as they reached the end of the corridor. Several more thugs greeted them, of the heavily muscled variety, and Watson staggered as two of them grabbed him by the upper arms. Latent survival instincts kicked in too late, and Watson toppled through a doorway in the middle of kicking viciously at someone's kneecap. He missed, propelled by several shoves, and ended up sprawled all over the hard packed-earth floor of a rather large room. The door clanked shut behind him – Watson's hazed thoughts identified it as iron, judging by the quality of the clang. A cell.

Watson scrabbled to hands and knees but the fall had twisted him awkwardly onto his bad leg and he hissed, going rigidly still to temper the flare in both his shoulder, with which he had tried to catch himself, and along the nerves of his right thigh. It infuriated him to be seen like that, crouched on the floor for all the world to ridicule his weakness, but he looked over his shoulder nonetheless. Iron bars met his gaze and wrung his heart in his breast. No doubt Holmes could have picked the lock with a splintered bit of shale and then sauntered out to cooly dispatch the bruisers as only he could, without the slightest flinch or miscalculation. Watson was no good at picking locks, for all Holmes' efforts to teach him.

Bracing himself against the dirt, Watson managed to climb to his feet and limp to the bars blocking his only exit. He rattled the metalworks just to be certain of its strength – and to expel some small degree of self-directed frustration, he admitted – then dropped his hands with a sigh. Holmes would come for him, as embarrassing as it was to be rescued like some simpering damsel. Holmes always came for him, no matter what, even when Watson preferred that he wouldn't because he wasn't in any real danger whatsoever. Like that one time Holmes had shown up at Simpson's to run off an old war buddy that Watson had been lunching and reminiscing with. Holmes had gone on to act as if he had done Watson a favor. The man was a bore, old chap; I could see it on your face. Followed by Watson's, What do you mean, you could see it? Have you been following me all day? At which point, Holmes had given him that look, the one that screamed that Watson was asking stupid questions again.

Watson's hand raked through his hair of its own accord and then he thumbed his mustache for no good reason. The thugs had retreated to far end of the corridor, out of sight considering the angle of the cell door, but not far enough to dim their voices or obscure the smell of cheap tobacco that hung above the scent of damp earth and cold stone. Watson glared at the ceiling with a long suffering groan and then turned to get a good look at his cell, the pad of his thumb pressed to his lips. His eyes were slow to adjust to the murk, but not too slow to mistake what he saw. His hand dropped in shock.

"God," Watson spluttered, and then his feet were moving and Watson's hands grasped Holmes' face in an effort to make sure he wasn't dead.

Holmes twitched at the contact and Watson's breath left him in a puff of mingled relief and disbelief. He had only just begun to process the situation, and his eyes trailed up Holmes' arms to the hook where his wrists were shackled and supporting his weight. Their captors had hoisted him up so that his feet only barely touched the ground; when Holmes woke, he would have no more than the balls of his feet to balance on. Watson wrapped his arm around Holmes' waist and tried to lift him far enough to take the strain off of his arms, and then it hit him that Holmes was naked.

Watson swore and palmed at Holmes' cheek again, but Holmes only grunted and mumbled something incomprehensible, his forehead resting heavily on Watson's shoulder. Most likely, they had drugged him, Watson thought. Holmes had been gone for a week, but he didn't seem too terribly abused or malnourished – quite the opposite. Holmes smelled freshly bathed, a thought which nauseated Watson since he doubted that Holmes had been given leave in his confinement to do so in private, and he could smell some sort of beefy remains on Holmes' breath. There were no untoward marks on his body save for reddened rings where the metal bit into his wrists, and even then, the marks were not worn raw; Holmes had been here like this for a few hours at most.

The entire thing felt like a staged scene for Watson's benefit, and that made left him edgy, his ears attuned to the smallest sound and his eyes scanning the darkness over both their shoulders. There was nothing to confirm his suspicions, however – merely a faint drip of water far away in another part of the cellar, and Holmes' frighteningly soft breaths puffing against Watson's neck.

Watson adjusted his grip to lift Holmes further from his slump and raised his free hand to card through Holmes' hair where it flopped over Watson's shoulder. "Holmes? Wake up, old chap." He could feel Holmes shivering in the chill, wet air, and that coupled with whatever they had used to render him unconscious could very well prove bad for his already sketchy health. More sharply this time, Watson snapped, "Holmes. Come, now. You have to wake up."

Watson shook Holmes by the hair and Holmes grunted. He shifted a bit in Watson's grasp and then whispered some slurred form of Watson's name.

Watson swore and gently let Holmes go long enough to get his great coat off. He cocooned Holmes up in it as much as possible, covering the chill expanse of pale bared skin more for warmth than dignity, and then took Holmes' weight again, both of his arms wrapped around Holmes' torso with one hand reaching up between Holmes' shoulder blades to brush the hair at the nape of his neck. Watson glanced up to see if he could perhaps lift Holmes off of whatever he was suspended from, but it was a bolt and iron ring through which the chain connecting the shackles had been secured. Watson would need either Holmes' own skills at locks, or a key. He had neither at the moment.

In lieu of immediate escape, Watson tightened his grip on Holmes with his left arm and leaned his head far enough back to be able to see Holmes' face. The dim illumination spilling into the cell from the hall could only provide Watson with the barest impression of the dark smudges that exhaustion had painted beneath Holmes' eyes, and that only because the rest of Holmes' pale skin shone like porcelain reflecting a low lamp's corona. Watson's gaze skimmed past Holmes' ear and up his left arm. Old puncture sites marred the creamy inside of Holmes' elbow and forearm, but they were days old at least.

Watson reached up to play connect the dots with a finger that barely indented the skin stretched taut over Holmes' muscled forearm. He had known for years that Holmes had a problem, but the number of recent marks chilled him in the vicinity of his diaphragm. Their fights over the cocaine had grown from the trifling spats of their first years together, to something truly vicious on Holmes' part and desperately terrified on Watson's. In a moment of self-recrimination, Watson told himself that he should have stopped Holmes from leaving, not only this time but a dozen times before. He should have found a way to show Holmes exactly what he was doing to himself, and to Watson by proxy. This impasse was as much Watson's fault for remaining silent as Holmes' for using the drug in the first place.

Watson snatched his hand from Holmes' pocked arm and looked away with a grimace. He could castigate himself later. Holmes' injection habits had as much impact on their current predicament as Mrs Hudson's choice in tea blends. He shook Holmes gently, and when that garnered no reaction, Watson tucked some hair behind Holmes' ear and idly traced the scant wrinkles gathering with age alone Holmes' brow.

Holmes gave a minute flinch when Watson cupped his jaw to bring his head up, and then slivers appeared between Holmes' lids as he forced them up. "Wa'sin..."

"Yes, Holmes." Watson's thumb inscribed circles over Holmes' cheekbone without any impetus from his thinking mind. "Have they harmed you? Do you need medical attention?"

"...mnn..." Holmes couldn't keep his eyes open, though his temples creased with the effort he expended to keep looking at Watson. "s'uh...m'feel shtraiyn'j."

When Holmes' head drooped forward, Watson guided it back to his own shoulder and shifted his posture to hold him better. "Steady on, old fellow. It will wear off soon, I'm sure." Actually, he wasn't sure at all because he had no idea what they may have given Holmes to render him so sluggish and docile, but he had to believe it for his own sake as much as for Holmes'.

Holmes made a few paltry attempts to pick his head back up off of Watson's shoulder, but it kept flopping back down, and Holmes eventually gave up the effort with a drawn out, tired sigh. "Izzit over?" he asked, still mumbling but with slightly better enunciation. "Whereza cab?"

Watson swallowed and cupped the back of Holmes' skull, his fingers massaging lightly at Holmes' scalp. His voice scraped out in a farce of its normally reassuring, doctorly tone when he replied, "No, Holmes; it's not over. But it will be soon."

Holmes coughed lightly against Watson's neck and then grated, "You got...Wa'son, yer an idiot. Not s'posta come alone."

Watson gave a weak smile. "Brawn before brains, I'm afraid." Then he sobered and admitted softly, "I've been terribly worried about you, old friend. All I could think was that my senseless hounding had finally driven you to do something drastic to escape the black fit, and if you had – "

"Stop," Holmes whined weakly, his voice like tin, or hollow reeds in a gentle wind. He obviously tried to lift his head again, probably to glare at Watson, but he had to settle for squirming a bit and then speaking with his lips right up against Watson's pulse point. "I wouldn..."

Watson swallowed hard and shut his eyes at the unintended intimacy of the moment. "Yes, you would," he countered with broken calm. "We both know you would."

Holmes grunted a nonspecific denial, nosing at Watson's neck in the process, and then he shuddered rather violently. It seemed that a measure of awareness came back to him because he stiffened for a moment, the shackles clacking as he sought to bring his arms down. He managed to lift his head this time, but Watson had to help support it with one hand wrapped around the back of Holmes' neck. Holmes blinked bleary eyes at the room, then at Watson's nose, close enough to brush his own if they were to merely turn their heads, and then up to where his hands dangled limp in the manacles above him. From his expression, he wasn't yet aware enough to realize their predicament, or even to be properly confused by what he saw; Holmes merely stared up at his own fingers as if trying to identify their owners.

The reappropriation of weight nearly caused Holmes to sway backwards, but Watson kept him steady and pulled his head forward again when it seemed that he didn't have strength enough to keep it from lolling back on his boneless neck. "Holmes, do you know what they gave you?"

Holmes' nostrils flared as he breathed, and then he managed to form his lips over the word, "Chloral." He tipped his head back down to look at Watson, nearly bumping his forehead into Watson's nose in the process, and then gave a muzzy, half-hearted sort of sneeze. With more of his old tone, Holmes began, "Watson - " His brows furrowed and he gazed past Watson's ear with unfocused eyes before he craned his neck down to where Watson's coat covered him. "What…bloody..." Holmes' gaze flew back up to Watson, mildly panicked. "What's going on? What did you do?"

"Nothing, Holmes." Watson kept hold of him as he twisted to lessen contact only because he knew that Holmes could not possibly support himself yet. "Holmes, I swear - you know me, for pity's sake. Just stop and think."

"I'm not wearing any clothes," Holmes sputtered. He stopped struggling to pull away, but the shivering had increased tenfold, and not from the cold. "Watson..."

"No one's done anything to you," Watson assured him. He kept his own voice calm in an effort to sooth him. "Holmes, observe. Do you feel anything the matter, apart from the drugs?"

Holmes stood still in Watson's grasp for a moment, his eyes darting about blindly while he took stock of himself, and then he shook his head. There was no relief in it, however; only an acknowledgment that he felt normal apart from hanging naked from the ceiling.

"See?" Watson whispered. "All's well, Holmes." He gently touched Holmes' cheek in the hope of calming him further. Such tentative touches were not unusual between them, but only because Holmes had grown used to having Watson so near to him. And Watson could very well imagine what Holmes was thinking now, because in all of Holmes' impersonalized logic and detached aloofness, there was room for only one irrational and unfounded fear. Watson had learned of it on accident many years ago, in circumstances he dare not repeat for fear of repeating the blush of shame that had colored Holmes' unnaturally white face at the time. "I promise you, no one has touched you." Of course, it was partially a lie, even if it were well meant. Someone had removed Holmes' clothing while Holmes, presumably, lay unconscious, and then probably bathed him in the same state. Of course someone had touched him, but Watson could only hope that it hadn't been of an indecent sort.

Holmes seemed to take no heart from Watson's manner. On the contrary, he ducked his head to hide his expression below Watson's chin and twisted his wrists above him. "Watson, he...he tried – "

"Who tried?" Watson tried to coax Holmes' head back up, but Holmes buried himself deeper in Watson's collar and seemed fixed on remaining there. "Holmes, do you know who's done this?"

Holmes made a tiny, perhaps involuntary sound that Watson's shoulder muffled, then replied, "Do you recall the case that Lestrade brought us last month – the one with the animal mutilations? The goats at the dairy?"

Watson frowned. They had ended up suspecting Lord Blackwood, a particularly unsavory and disturbing member of Parliament. Surely that was not what Holmes meant by mentioning that distasteful case?

A sound behind Watson drew both of their attentions swiftly to the door, and Watson twisted around to better shield Holmes without completely letting him go. The dark shape of a man stood as a blacker patch of shadow backlit by the lamps in the corridor. The flare of a match illuminated a thin, hawkish face, briefly enough to convey recognition and nothing more. Watson's eyes went wide before he shut his expressions down altogether and pressed more firmly back against Holmes.

"It's fascinating," Blackwood drawled, his voice like honeyed milk as he languidly shook the match out. He took his time sucking on his cigarette, and his voice when he spoke next carried the words in silken swirls of smoke about his head. "Is it not, Doctor? I never imagined how entertaining this could be when I originally set out upon it. He nearly descended into hysterics, and all I did was brush him through his clothes."

Holmes buried a mortified sound between Watson's shoulder blades. Watson himself shook with a sudden surge of rage. "How dare you," he hissed. "Release us this instant!"

Blackwood emitted an easy, amused little chuckle. "My dear Doctor," he crooned. "Surely you will allow me to enjoy the attendance of my most esteemed guests?"

Watson felt his very mustache bristle as he growled, "I am not your dear doctor, and we are not your guests!" He sneered the last word as if it were a vile set of syllables.

"Quite," Blackwood agreed. His calm, playful demeanor left Watson further incensed, but he could do nothing save watch as Blackwood straightened from his deceptively relaxed perch against the door frame. Any pretense of the gentleman host fled Blackwood's frame, and the very air hardened between them. "Had you heard of the phenomenon before now?" He asked, too nonchalant, too collected for Watson's nerves. "I confess that I had not – at least not in a man nearing his fortieth year. The available literature describes it as a female malady, akin to hysteria. Do you agree, Doctor?"

Watson seethed but kept silent. A tendril of sympathy wound out from his gut, though, because he could practically feel Holmes' shame in the way he angled himself just that slightest bit away from Watson, as if seeking distance in a shoe box.

Blackwood grinned. He looked like a manic crocodile for a moment, ambient light bending all natural laws of reflection just to glint in his eyes for that last bit of dramatic effect. "It was quite inconceivable to me when I finally unraveled the meaning behind his...mmm...pitiful display earlier tonight. You should have seen him, Doctor; I do believe the poor man was actually crying as I caressed him."

Watson bit his tongue – hard – and adjusted his grip to keep Holmes behind him. If only the force of a glare could kill a man, Blackwood would be writhing in agony this very second.

Blackwood seemed to read the intent in Watson's gaze, for he smiled almost imperceptibly, as if pleased by it. "You, however, don't seem at all surprised to hear of your most intimate friend's reaction."

Watson breathed more harshly at the bastardization of his own printed words - intimate friend, indeed - but said nothing. He and Holmes had always been proper toward each other in that respect, not perhaps for lack trying otherwise, but because Holmes could not have forced himself to offer Watson more. And Watson did not grudge him that; in fact, it probably kept them safer than any inverted precautions ever could. They had broken no laws and never would.

"Yes," Blackwood breathed into the stillness, his words like vipers on the wisps of smoke from his cigarette. "Yes, I see you do know. How very fortunate; I will not have to explain, then."

Watson saw red for a moment, and then vowed, "I will see you in hell, sir."

"Hmph. No doubt," Blackwood readily agreed. And again, this assessment seemed to amuse him, or perhaps to betray a hint of his most fervid hope that he was, indeed, destined for the netherworld. "But not yet, I am afraid. For now, I do appear to have you both at my mercy." Blackwood motioned to someone out of sight of the doorway and then stepped back to let one of his hired thugs unlock the cell door. Blackwood's gaze never left Watson, though, and Watson in turn stared back while his mind whirred through a useless series of fruitless escape plans. "You see, Doctor Watson, I too often suffer the effects of ennui. Your dear friend has his chemical remedies, for which I envy him his simplicity. I, on the other hand..." Here, Blackwood gave a dark chuckle, his eyes flickering away long enough to glance at the iron bars swinging aside before him. Then his gaze returned to Watson's and a preternatural coldness seeped over him even as Watson watched. "I, on the other hand, must find other pursuits to combat the despair of being a great man isolated in a sea of pygmies. And I do believe that you two will provide more than suitable entertainment to sustain me."

Watson held himself unnaturally tall as Blackwood followed two of his thugs into the cell and signaled a third to close the door behind them. Holmes had finally managed to get his feet under him, and he peered over Watson's shoulder with his nose nestled in the fabric of Watson's tweed suit jacket, his exhalations bathing Watson's shoulder through several layers of clothing in a staggered rhythm. This could not be happening. Watson watched Blackwood drag a chair from a dark corner where it had not previously been visible for the shadows. Blackwood sat himself down with a dark and predatory sort of grace. His thugs stood behind him at either shoulder, deceptive in their stillness as they clasped their hands in front of themselves and waited. Into the stillness, Holmes breathed Watson's name such that it was sure to be lost on the rest of the room. Watson tilted his head back to brush his ear against Holmes' hair; on the surface, it appeared as merely a side effect of Watson defiantly lifting his chin, but he knew that Holmes would understand the soft touch for what it was.

Blackwood made a thorough study of Watson as if he found the protective stance he had taken to be a singularly captivating thing. Watson, in turn, examined the bruisers and tried to apply both Holmes' methods and his own medical acumen to identifying weaknesses from their postures or perhaps from the way they wore their clothes. What did they intend to do? Mentioning Holmes' affliction meant that it would play into whatever sick game Blackwood had decided to play, but how? Would they hold Watson down and make him watch Blackwood –

No. Watson stopped that thought in its tracks, but not before an imagined picture had superimposed itself over the surface of his mind, of what Blackwood might do to Holmes, of what glee he might obtain in forcing Watson to witness it. Holmes shifted and Watson snaked a hand back to grasp him by the hip and hold him still, hold him close. There was no indecent intent to the action, not even considering where Watson's hand had landed, but Watson noticed when Blackwood's eyebrow arched, his gaze dropping to the shadowed seam between their bodies.

After a further moment's fascinated deliberation, Blackwood reclined in his chair and crossed one leg over the other, his cigarette held up near his face as he smiled with calculated intensity. He seemed to have reached a decision which pleased him the way dead birds pleased house cats. "My dear Doctor Watson, I have a proposition for you."

Watson fought to keep a level countenance at being addressed the way only Holmes had been given leave to address him. "Do you."

Blackwood's face creased even wider in the sort of smile that could sicken weaker men. "Oh, yes," he breathed ardently. "You see, I am curious to know just what shape this bond between you might take. All forms of personal attachment interest me, you see. It is relevant to my work that I learn to quantify such things, so that I may best use them to my advantage."

"Get on with it," Watson snapped.

"Patience, Doctor," Blackwood tutted. He had adopted a false air of friendliness that quite frankly disgusted Watson. "You see, the experiment requires you simply to make a choice between two trifling deeds."

Experiment...good god. "And what, exactly," Watson bit out, proud to know that his voice at least retained its vestige of anger, even if his insides were quailing, "are these options?"

Blackwood grinned outright at that, and Watson couldn't help thinking that he had finally laid eyes on the embodiment of unapologetic evil. "Your first option is to perform the carnal acts upon your very" - Blackwood sneered as he mocked Watson's own words - "very intimate friend while I observe the results."

Watson tasted bile in the back of his throat even as Holmes huddled against him in a silent plea to end this somehow, his chains clinking with a sheer of metal that fell too loud in the sudden dearth of sound. It took Watson two attempts to find his voice again, and then he croaked, "And the second option?"

Blackwood appeared positively giddy at that. "The second option is to stand aside while I do it myself."

Watson couldn't even breathe for a moment, aware that Holmes had struck up against the exact opposite problem, breathing so quickly and shallowly that he could very well pass out in short order.

"Oh, now come, Doctor." Blackwood stretched in his chair like a great lazy cat fresh off a delicious kill. "I assure you, I will enjoy it either way. It is your actions that interest me most. Certainly, you would be loath to ever trespass on your friend in such a manner, knowing him as you do. Perhaps you cannot bring yourself to perform this act against him. Would it pain you less to remain guiltless of such a thing, and simply allow me to do it for you? Because I assure you, Doctor – your esteemed friend will be..." Blackwood chuckled and let his gaze wander in contemplation as he chose the term, "deflowered tonight. The only question is how." He leaned forward abruptly, the cigarette twirling a thread of smoke behind him as he moved. "Which method does your conscience prefer? Force yourself upon your friend and spare him my touch, or give him over to my hands and hope that a clear conscience is worth the price? Do you think he would be likely to forgive you either one?"

Holmes' adam's apple moved against Watson's shoulder as he swallowed. "Watson..."

Watson told himself to breathe and tried to think past the haze of horror that swam through his chest at this...this cruel game. He wouldn't have a clear conscience either way; either he would allow a filthy cad to rape his closest friend, or he would rape Holmes himself. Both options left him guilty, but not in equal degrees. If he allowed Blackwood to do it, then Holmes would fight and struggle and quite likely be seriously hurt in the process, not to mentioned the mental trauma and the effects of a most profound fear brought to brutal realization. Plus, it would hurt Watson so much to have to watch such a thing; he did not think he was capable of standing by while it happened – of listening to it and doing nothing to stop it, of not even knowing for certain that they would be able to escape afterwards, that it would not happen a second time, or a third…

If Watson did it himself and Blackwood honored the implied terms of this game, they might be left alone to recover. Perhaps that would afford them time enough to find a way out, or to be missed in Baker Street. Surely, it would at least spare Holmes for a few more hours, until Blackwood found himself bored again. In short, it would at best buy precious little time, but time still.

So softly that Watson doubted he heard it at first, Holmes whispered, "Watson, please."

Watson moistened his lips with an effort and murmured back, "Do you trust me?"

"Of course." Holmes' breath stirred the soft hairs along Watson's neck. "I'll always trust you."

Watson felt ill. "I hope to god that holds true by tomorrow." Then he raised his voice and set his jaw with a bold sort of impudence that he did not truly feel. "I will do it."

For an instant, Blackwood's face did not alter at all, and then he cocked his head to the side. "Will you, really," he replied, though the words seemed for his own benefit rather than Watson's. "I confess, you surprise me, Doctor."

Watson pressed his lips together to hide the disgusted grimace threatening his features, and tried not to notice how the shock suffusing Holmes' body could be felt all along his back where they touched.

"You must both reach completion," Blackwood qualified. His manner came across most like an auctioneer's, bandying terms of sale. "If you do not, I will consider this agreement void."

Holmes shook his head against him, in counterpoint to the sudden tremor that seized the rest of his body. "Watson!"

"It's alright," Watson told him. He turned just enough to be able to see Holmes' face past his own shoulder. "Please. Holmes, if you've any better idea...a method of escape?"

Holmes' clouded eyes shimmered for a moment, and then he scanned the room and their captors with his familiar efficiency. A second later, Holmes reported, "They are both armed with revolvers, and Blackwood has a bladed cane." He barely met Watson's eyes before the softer terror returned to him, and then his lips moved soundlessly for a moment while he stared at Watson's collar. "I can see no alternative at the moment. If we had time..."

"That is what I am buying us, Holmes." Watson glanced at Blackwood and the two affectedly disinterested bruisers, then turned fully around to catch at Holmes' face with both hands.

Holmes wouldn't look at him; he kept his gaze trained distractedly over Watson's shoulder, on their captors. Even without making eye contact, Watson could perceive the shock that Holmes' customary lack of affect concealed, the unspoken accusation of betrayal. He was thinking, analyzing even this in a bid to logically decide how this should make him feel.

Watson's words barely carried for their softness; he did not want his private sentiments broadcast for the degenerates on the other side of the room to mock. "Please believe me...this is the last thing I would ever want to do, but I am no match against them without a weapon of my own, and...and he would hurt you." Watson dropped his eyes and found himself staring at a pale patch of skin partially shadowed by the jacket that Watson had draped over Holmes' shoulders. "I cannot, Holmes. I cannot stand by and allow him...knowing how you feel about it, I could not..." Watson clamped his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut; he would not show emotion here, not for Blackwood to jeer at or for Holmes to grow more anxious about. He slid a palm down to cover Holmes' racing heart and felt his ribcage stutter under the influence of a tattered breath. It was no use, and Watson barely managed to squeak, "I'm so sorry."

Holmes breathed out Watson's name, perhaps in an effort to stop his self recriminations, but it was the lips on his own that finally silenced him. Watson's eyes flew open to find Holmes staring back at him, wide-eyed with his nostrils flared. Neither of them moved at first, Watson in shock and Holmes because he had little experience even of this simple thing - a brotherly peck of lips, nothing more. Watson parted his lips merely to exhale, and Holmes pulled back uncertainly, his gaze inevitably drawn past Watson to their rapt audience of one and his statuesque body guards.

Watson glanced back as well to find Blackwood staring at them with undisguised relish.

"Watson."

Watson shook himself and faced Holmes again, his hands automatically falling to Holmes' waist to steady him as he reset his feet, his balance awkward with his arms stretched taut above him.

"Just do it," Holmes whispered. The wild fear had taken roost in his features again, but his voice when he spoke came out steady and sure – Holmes the Consulting Detective barely concealed the raw emotion of Holmes the Man scrabbling against the inner walls of his public façade. "Get it over with. You have my permission. You are not forcing yourself on me; I consent."

Disbelieving and faintly ill again, Watson argued, "Holmes, you cannot spare my conscience with an empty invitation – "

"I already have!" Holmes hissed. "And it is not empty." He glanced past Watson again to be certain that his voice would not carry, then fixed Watson with an unflinching stare. "Watson, I invite you. If I did not, I would insist that you stand aside and allow him his way. In the grand scheme, allowing him to do it himself would be the better tactic anyway because it would incapacitate him and allow you the better odds - and the temper - to perhaps overcome the other two."

Appalled, Watson exclaimed, "Holmes!"

"It would! And you are right - he would no doubt cause me a fair amount of damage - "

His voice pitched like steam from a water pipe, Watson ordered, "Stop it!"

"But I would prefer you to anyone else!" Holmes bit out in a strange blend of hush and fury.

Watson fell silent and then had to consciously close his mouth.

Holmes' gaze dropped like a leaden stone and he murmured under his breath, "I know that you chose to do this yourself because you care, Watson. If I am to be subjected to it, then I at least want it done by someone to whom I matter just a little bit."

For a moment, it didn't even matter that they weren't alone in the room. Watson slipped both of his hands up wrap around the back of Holmes' neck in an intimate and yet demanding manner. When Holmes consented to look up in response to Watson's coaxing fingers, his eyes guarded and resigned, Watson flatly informed him, "You matter more than just a little bit."

Something flared in Holmes' eyes at that, something small and nothing like either love or hope, or even gratitude. It was almost angry, what Watson saw for that one breathless moment - as if Holmes were challenging him to make good on those words, to prove it. Or perhaps accusing him for all the times in the past when Watson had proven the opposite without meaning to.

By mutual consent, the moment ended, and Watson tugged Holmes forward just far enough to press their lips together again. Holmes was clumsy, as anyone would be whose main experience with the act had been gained by observing others exchange evidence of affection. Watson had to adjust his grip to tilt Holmes' head further to the side, and then he mumbled, "Part your lips, Holmes," directly against Holmes' mouth.

Holmes obeyed, and when Watson's tongue slithered out to taste him, he flinched.

Watson's fingers tightened, and even though Holmes made a small sound of protest, Watson didn't let him pull away. "Calm," he murmured, drawing back just far enough to be able to speak without fully breaking contact. Watson glanced over Holmes' features and suppressed the swell of guilt that assaulted him to find Holmes' eyes squeezed tightly shut, his nostrils flaring with each breath, the panic only just held at bay. He shook between Watson's hands, and for the first time, Watson thanked the shackles that kept him stretched upright, because he doubted Holmes' ability to keep his feet otherwise. "Holmes." Watson stepped closer, until even with Holmes fruitless attempts to shy away, they were pressed together, chest to chest, their feet staggered. "Holmes, open your eyes. Look at me."

Holmes pushed himself up on his toes to give himself a small bit of slack against the shackles, and whispered back, "I would rather not."

"I insist," Watson replied. He pushed himself against Holmes, gentle and gradual as could be, and slowly slid one palm down to squirm beneath the great coat and skim over Holmes' shoulder blade.

Holmes squirmed in the wake of Watson's caress, then bit his lip to stifle a grunt of distress when Watson's hand came to rest on his lower back, just to the left of his spine.

Watson exerted the gentlest of pressures there, hoping to draw Holmes more firmly in. Holmes set his feet and went rigid where he stood, immovable as a plank, so Watson inscribed wide circles with his palm, purposefully venturing lower now and then to accustom Holmes to the idea of being touched below the belt. So to speak. "Holmes, come now. Open your eyes, old boy."

The shackles clinked together and Watson glanced up Holmes' bowed frame. In the process of stretching himself in his unconscious efforts to squirm back and away from Watson, Holmes had strained against the shackles until the metal edges dug into the meat of his hands where they widened ever so slightly above his wrists. His fingers poked out and curled like sun-baked weeds. If he pulled any harder, the metal would break his skin in long arcs crosscutting the abductor pollicis and abductor digiti. It would leave his hands numb, possibly even pinch nerves beyond repair.

Watson stepped backwards and pulled Holmes with him to relieve the strain on his manacled hands. Holmes stumbled but did not otherwise protest, and Watson watched him flex his fingers above them. He was so soft, Watson found himself thinking. Holmes the boxer, the chemist, the world's only private consulting detective… He had skin like alabaster, toned and smooth, dry to the touch in that most pleasant of manners, so that when Watson traced his skin, he could feel the soft down of scant body hair, that subtle fuzz reminiscent of a sparse fur too fine to see with the eyes.

Watson felt his eyelids growing heavy and gave into the impulse to rub his nose up Holmes' cheek, followed by a firm and only superficially chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. The move provoked a shudder that increased in intensity, culminating in a flinch that coincided with the kiss, more a muscle spasm than a fear-bred reaction. "Holmes, I beg you. Please look at me."

Holmes leaned his head to the side, presenting Watson his ear and a patch of neck as a side effect of hiding his face. "Don't mother hen me," he pleaded.

Watson craned his neck until his lips brushed the shell of Holmes' ear, then caught at him more tightly as he jerked in response. "Why won't you look?"

Holmes mewled in the back of his throat, but he cut the sound off as soon as he realized that he himself was making it. Then he reluctantly turned his face in against Watson's collarbone and admitted, "I'd be able to see them."

"Oh." Watson ducked his head and nosed around behind Holmes' ear. "Alright. I understand." He flicked his tongue out to taste the smooth skin at Holmes' hairline, then told him, "I'll make this as easy as I know how, alright?"

Holmes nodded and breathed in Watson's scent as if it had the power to protect him.

"And...with his 'condition'..."

"You will do your best to seduce me," Holmes interrupted. "I know."

"As sickening as it sounds, I must make sure you enjoy it."

"Watson, I am aware of this."

"Yes," Watson agreed. "But I have just realized that it calms you to know what I am about to do." He pressed his fingers to Holmes' pulse point to demonstrate. "Your heart rate has already slowed."

Holmes opened his eyes just long enough to glance into Watson's, surprised, and then he nodded with a sharp inhale. "Yes. I see."

"I am going to remove the coat," Watson warned him, his right hand still pressed to Holmes' lower back while he moved to grip the collar of his great coat with the other. "And then I am going to put my lips on you." Without waiting for Holmes to respond, Watson pulled the coat free, let it fall, and then dropped his mouth to Holmes' neck.

At the suddenness of the maneuver, Holmes choked over his own breath, and Watson put his other arm around Holmes' torso, cupping his head from behind to keep him from trying to jerk away. Holmes did flinch, and rather violently, but Watson had too firm a grip on him for anything to come of it. He held Holmes tightly and suckled at a spot near the juncture of neck and shoulder. Above him, the chains clanked as Holmes reflexively yanked against them, and then Watson moved his mouth up to pepper Holmes' jaw line, raking his mustache over Holmes' skin the whole way. He could feel Holmes breathing hard against him, his ribcage pulsing against Watson's arms, and because of the way Watson held him, every squirm and attempt to twist away resulted in his groin rubbing against Watson's trouser front. Watson wasn't sure whether to feel relief or shame at finding that the stimulation did nothing for either of them.

After perhaps a minute, Holmes' struggles weakened; he was becoming accustomed to this kind of touch, the same as he had grown used to Watson squeezing his shoulder or resting a hand on his knee during hansom rides. Watson took it as an all clear sign and angled himself to press more firmly against Holmes as he nosed his way back up Holmes' neck and jaw, then across his cheek. He sought out Holmes' mouth again and nibbled at Holmes' lips. The frustrated sounds that Holmes made every time Watson eluded his attempts at reciprocation almost moved Watson to smirk. If they had been alone, he surely would have basked in this, in getting Holmes to worry more about his lacking technique and inability to anticipate Watson the way he normally did, rather than about the more disturbing acts that would come later.

When Holmes finally intercepted one of Watson's nips and tried to replicate Watson's earlier treatment, Watson damned the audience and grinned anyway. He couldn't help it; Holmes had a look of utmost concentration on his face, and he actually was copying Watson's movements – copying them down to the letter, as if this were a rote test and he wanted a perfect score. It seemed that Holmes had nearly forgotten where they were, a vagueness of mind that probably had partly to do with fear and denial, and partly to do with having been drugged just a short time ago. Certainly, too little time had passed for Holmes to have gained back his full faculties already, and the surrealism of their current situation could only slow that process. Watson could see it in the slight glaze that lingered in his eyes, and in the manner that Holmes reverted to cold logic and memorization, his natural miens in stressful situations. He was calculating, focused, mapping out a path of action as if he were in the boxing ring. This, at least – kissing – had become an equation to him.

Watson let Holmes take over the kiss, his mind only half on the motion of his lips, aware of that slightly tentative edge to every press of Holmes' lips that betrayed his woeful inexperience. Watson still had a hand in Holmes' hair so he lightly massaged Holmes' scalp with the covert aim of deepening the kiss, pressing Holmes into it to increase the pressure of their mouths. Holmes didn't seem to notice; he followed Watson's tongue with his own, but it broke down there when Holmes realized what he was doing – shoving his tongue into another person's mouth. They both went still for a moment and then Watson scraped his fingernails through Holmes' hair to encourage him to keep going.

More hesitant now, Holmes wobbled a bit before he continued, his stomach pressing in against Watson's belt buckle, probably as a mere aid to his balance. Thus occupied, Holmes didn't identify the threat posed by Watson's other hand – the one that rested on his lower back – until Watson moved it lower and gently cupped Holmes' arse cheek. Holmes stuttered out of the kiss and blinked at Watson's shoulder, his breathing a bit off, then flinched when Watson pulled him closer. Holmes' left nostril twitched, and then he raised his head to balk. Watson saw the fear ghost over various parts of his face before he ducked his head, and then he went rigid in Watson's grasp.

The stillness encouraged Watson. Holmes could have tried to pull away, but instead he had forced himself to remain in place, and that was an improvement over Watson's past experiences with him. Watson lifted his chin and shuffled his feet closer, then leaned forward and angled his hips against Holmes'. Nothing happened, but only because Holmes stopped breathing altogether. Watson repeated the motion and drew Holmes in at the same time, dragging him to mimic the movement with the hand on Holmes' arse. That time, Holmes jerked back, but Watson tightened his grasp to keep their bodies flush. He forced Holmes to stay there, their groins pressed together, and pecked him quickly on the cheek. Holmes exhaled, but the air caught on a hiccup. His next breath came suddenly and he tried to squirm sideways, only to have Watson follow and narrowly avoid stepping on his toes.

Watson broke off when he heard Holmes swallow a terrified whimper, and loosened his hold just enough to allow Holmes to angle his hips away. Watson retained his hold on Holmes' upper body, however, and pressed Holmes' head down against his shoulder. Holmes allowed it, though he resisted at first, and panted into the thick fabric of Watson's jacket.

In as soothing a voice as he could muster, Watson informed him, "You're too thin, old boy." He thought twice about the advisability of petting Holmes' hair as if he were a child or a woman, but as soon as he spread his palm over the crown of Holmes' head, Holmes let out a ragged sound approaching a sigh, and took to faintly shivering again. Watson stroked a few fingers lightly down to the nape of his neck and then back up again. "Perhaps a nice meal at Simpson's is in order once we're through here?"

An incomprehensible syllable made its way past Holmes' locked throat, and then he nodded into Watson's tweed jacket. "I'll have the duck. No cabbage."

Watson smiled against all conventions, considering their predicament, and teased, "I suppose you already know what I'll have."

Into Watson's shoulder, Holmes griped, "My prediction might be impressive if it weren't for the fact that you order the same six dishes on a fixed rotation."

"Quite," Watson agreed. He continued ruffling Holmes' hair and turned his mind to the next step. A careful shift of his weight brought a familiar twinge to that cursed place where the remains of a Jezail bullet still resided deep within the muscles of his right thigh.

Holmes must have felt rather than heard Watson's sharp intake of breath, because Watson knew he had made no unusual sound to give himself away by. Holmes lifted his head and shook Watson's hand away from his hair. A moment's study of Watson's face yielded the curt observation, "You're in pain."

Watson colored faintly - he could feel the heat blossom on his cheeks. He had already ill-treated his bad leg once today, and that brought a problem of logistics to mind. He would not be able to complete this standing up. "My leg," he admitted for Holmes' ears only. "I fear it won't bear me out."

Holmes inhaled like a portend and then glanced past Watson to where Blackwood lounged on his chair in the corner. In a tone of supreme disappointment that nonetheless betrayed a sadistic brand of anticipation, Blackwood asked, "Is there a problem, gentlemen?"

Watson felt Holmes' straighten imperceptibly. "The Doctor suffers from an old war injury." Holmes' voice cracked, but it was stronger than it had been at any other point since waking this evening, and Watson held him tighter because he knew that Holmes only fronted bravado out of an odd, protective concern for Watson. "It will be difficult for him to stand like this long enough to complete the deed."

At the rustle of fabric, Watson turned around and backed into Holmes, knocking him back a step to the accompaniment of the clink of his chains as he used them to keep his balance.

Blackwood had gained his feet and was even now sauntering closer, the bruisers a single step behind him. "Ah yes - the wounded thigh." He swung his cane out - the one that Holmes claimed concealed a sword, though Watson couldn't see it. When the end of the cane made contact with Watson's thigh, he jumped; he had not expected Blackwood to actually touch him with it. "I have learned much about you, you know," Blackwood went on. His cane persisted in tracing a jagged line up Watson's thigh, and then it skipped to his left shoulder. "Afghan war veteran, graduate of Edinburgh. Father and brother both dead of drink. You returned to England destitute and reliant on a government pension. In fact, as I understand it, you weren't even aware that your family had all died in the interim until you disembarked the train in London and found that your own telegrams to them had been returned to you. They were waiting for you at the office of veterans' affairs, were they not? Along with your medical discharge papers and your first pension check?"

Watson clenched his hands into fists and glared straight back; he refused to give Blackwood the satisfaction of getting a rise out of him, and besides that, he knew what game this was. Blackwood was trying to worm his way inside Watson's head to gain an advantage over him, and by god, it would not work.

Blackwood seemed to realize this a moment later, for he staged a disappointed sigh and motioned to his bruisers as he turned his back on his captives in blatant disdain for any threat they may have posed to him. "Very well. Hold him, then."

Watson barely had a moment to work out how Holmes' comment had been taken, and could only shout as the bruisers both grabbed him and dragged him away. "Wait! No, I can do it - it was a misunderstanding - "

"It didn't sound that way to me," Blackwood replied sedately. He examined his fingers as a predator might look at its claws, his other hand folded up along his back, the cane dangling from between two fingers. As if to offer deliberate insult, he refused to turn and face either of them. "You are unable to follow through. More's the pity." Blackwood consented to at least grin over his shoulder, his face sharp and angled, malevolent. "I was enjoying myself immensely, up until now. You make quite the striking couple, sin though it is."

Watson struggled for a few beats, then froze when a short blade appeared at his throat, wielded by the smaller thug - which was an oxymoron, as even though the man was shorter and thinner than his fellow, he still dwarfed Watson. The larger man twisted Watson's arms up behind his back and locked their elbows together in something like a wrestling move. Watson winced at the strain on his shoulder, but he barely noticed the sharp shoot of pain. "Stop! Let me finish - I'll finish!"

Blackwood quirked his eyebrows as if Watson's display bored him and then approached Holmes, who appeared stunned by the sudden turn of events. Holmes had been watching Watson up until that point, but when Blackwood entered his periphery, he jerked to his full height - several inches shorter than his captor - and leaned as far away as the shackles allowed. "I only meant that if you let me down - "

"And give you an advantage?" Blackwood scoffed, but he seemed amused at the notion. In the next breath, however, his features had turned to flint, and the speed with which he moved made it seem as if he had simply appeared right up in Holmes' face. "You underestimate me, Mister Holmes."

Holmes jumped at the sudden proximity, and then it sounded as if he swallowed his tongue when Blackwood grabbed one slim hipbone in a visibly crushing grip. "No! There are rings on the floor," Holmes stammered. He flung his face to the side because Blackwood was breathing on him, and Watson noticed his fingers twisting to grip the chains by which he was suspended. "I only meant...the floor," Holmes insisted in a voice so unlike his own that Blackwood actually drew back in contemplation of it.

Watson could see how hard Holmes was shaking, especially with Blackwood's hand tightening on his hip, his thumb straying so close to more delicate parts. When Blackwood closed the gap between them to a few paltry inches, Holmes' eyes saucered and he mouthed a few syllables lost to the silence. Eventually, Watson's ears deciphered the trembling whisper of, "Floor...the floor, please, the floor..."

Something in Holmes' pitiful demeanor pleased Blackwell, because he loosened his hand and tucked his chin so that he was looking at Holmes from beneath raised brows as he smiled. "Very well. Out of respect for a war veteran…" Blackwood glanced at Watson in such a way that Holmes glanced over too. "…I will make this concession."

Watson shut his eyes for moment to endure the relief ebbing through his veins. Holmes let out a similar sort of breath, but when he gasped just after, Watson's eyes flew open again. Blackwood had trailed his hand along Holmes' body as he walked away toward the door; it took no genius detective to figure out what he had touched. Holmes was barely breathing at the moment, his body twisted to one side, probably exactly where he had flung himself to get away from Blackwood's hand. The muscle and sinew stood out in too much definition along his back, and Watson reflected inappropriately that although Holmes' diet was not healthy, his leanness made him quite attractive as a man. Watson's instinct was to go to him and sooth him, and he didn't realize that he had moved to do just that until the bruiser behind him tightened his hold enough to wring a grunt from him.

Holmes looked up at the sound, his eyes strange and almost feral. He shut his mouth as he peered at Watson, his arms shivering under the strain of his position, then dropped his gaze to the floor. Watson might have mistaken the move for exhaustion or perhaps acknowledgment of a brief respite, even a silent apology for drawing attention to Watson's weakness, but the slight tinge of color that spread across Holmes' shoulders betrayed him. Shame. Shame at how easily Blackwood had cowed him and left him begging to be taken on the floor like a common whore.

If there weren't unfriendly ears to overhear, Watson would have offered a joke or a kind word, but he shuddered at the thought of putting on any more of a show than he had to. Blackwood had moved to the door and demanded the keys, and Watson tensed. Perhaps they could use this to their advantage after all. Maybe Holmes had intended that all along. Once Blackwood let him down, they would have a chance at more even odds. As if they could read his mind, the man holding Watson's arms wrenched them even farther back, and he felt the flat side of the knife press harder against his throat. Watson took the warning for what it was, but he refused to be discouraged. All he needed was for Holmes to make a move against Blackwood, and in the calamity that followed, Watson would do the same. He set his feet slightly wider, steadying his stance in anticipation.

Across the room, Blackwood accepted a key ring through the bars from the brute in the corridor, and then made his way back toward Holmes as if he owned the man. One look at Watson, and he paused long enough to point at the ground. Watson had a second to wonder what that meant, and then he cried out as he was forced to his knees hard enough to send a spike of agony from his right knee to his hip.

"Too obvious," Blackwood informed him as if they were conversing over tea.

Watson wheezed to find himself suddenly sprawled on his face on the packed earth with the big thug sitting on top of him, his arms still pinned back. He heard Holmes call his name in a querulous, worried tone, but Watson hadn't breath enough to tell him yet that he was fine. Fire lanced up his thigh and it was all he could do for a few seconds just to keep from passing out at the intensity of it.

"Of course, I do know what you were thinking," Blackwood announced casually.

The fanciful notion struck Watson that the man could sing serpents to sleep with a voice like that. "Good for you," Watson bit out. His vision swam afterwards, and he wondered if he might have been smarter to save his breath. He blinked a few times, forehead to the ground, and as the agony in his leg subsided, his head cleared.

"Mockery does not become you, Doctor. And I am not an idiot. You think that you'll have an opportunity for escape if you're both free together for even a moment."

Watson had to look up when he heard Holmes bite back a sharp cry, and what he saw made him feel sick. Blackwood had circled behind Holmes and snaked his arms around him, the keys held in one hand which Blackwood was rubbing over Holmes' chest, his other hand splayed across the sensitive space between Holmes' navel and groin. Seething, Watson snarled, "Stop it!"

Blackwood paused long enough to lock eyes with Watson over Holmes' shoulder, and then he made certain that Watson was watching as he tongued the skin along the tendon in Holmes' neck. His eyes narrowed as Holmes twisted in his grasp, and then a savage look passed over his face. He locked his arm over Holmes' chest in brutal grip from one armpit to the opposite shoulder, and then seized lower with his other hand. Holmes stiffened and then made a sound like a sobbing shriek as he thrashed.

Watson could only look on in horror and struggle in vain while adding his own voice to the racket in the room, screaming alternately at Blackwood to stop, and at Holmes to listen and be still.

Blackwood bared his teeth as Holmes writhed and kicked at him, then finally turned his gaze on Holmes. He put his mouth next to Holmes' ear in nauseating mimicry of Watson's earlier gesture. "You will cease struggling, or my loyal guard over there will slit your pretty doctor's throat."

Holmes went still as death in an instant, though he couldn't hide the occasional shudder that passed through him from fingers to feet. He had thrashed so much that Blackwood had drawn him back until only his toes touched the ground, the rest of his body stretched along a straining, bowed line from shackles to floor. Blackwood moved his right hand in slow circles between Holmes's legs and Holmes only barely whimpered, his mouth pressed into a flat line, eyes shut, for all intents in denial of the moment no matter that he shook like a palsied old man.

Without warning, Blackwood released him all at once and before Holmes could regain his feet, the manacles were off. Holmes smacked into the ground hard enough that Watson winced in sympathy, and then curled in on himself. His arms appeared nerveless as he drew them in, no doubt numbed from having been suspended above him for so long, and Watson realized with a disheartening pang that even if Blackwood had not anticipated them, Holmes would have been useless in a fight.

With Holmes incapacitated at his feet, Blackwood strode to another darkened corner of the room and returned with a fresh set of shackles, this pair separated by a chain only a few inches long. He snapped one around Holmes' right wrist, and then basically ignored Holmes' pointless effort to struggle as he dragged Holmes over to the wall, threaded the chain through a loop in the floor, and then caught at Holmes' other hand without batting an eyelash. Once Holmes had been secured again, Blackwood sat back on his heels, and Watson realized belatedly that Blackwood had straddled Holmes in order to hold him down while chaining him back up. With his wrists pinned to the floor above his head, Holmes could do nothing except fight with himself not to careen into outright hysterics as Blackwood skimmed his fingers lightly from Holmes' throat to his navel. Watson could see the muscles in his abdomen quiver and jump, and a moment later, he heard the wet sound of a breath drawn in lieu of a sob.

Rather than continue to torture his victim, Blackwood stood up and returned to his chair as if no interlude had taken place. He motioned his thugs to let go of Watson as he lit a fresh cigarette, and then he settled in with an almost bored look on his face. "Now then, Doctor. I believe you were in the middle of something."

The thugs headed back to their proper positions flanking Blackwood's chair, and Watson raised himself gingerly to his knees. He managed to work his way to his feet without putting weight on his bad leg, and then he stumbled across the floor toward his friend. Splayed out on his back like this, Watson could only admit that he looked alluring, and the very thought sickened him. Holmes had turned his head to hide his face against his arm, the rest of him arranged exactly as Blackwood had left him: one leg bent and drawn slightly up, the other straight, his torso curved a bit in the middle like a gecko in the sun, breathing hard enough that Watson could hear the air rushing past his constricted throat. Some combination of the struggle, the adrenaline, and Blackwood's touch had conspired to give Holmes a half-hearted erection and Watson looked away from it in sympathy because he knew that having it only added to Holmes' terror.

Softly, Watson called Holmes' name. When that garnered no reaction, Watson knelt beside him and rested his hand on Holmes' stomach. Holmes twitched and hiccupped, and Watson ran his other hand through Holmes' hair in the hopes of coaxing him back. He could see the wetness now; it stained the crease of Holmes' nose and smeared his eyelids until they shone in the ambient light reaching in from the hall. "Holmes, look at me. You won't be able to see them anymore - just the ceiling."

Holmes' chest hitched under Watson's hand, and then he mumbled, just like before, "Izzit over?"

Watson swallowed, cast a hateful glare across the room that met only with a bemused smile, and then carefully slung his leg over Holmes' waist. Predictably, Holmes let out a petrified little cry, but Watson leaned down and settled their chests together, shoving his hands beneath Holmes' shoulders and then further up to cradle his head against the cold floor. "Holmes, listen to me - to my voice. Just focus on the sound of it. Can you do that?"

Holmes raised his arm to better block his face, and Watson had to force his vision clear again when he felt the force of renewed sobs wracking Holmes' chest. It wasn't the tears that disturbed Watson, but the utter silence with which Holmes shed them.

Watson swallowed, desperate now to reach him, because if he couldn't, he would have to carry through like this, while Holmes lay insensate and crying, his body at Watson's mercy. "Holmes. God, please..." He pulled his right arm free and used it to tug at Holmes' elbow, just to get a glimpse of his face. Watson needed to judge how far away he'd gone.

Holmes allowed Watson to draw his face out from beneath his arm, but he wouldn't open his eyes, and his chin quivered with the effort he expelled to keep from breaking down any further.

Watson could only imagine that Holmes didn't want to risk seeing anything like pity on Watson's face, so Watson schooled his features into what he hoped passed for his normal, friendly expression whenever they shared the sitting room with their brandies and pipes. "Holmes, it's alright; just look at me. I won't hurt you."

With an obvious measure of reluctance, Holmes slit his eyes open, but they stared past Watson's face even after he had confirmed that Blackwood was no longer on top of him.

"There," Watson soothed. He thumbed away the wet smears on Holmes' cheek and Holmes' breath caught for a moment before he let it out on a shaky exhale. "Just focus on me, Holmes. I'm the only one here, okay?"

Holmes swallowed in a sticky sort of way, his distress plain to see, but his eyes finally flickered over to linger on Watson's.

"Good." Watson swallowed too, past a lump that he hadn't realized was building in his throat. "That's good, Holmes. Deep breaths." He pressed a palm over Holmes' sternum to feel his heart even though the carotid was a better place to measure the pulse by.

Holmes obeyed without a sound, his respirations odd and damp, but Watson counted their slowing cadence as an improvement.

"Just keep on like that," Watson encouraged gently. He stroked the backs of his knuckles down Holmes' throat, counting the ridges of his trachea as he eyed the flutter of movement that betrayed Holmes' elevated pulse in the corded veins of his neck. "Now...I'm just going to move a little bit, alright?" When Holmes nodded, albeit a beat late, Watson explained, "I'm going to kneel between your legs."

Holmes twitched and threw his breathing out of rhythm again.

"Just kneel," Watson promised. "That's all, Holmes. Then I'm going to take off my shirt and lay back down, just like this. Do you feel this?" He pressed a fraction more of his own weight against Holmes' torso to demonstrate, until he could perceive the wild thumping of Holmes' heart slamming against his sternum through three layers of fabric. "That's all I'm going to do. You don't have to say anything; just nod if you understand." Watson almost told him to nod if that was okay with him, but at the last moment, he realized that if he gave Holmes the choice, Holmes would tell him no, and then Watson would have to do it anyway. "Do you understand?"

Holmes stared at him, for all the world a child in that moment, terrified and held captive, and so horribly innocent. To Watson's everlasting gratitude, the impression passed and Holmes nodded with a fair bit of himself thrown in for good measure, just a little bit contemptuous of his own fear.

Watson made an effort to smile in return, but as Holmes' own momentary spark faded, so did Watson's fortitude. He disentangled himself and then sat up on Holmes' stomach, but because he heard the slide of bare feet over packed earth behind him, he remained in place for the time being. Perhaps without realizing it, Holmes had drawn his knees together.

Clothes first, Watson thought. He maintained eye contact with Holmes for as long as Holmes could stand it, which happened to be only as far as the removal of his waistcoat. Holmes' gaze traveled after it when Watson set it aside, and then his eyes fixed on Watson's hands instead of his face, watching in a false calm as Watson untied his cravat and removed his collar and cuff links. Next, Watson unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it off, followed by his undershirt. Now bare from the waist up, Watson stopped and watched as Holmes examined every minute detail in front of him, his expression abstract in spite of the care with which he mapped Watson's bare skin. Finally, Holmes' eyes slid partially out of focus and settled on Watson's left shoulder, which still bore the knotted whorls and pockmarks left behind by the shrapnel that had shredded his shoulder.

Carefully, Watson shifted off of Holmes and placed his hands on Holmes' raised knees. He pointedly refrained from even glancing down because it would draw Holmes' attention to his continued nakedness and how close Watson's hands were to his manhood. On instinct, Holmes pressed his legs more tightly together, but Watson kept on with a light pressure and pried them apart far enough to get one of his own between them. He stopped again at the sound of the shackles clacking together when Holmes wrenched against them, clearly with the intention of making some effort to shove Watson away, and the moment of unnatural calm shattered as Holmes recalled the moment.

Watson leaned forward, one hand braced at Holmes' armpit and the other tracing gently along Holmes cheek as he turned his face back into his arm. "Just keep breathing, Holmes - slow and steady."

Holmes sucked in a rather deep breath and then let it escape too quickly as Watson insinuated his other knee between Holmes' thighs. A thin whine built up somewhere in his chest and Watson ignored the slow squirm that took over Holmes' body as he used his own legs to push Holmes' farther apart. "Watson..."

"You're alright," Watson assured him. He shifted forward until his knees bracketed Holmes' hips, Holmes' thighs pressing on either side of Watson's waist hard enough that Watson suspected he was still trying, irrationally, to close his legs and protect himself. Watson looked down for a moment to confirm that Holmes was once again flaccid, and then peered up at Holmes' averted face. "I'm going to touch you."

"You're already touching me."

Watson nodded even though Holmes wasn't looking at him, and rested his free hand on Holmes' stomach. "Not like this."

Holmes drew several rapid breaths and then flinched when Watson moved his hand lower. "Wait - "

"Trust me."

"Watson - "

"You're perfectly safe, Holmes."

"No, I'm not - god!" Holmes all but convulsed when Watson cupped his softened member. "Oh god. Oh god." His arms tensed but the chains held him in place, and Watson felt Holmes' legs clamp around him.

"Holmes, you're alright."

Holmes shut his mouth over a squawk, which sent his nostrils flaring, and then yanked again at the shackles.

"You're going to hurt yourself. Holmes, you must calm down."

"Stop - Watson, please - "

"Breathe, Holmes." Watson lowered himself onto one elbow so that he could reach Holmes' face with the hand not occupied below. "I'm only touching you – not moving, not doing anything else."

"No!" Holmes twisted and tried to contort his left leg enough to get his foot planted against Watson's chest.

"Holmes, listen to me!" Watson caught at Holmes ankle and wrapped the leg back around his waist, out of harm's way. "You're not hurt – Holmes, you are safe – I swear to you – "

Holmes kneed Watson in the side, and then began to beg, "Stopstopstopstop – "

"You know I can't - "

"STOP!"

Watson let him go because it was simply too upsetting to him, not to mention to Holmes. "Alright." Watson sat up and then stretched himself forward so that no part of them touched save for Holmes' legs trembling at his waist, and Watson's right hand, which he used to prevent Holmes from hiding behind his arm yet again. "Holmes, look at me. Look at me!"

Holmes mumble-moaned a refusal but opened his eyes anyway, brown irises swimming behind a glittering sheen of traitorous moisture. His parted lips trembled as he fought to normalize his breathing again and stop his body from cringing of its own accord.

Watson pressed their brows together, his own eyes sliding shut as he begged, "Holmes, you must let me do this. Think of the alternative."

Holmes made a sound like a dying bird, and when he tugged at his shackles again, Watson reached up to grasp his fingers. "I already told you to do it, Watson - just do it. However you have to - "

"I cannot rape you!"

"You're not! I gave my consent; I told you - "

"Holmes, for pity's sake, you just screamed at me to stop – how am I supposed to go through with this when just touching you…" An anguished sound dropped from Watson's mouth and he shook his head. "Holmes, I cannot be cruel to you. I…god help me, I want to because I know the alternative, but this…"

Holmes fell silent, still shaking like a leaf in autumn, tenuously tethered to a dying tree, and Watson realized that only half the convulsions originated below him; he was crying himself now, openly, and he hardly cared who saw him do it. He should probably thank the powers that be that Blackwood hadn't grown weary of them yet and threatened to take over the proceedings. Out of morbid curiosity, Watson glanced over his shoulder, his vision streaked, to confirm that the bastard was indeed still in the room, watching in sick fascination as the melodrama unfolded. Humiliation must have been his game from the very beginning, from the moment he got his hands on Holmes, and after he had learned of Holmes' unique phobia, he had seen this opportunity. Freak.

"Watson." Holmes coughed to clear his throat, and then repeated himself to draw Watson's eyes back from their audience. "Try again. Please."

Watson dropped his head and then shook it where it rested on Holmes' collarbone. Quiet in the hopes that not even Holmes would hear him, Watson confessed, "I cannot stand to hear you scream like that again."

Their hands, still interlaced, tightened, and then Watson felt lips against his temple. They fell to his cheek as Watson lifted his head, then to his jaw as other parts of Watson's face moved out of reach, and finally, Holmes eyed Watson's mouth before pressing own against it.

A low sound percolated in Watson's throat, so like despair, but he kissed back because as pitiful as it sounded, he needed whatever comfort Holmes could offer him. And if a willing kiss, ridiculously chaste and fumbling, could give him that, then Watson intended to take it. But when Holmes started to draw back, to end it, Watson pressed forward, fully aware of what he was doing as Holmes' head touched back on the ground and Watson bore down against his mouth. All he could think was that if he could keep Holmes silent, then he could get through this. Holmes made a startled sound, muffled between them, but he parted his lips without encouragement this time, and Watson latched a hand in his hair to hold him still.

A chuckle sounded somewhere in the room behind him. Watson resolutely ignored the twittering echo of it, and laid himself down along Holmes' body. Holmes somehow suppressed the majority of his instinct to flinch when he felt Watson's groin press into his own, but he ripped his mouth away in spite of Watson's fingers in his hair when Watson rubbed softly against him.

"Look at me," Watson hissed. He squeezed Holmes' fingers too hard in his own, grinding their knuckles together. When Holmes met his gaze without question, Watson ordered, "Don't look away."

Holmes gave a jerky nod, then bit his tongue when Watson released his fingers and shifted to work his hand between them. "Wait – "

"It isn't sex," Watson whispered fervently. "Do you understand me? It's not sex."

Holmes shut his eyes despite Watson's earlier prohibition and echoed, "Not sex."

"It is a medical procedure. An uncomfortable medical procedure. Nothing more."

Holmes nodded again, more jerky this time, and his breath fled when Watson cupped him. "Not - Watson - "

"How many times have I stitched you up?"

Without hesitation, Holmes replied, "Forty seven - oh god."

That gave Watson pause, but only in his mind; he hadn't expected an actual answer, but this could work to his advantage. He gripped Holmes' flaccid member and gently worked it in his palm. "Did you ever fear to let me do it?"

"Nnn..." Holmes' eyes flew open and one of his feet slid against the ground. "No," he gasped. "Never."

"And how many times have I seen you bare at the baths?"

"Watson, surely this isn't the time – "

"How many, Holmes?" Watson squeezed gently and Holmes arched with an odd, strangled sound. He could feel Holmes growing in his hand, albeit slowly, so slowly. "How many times?"

Holmes flattened himself back against the ground and lifted an elbow as if to shield himself again. Watson grabbed it and forced it back down amidst the clanking of metal and an inhaled, painfully short moan. A moment later, Holmes stammered, "Twenty...three. Twenty three."

"And were you ever alarmed that I saw you?"

"No." As Watson moved his hand more insistently, Holmes' grimaced, his eyes slamming shut yet again. "Watson...please..."

"How many times have we embraced?"

"Never."

Watson's hand stuttered to a halt, but he recovered himself quickly enough to amend, "Linked arms? How many times have we walked arm in arm?"

"I don't know." Holmes twisted beneath Watson, his knees knocking against Watson's ribs.

"More than twenty?"

"Probably." A sudden convulsion gripped Holmes and he swallowed a shivering cry.

"Did I ever hurt you when we touched?"

Holmes exhaled and then choked at the end of it.

"Did I?" Watson pressed even though he felt like a bully for badgering the answers out of him. He could not relent now, though; he could feel the firmness against his palm, and Holmes wasn't screaming at him, wasn't crying, wasn't even struggling all that much. In fact, the movements he did make could be ascribed just as much to arousal as to fear. "Did I ever hurt you?"

Watson began stroking him properly and Holmes could only shake his head vigorously in response.

"This is no different," Watson insisted, his voice strangely intent, even in his own ears. "You are naked, and I have seen you naked before. I am touching you, and I have touched you before. I am your doctor, and I have taken care of you before. That is all that is happening now, Holmes. Do you understand? Nothing more. And I have never hurt you – you have never had cause to fear me."

"Neh..." Holmes suddenly gulped in a massive breath and arched again, his torso elongating in a taut bow against the floor. "No..."

"You trust me."

Holmes set both feet flat on the ground, his legs bent over Watson's thighs, and twisted his arms to grip the iron ring he was tethered to. Watson watched his knuckles whiten in the gloom, the muscles bunching along the lengths of his arms, his shoulders. "I..." He inhaled a sort of silent cry and then through his head back into the floor with a startled gasp. "Watson!" It was as much a plea as an exclamation, but not the sort of plea Watson like to hear from an intimate partner. Holmes twisted against the floor as if he had no idea what to do with the parts of his body not held in Watson's hand, and that obviously terrified him – being out of control, not knowing the next seven steps ahead of time…

Watson bent as low as he could and ran his cheek up Holmes' neck, followed by his lips, until he could speak into Holmes' ear without any fear whatsoever of being overheard. "Do not answer out loud or nod – give no indication that I am speaking at all."

Their faces were pressed so close that when Holmes opened his eyes, Watson could feel Holmes' lashes drag across his temple.

"Have you regained feeling in your hands? If yes, remain silent. If not, feel free to say no again; they'll find nothing strange in the word since you've said it a dozen times already."

Holmes shifted beneath him, his mind abruptly engaged, and said nothing.

Watson breathed against Holmes' neck for moment, then drew back and sat up on his knees. Holmes regarded him warily from the floor, especially when Watson's hands dropped to work his belt open, but a spark of comprehension struck him a moment later. Immediately, Holmes smothered it, and when he dug his heels into the ground to shift his groin away from Watson, scooting backwards along floor, it was only partly an act, and a very small part at that.

Watson couldn't stop himself from glancing down as Holmes moved, intrigued despite his better judgment, but he covered up the look by engrossing himself in the working of his belt buckle. Observing another man's erect penis was a strange thing, even if he had seen renderings before, and of course, classic artwork was often peppered with proud phallic representations. Holmes' manhood seemed quite ordinary in spite of Holmes' own aversion to using for anything other than the necessary functions. Smooth and pink, pointing toward Holmes' navel and flushed with blood...

Watson forced his mind from it and concentrated on his belt; he had no need to feign fumbling fingers, for he found himself rather distracted without the pretense. Once he had gotten the damnable buckle open, Watson twisted the metal tongue. The soft, worn copper was maleable with age and use, and it broke off easily. Watson palmed it and then slid his belt free, flashing Holmes a furtive, cheeky grin in the process. This was normal, he thought - scheming in silence and trading smug looks. Just as he had hoped, Holmes relaxed by several degrees, though because he was more exposed to watchful eyes, he made no outward expression in return.

Watson cast his belt aside and then climbed forward, straddling Holmes again. Holmes lifted his chin and pressed his hips down to avoid Watson skimming over his groin, and Watson shimmied forward to sit properly on Holmes' stomach. They eyed each other for a moment, and then Watson let him see the metal tongue concealed between his index and middle fingers as he lowered his hand and pressed it to Holmes' breast.

Holmes' skin jumped under his hand, but he remained calm. This was a ruse to him now - a performance to be enacted without reservations. Holmes did this sort of thing all the time; he had even courted a house maid once and had certainly kissed her, all to gain information and solve a case. Watson knew that Holmes would need two tools to properly pick the lock on the shackles - one to press the tumblers and another to disengage the lock itself - but for the life of him, he didn't know where to find a second splinter or pick. He didn't let Holmes see that, though; he kept his face neutral and confident because as long as Holmes went about this as if it were a playact, he would not lose himself in it.

Watson, on the other hand, could feel his own control unraveling, and he had no notion of how to prevent it. When he stretched himself out along Holmes body, a hint of the reality broke through, but Holmes managed to check himself and relax back under Watson, though his breathing quickened. Watson pressed his lips to the corner of Holmes' mouth, then slid over to kiss him properly as he ran his hand up Holmes' arm to grasp his fingers. It took Holmes a moment to catch up, his flight instincts kicking in, but when Watson dug his fingers into Holmes' fisted palm, Holmes ticked, his breath escaping from between the awkward shapes of their joined lips, and let Watson slip the metal pick into his hand.

Watson scraped his fingernails lightly down the sensitive underside of Holmes' arm as he withdrew, and Holmes expelled a startled sound against Watson's lips as he stiffened. Once again, he forced himself to unwind, and when Watson propped himself up on his elbows, releasing his lips, Holmes merely peered back, his face blank. Watson offered a reassuring smile, lopsided and twitchy as it was, but Holmes only tipped his head in response.

A moment passed in misleading silence, Holmes unnaturally still with his knuckles going white around one half of a ludicrous and fledgling escape plan while Watson stared down at Holmes' chest and the hands he had splayed there. Every time Holmes drew in a breath, Watson could feel it against the insides of his thighs where they were pressed to Holmes' flanks. It was...strange. It put Watson in mind of a great pulsing jellyfish, though he didn't know why that, of all images, was the one that came to him first. Perhaps it was how the shadows created the optical illusion of transparency to Holmes' already ghostly-white skin.

The moment cracked when Watson heard the scrape of a chair behind them, and Holmes made a reflexive bid to curl his legs up to his stomach even though Watson was in the way. At first, Watson thought that Blackwood had simply adjusted himself, but footsteps followed a second later, slow and measured, too much at ease. Watson scrabbled off of Holmes and all but sprang to his feet, which he regretted immediately. His bad leg nearly buckled on him, and he flung a hand at the wall to catch himself before he fell back down and landed on Holmes' prone body. Watson ended up hunched with his feet bracketing Holmes' shoulders, and when Holmes did finally curl away, toward the wall above him with his back to the rest of the room, he ended up partially wrapped around Watson's ankle.

The move brought a pang to Watson's chest until he realized that Holmes had pulled himself up and around the ring he was tethered to. Watson caught a bare minimum of movement from the corner of his eye as Holmes jabbed his makeshift pick into the shackle lock, but he dared not even glance down as Blackwood sauntered toward him to a point just beyond arm's reach. Chances were that Holmes would be able to do nothing with only one tool, but if the lock were old or rusted, and Holmes' fingers nimble enough, then there was a chance –

A ring with a single key on it clanked to the floor at Watson's feet. Watson eyed Blackwood's outstretched arm and the open fingers from which he had dropped his dubious gift, and then he did look down to find that Holmes had twisted his head around to be able see it too, though the rest of his body remained folded around his own bound hands. Watson watched a puff of air leave Holmes' parted lips to stir up a tiny billow of dust, and then he cast a guarded look back up at Blackwood.

The smile that tugged at Blackwood's mouth looked more like a sneer than anything else, sort of like a snake preparing to pop open its jaw. He didn't bother taunting them with words, but from the way he tilted his head and looked down at Holmes, he knew exactly what they had been trying to do. The key was his bark of contempt.

Watson could feel his temper bubbling beneath the surface as Blackwood turned his back on them, but there was a hushed terror irrevocably twined in with it. He couldn't even offer Holmes the illusion of a ruse now, and the simple fact that Blackwood had seen right through him... Holmes made an odd sound at his feet and Watson looked down to find him digging furiously at the shackle lock with his pick, biting his bottom lip and breathing more quickly than he should.

Watson forced himself to swallow and it felt like nails grating his throat. "Holmes..." He had to leave his right foot where it was because Holmes was tangled around it, but he managed an awkward crouch with one knee just brushing Holmes' spine, somewhere in the vicinity of the dorsal surface of his heart. "Holmes, stop." Watson gripped his shoulder to gain his attention, and when that failed to garner so much as a twitch, Watson covered both of Holmes' hands with his own and drew them away from the lock.

Holmes offered no resistance. On the contrary, the tautness left his limbs and he unwound a little bit from his tight curl to lay limp on the ground, his hands ensconced in Watson's unsteady ones, neck crooked at what must have been an uncomfortable angle. A sigh of sorts whispered out of him, and then nothing else, save for a blank stare directed at the damp bricks of the wall he faced. He didn't blink so much as allow his eyes to drift partway shut now and then in a lazy kind of flutter.

Watson shifted to hold both of Holmes' hands in one of his own so that he could brush the knuckles of his other over Holmes cheek. "Come now, old cock." He winced at the way his own voice had suddenly took to quavering, but glossed past it. "We've been in tighter spots before."

It took a few heartbeats too long for Holmes to stir in response, but his eyes eventually wandered up to Watson's, half-lidded as if he'd been drugged anew. Holmes licked his lips and then looked away again as he swallowed.

Watson's vision unfocused for a moment and then he gradually fell back to sit on one folded foot, his right leg still arced over Holmes' body. "It'll be okay," he murmured, just as much for himself as for Holmes, who remained unresponsive. Watson heaved a sigh and let his free hand wander down Holmes' side, then dip across his stomach to snag briefly over his belly button. He imagined that other men in his position would bemoan finally getting something they had longed for only to have the joy snatched from it, but Watson had never actually wanted this. He had wanted Holmes, yes, but his desire had always been a strange and distorted mirror of Holmes' own oddly chaste idea of lust. Watson wanted to touch – and he did, often – but it rarely occurred to him to touch in a manner definitively sexual. Holmes could be intimate in his own way, and Watson coveted that, but where Holmes' friendship and regard, and even perhaps love were concerned, sexuality seemed an appalling perversion.

Smooth, pale skin yielded to Watson's hand, the definition of muscle in Holmes sinewy frame lessened by the slackened lines of his limbs. Watson watched his own fingers roam as if the digits belonged to someone else, skimming across ribs and then lower to glide over the jut of a hipbone and the outer surface of a thigh. Holmes didn't flinch at any point so much as tic under Watson's hand, and for whatever reason, Watson found himself running his hand around to the inside of Holmes' leg as he moved back up again. Holmes stiffened by measurable degrees and Watson froze abruptly just shy of his groin. A second passed during which Watson realized what he'd been doing and Holmes pulled himself closer to the wall via the shackles circling his wrists, a disturbingly sensual series of fluid movements that left his torso elongated and one leg extended, his toes pointed only because he had dug them into the ground to help push himself forward.

Watson stared for a moment at the subtle arch of Holmes' spine and the way he had gathered the iron ring to his breastbone like a precious thing, his head tipped back over the prominent display of his adam's apple. Holmes had parted his lips just a fraction, probably because it was easier to accommodate the rabbit-paced breaths he had once again adopted, but to Watson's eyes, the pose suddenly seemed erotic. He could see the pinkened tip of Holmes' tongue shadowed behind his lips, and it struck Watson that he could put his finger there if he wished - Holmes' mouth was open just enough that he could have slipped a digit inside, had he dared to try.

Watson's hand twitched where it lay over Holmes' femoral artery, the cord of a tendon banded beneath his index finger. He should pull back, snatch his fingers away and...what? Roll over and go to sleep? Rush Blackwood and hope that the bruisers shot or stabbed him in just the perfect place to kill him in seconds so that he wouldn't have to lay on the ground slowly bleeding out, subjected to the vision of Blackwood raping his dearest friend as the last thing he would ever see on this earth? No.

Watson felt a faint shudder run a jagged course through Holmes' body. It ended in the convulsive twitch and arch of one foot, followed by a barely audible swallow. Holmes' breathing picked up and his arms tensed as if to anchor himself to the iron ring bolted to the floor. Watson slid his hand slowly up past Holmes' groin and into the hollow of his hip bone. Holmes' leg shook as if with a palsy and he arched farther away from Watson, which merely made him appear even more alluring, his stomach bowed forward and his shoulders rounding in toward his ribcage. Watson's fingers trickled one by one off the tip of his pelvis, to the accompaniment of a series of soft spasms and jerks in other, unrelated parts of Holmes' body.

The key ring lay exactly where Blackwood had dropped it. Watson stretched toward it across the floor and managed to snag it without removing his right leg from where it was draped over Holmes' waist. He wasted no time in unlocking the shackles, and then he spent a few minutes silently rubbing the feeling back into Holmes' hands even though, intellectually, he knew that the metal had not been tight enough to impair circulation now that Holmes no longer had to hold himself upright by his wrists. Holmes' only protest came in the form of a hard flinch when Watson pried his fingers from the iron ring in order to get at the keyhole, and then he just laid there, his hands limp as rags in Watson's grasp, his fingers curled over Watson's out of nothing more than an autonomic contraction of the muscles in his palm.

"Holmes." Watson's voice sounded rough as if from disuse, little more than a low, throaty growl, though a kind one. "Holmes, don't do this to me."

A quiver of Holmes' cheek betrayed some form of distracted reaction, and then Holmes took a deep breath, unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth in the process. "I was already incapacitated when they found me. Took a little too much. Didn't even fight them. I couldn't even stand. The...shaking. I thought I was delirious and they were my hallucinations."

Watson's hands slowed and then stopped to simply grasp Holmes' fingers. "The cocaine?"

"You were right," Holmes whispered, morose. "I left to go do something...blindingly stupid." He frowned in a manner that tugged at his temples and looked at their joined hands.

Watson pursed his lips, but it was a sympathetic expression that crept out onto his face, mingled in guilt for driving Holmes to go out and do it in the first place with his harping and his unfair recriminations of Holmes' character. "Don't worry about that now, old chap."

Holmes either ignored him, or didn't hear him at all. "I'm sorry. Je suis désolé. Watson, I didn't mean to get you involved in something like this. J'ai fait ceci. C'est ma faute."

"Holmes." Watson dropped Holmes' hands in favor of cupping his face between both palms to force him into eye contact. "Speak English, old boy. You know I can't understand that."

Holmes merely blinked at Watson as if he couldn't comprehend the words, and then he balked. "Oh. Right." His eyes wandered aside even though Watson still held his head. "Didn't realize..."

"I know you didn't." Watson released him, his fingers lingering on Holmes' jaw, and then he ducked his head to the side to peer down the length of Holmes' body. He could see his coat lying in a lump just beyond Holmes' feet, and he focused on that for a moment, ignoring the fact that Holmes still had a few toes dug into the packed dirt. He couldn't do this. Not like this, not with witnesses, coerced, forced into –

Watson noticed movement just in time to turn his head, and then he flinched when Holmes grasped him by the neck with both hands to force their mouths together. He grabbed Holmes' wrists, intending to pry him off, but Holmes held fast. When Watson opened his mouth to gasp a protest, Holmes shoved his tongue into it, too aggressive and with absolutely no art or finesse, but intent had to count for something. Watson slipped off his heel and his rump impacted the ground, one hand flung back to catch himself before Holmes bowled him over onto his back. Holmes murmured something mindless into his mouth, and then Watson's body responded of its own accord.

A despairing sort of groan snaked out of Watson's mouth, half a denial and half helpless want, and Holmes pulled off in a bout of innocently lewd suction to whisper, "Do it, Watson." Their lips brushed as he spoke and Watson felt something stir to sound in the back of his throat, his lips parted like a wanton in desperate need of something to cover them. Both of their breathing had gone ragged at the edges. "Just get it over with. Ce n'est pas grave, poule mère." Holmes' lashes flickered as his gaze slid off to other parts of Watson's face, and he moved as if he intended to ply Watson's features with kisses, stopping just shy of the skin beneath his eye. "Je le mérite pour vous mêler dans ceci." Holmes ducked his head and leveled his gaze on Watson's again, frightening for a moment in his fervid intensity. "S'il vous plaît, Jean. Before he changes his mind."

Watson choked on the noise that finally broke free of his throat and then wrapped both arms around Holmes' torso to drag him forward. Instinct made Holmes stiffen at the suddenness of the action, but Watson crushed him close and crowded Holmes' tongue back into his own mouth. Watson understood little enough French, but he had caught the please, and je le mérite sounded like I merit it or I've earned it, as if Holmes thought he deserved this for letting Blackwood use him as bait for Watson. Holmes viewed the physical expression of love as a punishment to be inflicted on his person, even when coming from Watson, even when perpetrated as the only mercy Watson had to give. There was no part of Holmes that looked forward to this; it was a trial he hoped never to repeat. Get it over with, as if Watson were holding a knife to his skin and Blackwood had just ordered him to press down. It was natural to resent being coerced into performing for a sadistic audience, but the aversion to the act itself left an unexpected anger simmering up in Watson's gut, a thing completely separate from his muted rage at Blackwood. It startled Watson to realize that what he felt was insulted. By Holmes' implication that committing a carnal act with Watson could only ever be described as an ordeal.

Watson bore Holmes back down to the dirt and caught at the hand that momentarily flailed as Holmes lost his balance. "Damn you!" Watson hissed. He shoved the wrist to the ground and leaned on it.

Holmes planted his other hand against Watson's chest, but Watson tore that one off too. "Watson? I don't unders – "

"I am not your personal method of torture!" Watson slammed Holmes' other hand down as well, his knees bracketing Holmes' hips.

"What? I never said that!" Holmes twisted and hooked his right leg behind Watson's, preparatory to rolling to throw him off.

It was a wrestling move and Watson was well aware of Holmes' penchant for using it in fights, so he thwarted it by letting his knees slide farther apart, leaving him too low to the ground for the maneuver to work. It also left him lying squarely on top of Holmes, their groins pressed together through the wool of Watson's trousers, and he could feel that the erection he had given Holmes earlier had not completely flagged yet. Worse, to Watson's mind at least, was that up until now, he had been privately wondering if he himself would be able to perform in this situation. He abruptly realized, with Holmes inadvertently rubbing against him as he struggled, that he could. And to find out now, like this, sickened him. More so because it took Holmes only a moment to notice - to feel an alien hardness pushing against him. Watson was leaning too close to miss the flash of confusion that tore across Holmes' face as his mind scrambled to identify the source, followed by blind panic.

Holmes twisted under him, his feet scrabbling at the ground and at the backs of Watson's knees and calves, a kick grazing his ankle. Faint laughter drifted across the room and the chair creaked as Blackwood changed position. Watson's eyes flew up, startled to recall that they had an audience. Conversely, Holmes went deathly still, his legs tangled up with Watson's, fists clenched above the hands crushing his wrists, his torso arched and bowed, frozen in the midst of a mindless struggle. Holmes' jaw muscles quivered as he clenched his teeth, his whole face closed off, eyes screwed shut and lips pressed firmly together. He wheezed as he breathed, or at least it sounded like it, but as Blackwood rose form the chair and the sound of his footsteps reached Holmes' ears, Watson realized that Holmes was actually letting out choked whimpers and mewls with each forceful exhale, he was so terrified.

"You surprise me, Doctor," Blackwood remarked, so casual in his mannerisms that it sent a shiver snaking up Watson's spine. The bruisers followed at a respectful distance, but their revolvers were out now, one trained on each of them. "You have a dark streak in you."

Watson fumed, impotent in his desire to smash the man's face in for putting them in this spot.

Blackwood leaned on his cane and studied his own hand as he mused, "I wonder how far you might have gone if I hadn't interrupted."

Quite against his better judgment, Watson snapped, "Then perhaps you should have kept your peace."

Amazingly enough, that brought a faint trace of a wicked smile to Blackwood's face. "Indeed, perhaps I should have." He straightened and Watson thought for a moment that he intended to withdraw again. Instead, Blackwood examined his cane, and then with a nauseating degree of sensuality, he drew the blade from it, handling it the way Watson himself handled a delicate lover. "But alas, that would not quite have served my purposes today."

Watson's breathing faltered as the tip of the blade came to rest near his throat, wielded with the steadiness and skill of a master swordsman.

"As hard as it may be for you to believe, Doctor, I only want to correct your friend's lacking education in this field. Not traumatize him beyond repair." The thin blade caressed Watson's cheek with a sound like the rustle of paper, and then scraped down beneath his chin without breaking the skin. "That would, after all, leave him quite useless to me, wouldn't it?" The tip pricked against Watson's pulse point and then dropped to swoop a lazy arc up Holmes' stomach instead, around his navel and then up the midline of his torso until Holmes squirmed and bit off a cry, his breathing like the flutter of tattered ship sails. "A mind like his should not be destroyed without reason." Blackwood held the blade loose and still so that Holmes' own restless movement caused it to drag over a nipple, and Watson caught his tongue between his teeth to stop himself from saying something inflammatory. "It is far better to use such resources when one comes across them. Don't you agree, Doctor?"

Watson bared his teeth, and though silence would have been imminently more wise, he snarled, "Fuck you."

"Why, Doctor." Blackwood chuckled, but the animosity obviously pleased him. He practically purred, "Such language from a gentleman. I should be shocked."

In an appalling fit of daring, Watson swatted the blade away from Holmes and then splayed his own hand over Holmes' breast where it had just been. From the sound of it, Holmes choked over his own saliva, but aside from a twitch of tension come to fruition in the whole of his body, he did not move. He didn't even raise the hand that Watson had just freed, and Watson watched his fingers curl over the empty air as if cupping a delicate bauble of spun glass in his palm. Holmes' chest rose and fell far too quickly, and with too little degree, beneath Watson's hand. Watson raised his eyes to glare at their captor.

"You should have left him chained," Blackwood observed, his eyes on Holmes. "It probably would have been easier." The expression lending his pupils a darker glint seemed one of hunger, but not hunger for anything that Watson could identify. It was something more than curiosity, but a far cry from the lust that a crime like this should have engendered. Blackwood smiled such that on another man it could have been called unwillingly sympathetic, and then crouched near Holmes' head, balanced on the balls of his feet. Once he was at eye level with Watson, he tilted his head like an expectant crow.

Watson almost lunged at him. The barrel of a gun jabbing the nape of his neck stopped him cold.

"So pale, isn't he," Blackwood purred. He was talking about Holmes, obviously, as Watson was still quite tanned from his time abroad, but his eyes never left Watson's. "Do you find that attractive?"

Watson's whole face twitched with the effort of keeping silent.

Blackwood laid the broad edge of his blade against Holmes' sternum, just brushing Watson's fingers as he turned it and raked it up toward Holmes' throat. "I am quite enjoying this, you realize, but I do have other matters to attend to before dawn." He abruptly snicked the blade up and Holmes grunted as Blackwood pressed it up under his chin, inadvertently baring his neck to it in the process of shying back. "I'm afraid that I must insist that things progress a bit more quickly."

Holmes' breathing kicked up a notch and Watson could see, in his periphery, that Holmes' eyes had opened wide, his gaze trained unseeing on the corner of the ceiling above them. As he swallowed, the blade indented his skin, but it still drew no blood.

Blackwood's lips flickered into a serpentine smile and then he broke eye contact so suddenly that Watson felt himself harshly start to breathe again. To one of his lackeys, Blackwood ordered, "Prepare him. We haven't all night."

"Non – " Holmes jerked and Watson seized him by the hair to keep his head still, lest the blade cut into him. Both hands free now, Holmes grabbed at Watson's forearm, the one connected to the hand in his hair. His other hand reached to paw again at Watson's chest.

Watson curled his free hand around Holmes' fingers to still them and tightened his fist in Holmes' hair to warn him off further struggling. "I said I would do it."

"You seem incapable of it," Blackwood pointed out.

"I can do it!"

"Watson – " Holmes arched his back, but not out of arousal, however much it seemed to be so with his unwanted erection pressed against Watson's flies.

Watson had to yank Holmes' hair this time to still him as he swore to Blackwood, "I'll do it. Please." It soured his stomach to add that note of pleading, but he sincerely meant it, more so because the man with the gun to his head had just forced Holmes' legs apart behind him. "Please let me do it."

Holmes convulsed under him at something that Blackwood's man did, and then shrieked, "Arrêtez!"

Watson's whole body tensed to whirl around and strike at the man behind him, but he didn't dare. "Anything you want! I'll give you anything, just tell him to stop!"

Blackwood made some sort of signal to his bruiser without looking away from Watson, and though the man did not retreat, he paused in his activities. "Yes, I believe you would, at that. Give me anything." Blackwood fell to dark contemplation of this, and Watson waited, breathless. Finally, with no further explanation, Blackwood's face became a mask. He slid the blade away from Holmes' skin and stood up, his finger crooked at his lackey, and strode decisively back to his chair.

Watson breathed an audible sigh of relief and sagged on top of Holmes' taut and shaking body. Even the jar of vaseline that the bruiser set pointedly down beside them could not dampen his gratefulness over the dubious reprieve.

Blackwood swirled his coat tails as he turned around and settled back in to watch, hands folded primly in his lap though the bare blade laid across his knees added malice to the pose. "You have twenty minutes, Doctor. If you have not finished by then, I will finish for you."

Watson's eyes flickered up from under lowered brows and he gave a curt nod, loath as he was to acknowledge the deplorable man at all. Twenty minutes... That was barely enough time for kindness with a willing first-time partner, much less for Holmes, who had once again shut his eyes tight in denial. Right, just do it. As Holmes had said, get it over with. Watson could deal with his own bruised ego later. It wasn't Holmes' fault he couldn't calm himself enough to even pretend to enjoy this, and really, half of why Watson felt as he did for Holmes could be traced to that peculiar wide-eyed innocence. Men sought such creatures as Holmes for various reasons; they typically relished the thought of taking a virgin girl, of seeing the innocence break on her face as she felt the sting of penetration for the first time. Watson coveted his dearest friend for many reasons, but he would have been hopelessly drawn for that alone if he had met Holmes as a stranger just that night. And that was when it struck him that however much he wanted Holmes like this, naked and laid out before him, given the choice and even Holmes' own encouragement, it was not an innocence that he would have wanted to shatter; it was too beautiful a thing. Given the choice, he would have turned Holmes down to preserve it.

Watson disentangled his fingers from Holmes' hair, ignoring the flinch that even that produced, and reached for the jar left behind by the bruiser. "Steady on, old boy. It will be over soon." He sincerely hoped that were true as he lifted up on one knee and tried to fit the other between Holmes' legs. "Just relax, Holmes. Open up. Come on." He exerted more pressure against the seam between Holmes' clamped thighs until his knee slipped through. "There's a good chap." Watson hardly knew what he was saying, but saying anything at all in that voice that he knew could sooth even the most deranged of Holmes' moods had a calming effect on Watson too. "You're alright, Holmes." Watson coated his fingers in glops of petroleum jelly and set the jar aside, near at hand. "Trust me, old cock. Just trust me. Everything will be alright."

The first touch of a cold finger behind Holmes' testicles left him scrabbling against the ground to get away, and Watson leaned forward to pin Holmes' leg up near his chest, spreading him open. Watson hooked his hand under Holmes' other knee as well and pressed it to the ground so that he could kneel properly between Holmes' legs.

"Non! Watson, s'il vous plait – attendez – "

"Calm, Holmes. Focus on my voice." He let Holmes' upswept leg slip into the crook of his elbow as he bent down to put his face next to Holmes' ear. "Are you listening to me?" He wrapped his arm around Holmes' thigh so that he could reach down between Holmes' legs again without losing his grip on the leg.

Holmes gulped in a shuddering breath and then sobbed, "Je veux rentrer chez moi. Je ne peux pas..."

Watson shut his eyes and pressed his forehead to Holmes' cheek, where he could feel a smear of wetness that he had not seen with his eyes. His fingers, still coated in vaseline, lingered against the sensitive skin between Holmes' legs, but he didn't try to force them inside - he didn't even press them against the ring of puckered muscles, for that matter. Watson left them cupping Holmes' scrotum with his fingernails brushing Holmes' perineum, but he ventured no further. "English," Watson whispered into his skin. "Holmes, speak English, for god's sake."

That damnable chair creaked across the room and Watson pressed his nose harder against Holmes' jaw. "Do you want to know what he said?" Blackwood asked. His voice was too saccharine, too horribly gleeful to anger Watson; on the contrary, it made him feel even worse. "'I want to go home,'" Blackwood parroted. He had said nothing vulgar, and yet knowing that he was only speaking in mockery made his words sound foul. "'Wait, Watson, please...I can't do it...'"

The air whistled past Watson's teeth as he inhaled, and he lifted his head to spit, "Shut up!"

Holmes cringed at the venom in Watson's voice and gasped, "Désolé! No – Watson, je serai tranquille. I didn't – "

"Shh, no!" Watson let go of his leg and cupped the back of his head instead. "Not you. You say whatever you want. Okay?" Holmes' leg ended up crooked over Watson's lower back, and Watson rubbed his thumb in circles over the skin just in front of Holmes' ear. "I wasn't yelling at you."

Blackwood laughed on the other side of the room. "Too late. He already promised to be quiet."

Watson sucked in a breath, on the verge of another furious outburst, but he somehow managed to keep it locked behind his teeth. Once the wave of anger had receded to a slow boil, Watson murmured, "I won't hurt you. I swear I won't hurt you, Holmes."

Holmes was too far gone to do anything other than snuffle wetly to clear his nose, and Watson blamed himself. He had ruined what tenuous trust and calm Holmes had by his ill-thought reaction to Holmes' earlier attempt at reassurance, however inadvertently insulting it might have been. The only marginally good thing about this was that Watson swore to himself that he would learn French after this, because when it really mattered, when something was truly wrong, Holmes reverted to that language without realizing it, and Watson needed to know what he was saying.

"Eighteen minutes, Doctor."

Watson locked his throat to keep his retort to himself, and then breathed out slowly through his nose. Holmes himself could barely breathe at all anymore. His chest stuttered something fierce, and there were real tears now; they seeped out from under his eyelashes in fat drops to bead and coat the dark circles under his eyes in a delicate sheen. It was almost pretty, in its own precarious way. Almost.

Instead of delving straight in, Watson sat up and extracted himself from between Holmes' legs to stand. His thigh barked at him as he moved but Watson ignored it as he worked at his flies and disrobed the rest of the way. He tossed his trousers aside in a haphazard pile along with the rest of his clothes, sure to leave wrinkles to vex Mrs Hudson later, but he hardly cared. In the mean time, Holmes curled himself up into a ball facing the wall and hugged himself as if his own arms were the only thing keeping together. Watson did his best not to look at that as he shook out his previously discarded great coat and spread it on the ground to give the illusion of comfort. It took precious extra seconds to do so, but it was the only real comfort he had to give. Then he knelt and dragged Holmes onto the coat with a fair bit of strength that he did not have. Holmes remained rolled up like a pill bug throughout.

The rustling of clothes across the room betrayed the continued presence of their audience, but Watson made a point not to look at them as he knelt behind Holmes and picked up the vaseline jar to recoat his fingers. A hand on Holmes' shoulder drew a strangled sound from him, and then Watson found himself wrestling to keep the man in place on the ground. It was quite frankly horrible, and what was more, Watson had forgotten just how strong Holmes was. He had to lend his whole body weight to holding him down, and they ended up locked together by the time Holmes ceased trying to thrash his way out of Watson's grasp. Holmes was half on his stomach by then, shaking hard enough to rattle his own teeth, with Watson's left arm shoved up under his armpit and locked at the elbow beneath Holmes' shoulder. Watson snaked his hand about to clamp down on the back of Holmes' neck, pressing his face down into the woolen fabric of the coat. Watson had to kneel over the back of Holmes' left thigh to keep him from wriggling up into a better position to buck him off, while the placement of Watson's other knee against the ground kept Holmes' right leg shoved up far enough to nearly touch his ribs.

Blackwood, of course, chose that moment to remind him that he only had fifteen minutes left now, to which Watson merely scowled at the shackles that had previously bound Holmes' wrists. He hated to admit it, but Blackwood was right about one thing: this would have been easier, had Holmes still been chained down.

The muscles in Holmes' back flexed and contracted with every aborted impulse to fight, and Watson merely enjoined him to relax, to try to relax. The best thing, he thought, would be if Holmes could lose himself in his own mind for the remainder of this, absorb himself in some distraction the way he could fall into contemplation of a case with absolutely no awareness of the world around him. There was little chance of that happening now; Holmes was too much in the moment thanks to his fear, and that was their problem. Holmes could not look at his with any degree of objectivity; he was too emotionally involved. It was the exact reason that Holmes insisted on detachment from his own life, the better to leave his mind room to weave about his cases. He could not think logically like this.

"Okay," Watson whispered. He took a breath to steady himself and then reached a jelly-coated finger down to probe between Holmes' arse cheeks. Holmes tensed and tried to push himself up on his arms, but Watson shoved his nose back into the woolen coat and grit his teeth with the effort of keeping him there. "Holmes, it's alright. Just try to relax for me." His finger finally encountered the puckered flesh of Holmes' arsehole and Holmes twisted under him with a panicked bleat. "It's alright. Holmes, I swear to god, it's alright. Just let me."

"No - "

The tip of Watson's finger broke past the first ring of muscles and Holmes choked on the rest of his words. His next breath turned into a hiccup and then the muscles clamped down on Watson's knuckle. He could press no further. "Holmes, relax. Relax for me. Come on, old boy. Just do as I say. Listen and do as I say. Relax." He tried to shift his grip on Holmes' neck to run his fingers through Holmes' hair, but the gesture didn't sooth him, and Watson had to fight for a second to reassert his hold and keep him in place. Watson grunted with the effort and dug his knee into the ground to keep Holmes' legs spread. "Holmes, be still! It's alright, I promise - you're alright."

Holmes mumbled something impossibly garbled into the fabric of Watson's coat, his shoulders taut with residual effort and his hands still splayed as if to push himself up.

"Just relax," Watson repeated; he was practically begging now. "Holmes..." His voice cracked and died, and he ended up whispering, "Please...if you don't relax, I'll end up hurting you."

Holmes whimpered into the coat for a moment, and then he reached back to claw at the hand holding his head down. Watson refused to give, and Holmes settled for grasping Watson's wrist so tightly that Watson swore he could feel his bones grind together. "Je ne suis pas ici...pas ici..."

Some small bit of tension left him, and Watson managed to probe deeper, past the second ring of muscles, until his finger was completely sheathed in soft, wet heat.

At the feel of a whole digit moving against his insides, Holmes made a last-ditch effort to squirm up onto his knees, but Watson had too sure a hold on him. He flopped back to the ground and cried softly instead, his face thankfully hidden from Watson's gaze. "...pas ici...je suis bien...Watson ne me blessera pas...je suis bien..."

Watson's ears pricked at the sound of his own name, but he had no idea what Holmes was saying, and he had no desire for Blackwood to translate for him again. He twisted his finger deep inside the warmth of Holmes' body and rode out the convulsion that shook Holmes when Watson brushed his prostate. Perhaps the fact that it felt good was what made Holmes cough out a piteously loud sob at that, but Watson couldn't know for sure.

"Twelve minutes, Doctor."

Watson glanced up and plainly replied, "I hope you die slowly."

Blackwood grinned. "Is that a promise?"

It hadn't been, per se, but Watson returned Blackwood's gaze with a dark smile of his own. "It is now."

"Mmm...I look forward to it then."

Watson wrinkled his nose in disgust and set to ignoring him again. This was a spectacularly bad time for bravado. Below him, his face mashed into the great coat, Holmes continued mumbling to himself, only half coherent regardless of the language he used. He squirmed with each gentle movement of Watson's finger, and jerked down against the coat in a fruitless effort to get away from each delicate touch of Watson's finger to his prostate. Watson could see that through some cruel - or perhaps, in this case, kind - design, Holmes was still hard, his testicles drawn taut and close to his body. With the way Holmes kept shying down to avoid the thrusts of Watson's finger, the friction of rubbing against Watson's coat would ensure that he stayed that way. Watson glanced to his own flaccid member, his frown edging on anxious. Later, he decided; he still had time for that.

"Holmes." Watson leaned closer and shifted in the hope that even while restraining Holmes, his arms might be made to feel at least a little bit like an embrace. He dropped a kiss between Holmes' shoulder blades, and then another on the back of his neck before straining to put his mouth near Holmes' ear. "I'm going to use a second finger. Just stay relaxed like this, and it will be alright. It might burn a little, but it will go away."

Holmes pressed himself more firmly to the ground as if he intended to sink into it, then jerked one hip up in response to the pressure against his erection. Watson's finger accidentally slipped deeper at the unexpected movement and Holmes choked on his own saliva. "Non..." His whole body stuttered as he sobbed quietly. "Watson, non..."

"I have to." Watson nosed at Holmes' hair and placed another chaste kiss there before he crooked his wrist to slide a second finger in alongside the first. "When we get home, we'll break out that bottle of brandy I've been hiding in my consulting room. How does that sound? We'll drink until we forget our own names. I'll even let you run chemical experiments drunk – hell, I'll help. We can blow up the tea table." Watson paused, then nearly smiled as he murmured, "Again."

Holmes shook his head and then wiped the side of his face against the coat. He stilled with his cheek pressed to the wool and his face in profile where Watson could see the high flushed spots on his cheekbones and the raw redness of his nose, plus the unnaturally pale cast to the rest of his skin, save for the shadowed smudges beneath his eye. Holmes' sucked his bottom lip between his teeth and breathed with deliberate slowness. The tiny muscles of his lower eyelid twitched where the rest of his face remained expressionless, and Watson finally let go of his neck to comb his fingers through the hair above Holmes' ear. Holmes' fingers loosened their hold on Watson's wrist and then slid off to lay limp against the collar of the great coat.

Watson kissed the corner of his mouth and reminded him, "Second finger," before he went ahead and pressed against Holmes' entrance. He couldn't get past the tight muscle at first, so he put his lips to Holmes' neck in the hopes of distracting him somehow, even if it was to give him a different point on which to focus his fear. Watson continued exerting a steady pressure against the barrier below as he swirled his tongue and then suckled lightly at that point behind the ear that other people tended to find erotic. Holmes swallowed a sharp, startled sound when Watson began nibbling his way back down the tendons in his neck, and then Watson's second finger abruptly slipped inside.

Holmes gave a full body flinch and tried to bow his back like a seal on dry land, but Watson still had too much leverage over him to allow for much of a struggle. Holmes mewled quietly enough that Watson was probably the only one close enough to hear him, and then he seized the sleeve of the great coat and wrenched at it. His whole body strained to curl into itself but Watson's position prevented it, and after a moment's pointless effort, Holmes shoved the sleeve into his mouth and bit down on it with a dejected warble of a groan. Fresh tears spilled from the corner his eye, and then he shut it again and tried to bury his head under the sleeve still clamped in his teeth.

"Good," Watson told him, a bare soft whisper that seemed to echo between them. "You're doing splendidly, Holmes." He scissored his fingers and Holmes let out a gentle hiccup when Watson rubbed his fingers on either side if his prostate. "Does it hurt?" Watson didn't know why he asked, since he couldn't really stop if it did, but some morbid, self-recriminating part of himself had to know. "Holmes? Come now, old chap." He purposefully rubbed a finger back and forth in tiny strokes along the center groove of Holmes' prostate. "Does it hurt at all?"

Holmes let out a tiny howl, and then mumbled around the cloth, "Je ne sais pas." A terrible little blubber of sound followed, and then he mournfully added, "La tête me tourne." His voice was weak and by no means steady. "Watson, je ne me sens malade."

Watson nodded with his nose still pressed to Holmes' hair, then confessed, "I have no idea what you just said."

Unexpectedly, Holmes switched back to English. "I'm going to be sick."

"Oh." Watson swiped his thumb up the column of Holmes' throat. "That's fine. Go ahead if you have to."

"But your coat – "

"It will wash." Watson nuzzled the side of Holmes' face even as he stretched his fingers apart below, massaging the tissues inside Holmes' arsehole. "It's not as if I haven't been vomited on before, Holmes. I'm a doctor."

Watson's reassurance seemed to have opposite the desire effect, because Holmes just started shaking his head and swallowing frantically, as if he desperately needed not to make himself sick with something as contemptible as his own unfounded fear. Not that Watson saw it that way; he knew damn well what it felt like to be so irrationally afraid that his own stomach rebelled against him. Afghanistan and more than six months of slow recovery had taught him that much. Watson could still recall, vividly, one long-ago evening at Baker Street when he had flown from his chair at the innocuous sound of Holmes dropping his violin bow. The most notable thing about it - and something that Watson wished he had thought on before now - was that Holmes had done nothing in response to Watson's attack of nerves, aside from sit down on the floor and chatter casually on about nothing until Watson crawled out from behind the settee. Holmes had then poured him tea and ignored the clink of the spoon in the sugar bowl caused by Watson's trembling hands. In fact, Holmes hadn't given him so much as a strange look about any of it. Neither of them had ever mentioned the episode again, least of all to apologize.

The remembrance did something for Watson that his own sense of compassion had not. It hardened him, and it erased a disgust that he had not realized he harbored – a disgust toward Holmes for a weakness that he could not control. Watson owed him no more than what Holmes himself had given all those years ago when they first took rooms together. Nothing. He owed Holmes nothing.

Watson stretched out a bit and Holmes immediately tried to move his right leg down. "No – " Watson braced his foot there instead, his ankle nestling into the crook behind Holmes' knee. "Don't move, Holmes." He shifted to splay his hand between Holmes' shoulder blades instead and guided him back down with a firm but gentle shove. "Third finger – Holmes, no!" He held firm as Holmes sought to roll and draw his legs in. "Just stay put and think of something else. A case. What have you been working on?"

Some odd brand of squeak made it's way from Holmes' throat before he consented to sink back down. "A petty theft. It's nothing. Husband in debt, wife wants her family jewels back from the loan – " Holmes twitched as Watson twisted his fingers to angle a third one against him. " – loan shark he paid them to – god – Watson – "

"Calm." Watson threw his weight down to keep Holmes from scrabbling away from him, struck by the incongruous though that perhaps trying to be kind about this was somehow making it worse. "It's okay. Holmes, it's alright." He pressed his third finger in between the others and tried not to be discouraged by the renewed clenching around them. "Calm down. There's nothing to be afraid of." Watson grimaced the moment he said that, but he couldn't very well take it back. "Steady… Breathe, Holmes. Come on. Holmes, breathe."

Holmes sucked in a breath with considerable effort, then all but screamed as he twisted at the sensation of his insides stretching.

"Holmes!" Watson barely managed to ride out the frantic struggle that ensued. By the time Holmes subsided, Watson had all three fingers lodged firmly inside and was basically laying on top of him with his free arm latched underneath Holmes and around his chest, as close to an embrace as he could get without losing hold of him. "There," Watson crooned. "There, see? Not so bad, is it?"

Holmes arched his back and then buried his face in his arms to hide his sobbing. "Il fait mal," he moaned. "Watson, it hurts! Please..."

That did it – made a liar of Watson and unmanned him at the same time. He tucked his face in against Holmes' neck as his breath hitched. "I know...god help me, I know."

"Eight minutes."

Watson started at the sound of Blackwood's voice, and then he hurled the jar of vaseline across the room without a single thought for the consequences. "Go to hell, you filthy cur! And wallow in your own wretched filth!"

"Ooo." Blackwood positively beamed at that, his eyes flickering to the jar that had missed him by a long shot and shattered against the wall. "What harsh words."

Watson trembled with rage and clutched Holmes close to his chest as he bellowed, "If the Yard doesn't hang you for this, I'll do it my damn bloody self, and to hell with them!"

Blackwood lounged back and smugly crossed his arms over his chest. "You still have only eight minutes. If you would prefer to spend them shouting at me, then by all means continue."

It took an immeasurable effort not to do just that, but Holmes was whimpering in his arms both from the discomfort and from Watson's enraged yelling, something that dissolved once again into half-sensical French. "...ceci ne se produit pas - je ne suis pas ici, je suis bien..."

Watson kept a seething glare turned on Blackwood as he laid back down and all but encased Holmes with his body. "Go somewhere else, Holmes. Anywhere else."

Blackwood just had to make his presence known again. "He already did, Doctor. Aren't you listening?"

Watson bared his teeth and snarled, "Shut up!"

"Doesn't seem to be working, though." Blackwood let out a theatrical sigh and frowned at his pocket watch as if disappointed with the show. "A pity, that." He glanced up and raised an eyebrow. "Seven minutes. You'd better get on with it."

That damn voice. Watson tore his gaze away and tried desperately to concentrate on Holmes. It would haunt him; he knew it – the false sweetness that dripped from every languid word, the evil... "Holmes. Holmes, listen to me. I have a case for you. It's a – " Watson scoured his brain for something, anything that he had read lately, even the transparent plots of his blasted sea novels and the idiotic letters to the editor from his medical journals. "It's a riddle. It came as a riddle. You have to solve it, Holmes. Listen, you have to solve it."

"Inventive," Blackwood interjected.

Watson muttered, "Ignore him," as much to himself as to the man gradually quieting beneath him. "The murderer is the man with the revolver. Do you understand me? You have to figure out who owns the revolver."

Holmes hiccupped and raised his head a fraction before he went still. "Someone was shot?"

"Yes, Holmes. Murdered." Watson swallowed to keep his voice level and gently began to move his fingers as he spoke. "There is a street – "

"Which street?" Holmes asked.

Watson stumbled over his voice, then stammered, "Canal Street." He probed deeper as he spoke and tried not to watch Holmes claw at the ground. "On Canal street, there are – "

Holmes sniffled and broke in with, "Which section of Canal Street?"

"Which – " Watson made an exasperated face. "Holmes, it hardly matters. On Canal Street, there are five – "

"It matters very much," Holmes interrupted again. His voice wobbled and an unnatural sheen glazed his eyes, but he was focusing on something other than their situation, and that was all that Watson cared about right now. "If we're speaking of the west end, then any trace mud spatters will differ – "

"Fine, then it's the east end." Watson dropped his forehead to Holmes' shoulder and swore under his breath. "At the east end of canal street, there are five houses."

"Which side of the street are they on?"

Watson rolled his eyes. "Oh, for god's sake." He felt Holmes' leg curl around the foot he had braced at Holmes' knee, but didn't look at it. "At the east end of canal street, facing the Thames, there are five houses." He paused to give Holmes an opportunity for another pointless question, then went on. "Each house is a different colour, and each of the five inhabitants come from a different country. They each smoke – "

"I find that highly unlikely." As he spoke, Holmes stretched forward, but it wasn't a flex of his back borne of ease; he sought distance that he couldn't have. "East Canal street is mainly populated by German immigrants. The odds of there being five consecutive neighbors, each from a different country, are extremely low."

Watson stared blankly at Holmes' ear for a moment, then decided to just ignore him. "Each person smokes a different brand of tobacco, each has a different weapon at his disposal, and each man's shoes are covered in mud from a different area of London." Watson rotated his fingers as much as he could, pressing against Holmes' insides to loosen them further.

Holmes grunted in discomfort and shrank into the floor, but he snarked, "How did you gather this information? Are you certain it's accurate?"

Watson groaned in irritation. "You, my dear friend, are quite possibly the most impossible individual I have ever met."

"So you haven't verified it?"

"Stop complicating things, Holmes."

Even with his respirations choppy and his voice splintering apart, Holmes somehow managed to sound arrogant where detection was concerned. "And furthermore, the east end of Canal street consists of nothing but warehouses and fisheries. Who on earth told you otherwise?"

Well. At least Watson had succeeded in distracting him. "Perhaps I meant to say Covington."

"Yes, perhaps you did," Holmes replied. He winced at a particular movement of Watson's fingers and visibly wavered for a moment, then remarked in a slightly strained tone, "It would certainly make more sense to have five houses on Covington."

"Right, that must be it." Watson glanced down and marveled at the way Holmes seemed to have divorced himself from what was going on, so much so that he had relaxed enough to allow Watson's fingers relatively easy passage. Now if he could just manage to remember all of the riddle's clues. He had certainly spent enough time fretting over them as he worked out the answer for himself last week. Watson withdrew his fingers to the accompaniment of a sharp gasp and a shudder from Holmes, then regretted his earlier rash attempt to brain Blackwood with the vaseline jar. "Right. Now, listen carefully." He shifted over to properly lie atop Holmes' prone body and smeared the remainder of the petroleum jelly over his soft member. "The Englishman lives in the red house."

"Right," Holmes offered. "Red house." He jerked his hips to the side when he felt Watson press against his arse, then hissed and let his head drop between his tense shoulders, forehead to the ground.

Watson angled himself to one side and tried to rub something useful into his groin. "The Swede carries a pocket blade." Nothing was happening down below and Watson grimaced in a flash of cold panic as he curled his fingers around himself and tried to massage some tension into his flaccid member. He had to do this. It had to work. He must have less than six minutes left by now; there wasn't time enough for him to get performance anxiety. "The Dutchman's shoes are covered in mud from Whitechapel."

Holmes covered his head with both arms and then nodded, his whole body quivering with nerves.

Watson squeezed his eyes shut and tried to summon up an alluring image, rubbing furiously at himself to gain some feeling. "The green house is directly to the left of the white house." A faint tingling greeted his efforts and Watson set his toes firmly on the ground, his throat closing momentarily over a soft, despairing and needy sound that originated far back in his lungs. "The owner of the green house tracked in mud from the western shipyards."

"Is this actually a riddle or are you making it up?" Holmes labored up onto his elbows and craned his neck to look at Watson over his shoulder. His brow creased as his gaze dropped to Watson's hand, and then he blanched.

A pained expression crossed Watson's face and he bit his upper lip, mustache and all. He didn't cease his efforts, though – he couldn't afford to now that the blood had finally started flowing southward. "Holmes, don't. Don't look."

"Dear g-huh – " Holmes flung himself back down and gathered two handfuls of Watson's coat up under his nose, his eyes squeezed shut. His voice no less pitchy for being muffled in the fabric, he echoed, "Green house, west shipyards."

"The man who smokes Virginia tobacco carries a bull whip, and-ngh..." Watson swallowed any further sound and frowned in dual concentration, his hand pulling firmly at his engorged flesh. He was hard, but not hard enough. "And the owner of the yellow house…uh…smokes T-huh-rkish red." He was breathing more harshly now, and he prayed that Holmes didn't notice. "The man in the center house has shoes caked in mud from Westminster, and the Russian lives in the first house." Watson bowed his head, heavy with forced arousal, and rested it against Holmes' back. "Oh..." He shivered with a sudden jolt of pleasure and rounded his back as if he'd been seized by a spasm. He could feel Holmes flinch at the slurred moan and tried to grab hold of his remaining wits through the dim haze that had begun to scatter in his mind. "The man who smokes the Perique blend lives next to the man who...who carries a billy club." His voice had gone up half an octave but he could do nothing to bring it back down to a neutral, soothing register. "The man with the sword cane lives next to the man who smokes Turkish red. The man who smokes Latakia is stained with mud from the Cleveland district."

Holmes kept nodding, but he buried his face more deeply in his handful of Watson's coat, his torso bending off to one side while his stomach remained flat on the ground.

Watson blinked at a few moles on Holmes' back, then shook himself. "The German smokes Egyptian cigarettes, and the Russian lives next to the blue house." A particularly strong blot sizzled through him and Watson groaned through his teeth, more a hiss than anything else, his back arched. Holmes jumped at both the sound and the feel of Watson suddenly jerking against him, his arms cinching tighter about his head to keep himself hidden, like a child stuck in the writhing dark. Watson flared his nostrils on a forceful exhale and finished rapidly, "The man who smokes Perique is the neighbor of the man stained with mud from Cavendish." God, he hoped that was everything. "...mnnnn… Did you get that?"

Holmes mumbled an affirmative into his mound of crushed great coat.

"Repeat it back." Watson grunted and stopped stroking to look down at himself, hating the flushed flesh cupped in his palm. "The whole thing, Holmes. Now." Watson propped himself awkwardly over Holmes and wrapped an arm under his stomach to lift his hips up. The move dragged Holmes backward a few inches despite his instinctive flinch and the inadvertent scrabbling of his feet, and Holmes hugged the coat along with him. Watson shoved and pulled Holmes halfway up onto his knees and then snapped, "Holmes. Repeat the riddle, old boy."

Holmes squirmed as Watson positioned him, then yelped at the sensation of Watson's erection settling between his arse cheeks. He probably would have tried to slither away if Watson hadn't grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved his upper body back to the floor.

The rest of Watson followed and he draped himself carefully over Holmes, shifting to once again hold Holmes' head down by the back of his neck. Holmes protested that more strenuously than the rest of it, his fingers plucking at Watson's against his nape, but Watson refused to let up. "Holmes, the riddle. Tell me who the murderer is."

Holmes almost snarled as he scratched at Watson's hand where it curled over the back of his neck; the sound quickly degenerated into some sort of pitched whine, and then Holmes replied, "The German in the green house."

Watson froze in spite of himself. "You...you solved that in less than a minute?"

"It was simple," Holmes mumbled. He stopped clawing at Watson and set about trying to paw behind him with his other hand, fingers pressing at uneven intervals into Watson's flank.

"Whu - simple?! Holmes, it took me two hours to work through that."

"I know." He left off groping Watson's ribs in favor of squirming about as if trying to get comfortable. "You left little scraps of paper all over the hearth rug."

Watson caught at Holmes' hand to keep it still; watching Holmes scrabble at every random bit of earth within his grasp actually left Watson's stomach hollow. "So you cheated?" Watson demanded with no heat. "You saw all of my work, and then you sat here while I blathered on like an idiot, trying to distract you?"

"No." Holmes heaved in a great shuddering breath, his back rising with the expansion of his chest, and lost it just as quickly. "It was just easy."

"Was it?" Watson blinked, disturbed. He didn't consider himself stupid by any means, not even compared to Holmes, and yet the manners in which their minds worked differed so vastly that he couldn't help feeling like a moron at times like this.

Holmes wriggled his shoulders in the pale echo of a shrug. "Didn't want you to stop talking."

That was too depressing to contemplate at the moment, so Watson hooked his chin over Holmes's shoulder and worked his arm beneath Holmes instead, around his sternum. "It should be a wonder that you still manage to surprise me, old chap."

Holmes curled a little bit and then glanced over his shoulder, sidelong, to better read the sentiment behind that statement. A mere sliver of air separated their faces. Holmes looked ghastly this close up, but his upper lip curled at one corner, a bare flicker of fondness. Watson wondered why he hadn't seen that before – that Holmes was visibly grateful to have him. That any praise he earned from Watson left him just a shade short of glowing with an odd, lonely sense of pride.

Watson couldn't smile back, though he was sure that the attempt showed. He didn't need to be told that they had precious little time left, and Watson felt his own expression mirror the fall in Holmes'. Barely audible, Watson told him, "Breathe."

Holmes' eyes waxed a bit wider, and then Watson lifted his pelvis, one hand holding himself steady below while the other tightened around Holmes, his hand curling up around Holmes' shoulder near the base of his neck. Holmes twisted his lower body, but not much, and sank down onto his right hip. Rather than bother trying to get him back up on his knees, Watson hooked his hand behind Holmes' right thigh and dragged it up toward his armpit, like before, planting his own knee behind it to keep it still. Holmes tensed but Watson's full weight descended on top of him to keep him down. It couldn't stop Holmes' fingers curling into the packed earth floor, though, nor slow the wild beating of his heart against the forearm that Watson had shoved beneath him.

"Don't clench," Watson instructed. He wasn't using his doctor voice, but rather that strangely warm and husky one that only Holmes ever seemed to merit, and only when they sat alone in front of the sitting room fire. "If you can, push out, but try not to clench." He estimated four minutes before Blackwood's time limit expired, and no doubt existed in Watson's mind that the blackguard would make good on his threat to take over the proceedings, no matter how far along Watson managed to get them before that. He would not be able to take his time at all, and no matter what Holmes said, he could neither stop nor even slow down, not even if it hurt, and it would hurt at first.

Holmes obeyed the command to breathe, though he did so far too quickly and Watson wondered if it were Holmes' intention to make himself hyperventilate and pass out. With one hand directing his own prick, Watson extracted his other arm from beneath Holmes and leaned his forearm perhaps a little too hard over Holmes' shoulder blades, but he had to be certain that Holmes couldn't escape him in a momentary fit of startled panic. The coming sensation would be nothing like Watson's earlier intrusion with his fingers; it would be oppressive, and even though the girth was about the same, it would feel fuller, rounder. As Watson braced himself for the coming struggle, he felt his own hardness flag and gave it a few irritated strokes, too harsh and tight for his own standards, but the slight pain grounded him, and in light of his anger, it did the job.

Holmes squirmed under Watson's arm and lifted his pelvis a fraction. The movement seemed inviting, but Watson knew better; Holmes was trying not to let his own engorged flesh drag across the wool beneath him. Watson bore down with his left hip and Holmes jerked forward with a sharp, choked cry at the inadvertent friction it caused.

"Okay," Watson murmured. He pressed his lips softly to the nape of Holmes' neck. "Deep breath, and let it out slowly."

Holmes sucked in a breath far too quickly and held it for a split second, his ribcage expanded with air beneath Watson's body. As soon as Holmes started to let it out, Watson pressed the tip of his erection to Holmes' entrance and pushed forward. Instead of the expected struggle, Holmes' breath left him in a sudden burst and then he went stiff all over.

"Good," Watson breathed. His vision hazed over at the overwhelming heat he found himself in. "…hhhoh...relax, Holmes." He made it past the outer sphincter with only a modicum of difficulty, his face pinched in something like pain because it felt horribly wonderful and he hated that all but raping his dearest friend could feel so damn good. That was as far as he could get, though; Holmes clamped down and made a pointless attempt to wrench himself aside. "Shh...no, it's okay. Holmes, it's okay. Relax for me." Watson tried to press in further, but the barrier he met could not have been breached without causing Holmes pain. He angled his hips downward anyway because they didn't have time enough to make it pleasant. "Trust me. Holmes, trust me."

Holmes grabbed at fistfuls of Watson's great coat and it seemed to Watson that he tried to flatten himself against the ground as he brought the heavy fabric up over his head and covered it with both arms. Watson let go of his prick and draped himself over Holmes, unrelenting as if he sought to impale Holmes against the ground the way that Holmes staked his mail to the mantelpiece with a dagger. He kept his right knee braced firmly behind Holmes' and used his free hand to peel the coat back before Holmes managed to suffocate himself.

Carefully, Watson circled his hips and caught at Holmes' right thigh as soon as he felt the tension against his own leg, pinning it down before Holmes could try to buck him off. "Push out. Holmes, push out." Watson rubbed his cheek between Holmes' shoulders and then suckled at the jut of the vertebrae at the base of Holmes' neck. Against Holmes' skin, Watson whispered, "It's alright – push, Holmes. Bear down." Somewhere in his periphery, Watson caught the waver of shadows that signaled Blackwood uncrossing his legs. Shit – time, there was no time – they must be out of time –

Watson canted his hips and basically tried to stab his way forward. Across the room, Blackwood stopped moving, probably because Holmes' sudden shriek fascinated him, or pleased him, or – stop thinking. Watson breathed in the perspiring scent of fear that clung to Holmes' hairline and sank forward as Holmes thrashed, rectal muscles rippling around Watson's length in the most horrifically tantalizing manner. Watson grunted with the effort of keeping Holmes pinned as he brought their hips flush. He shouldn't like this, it shouldn't feel so good, there shouldn't be heat pooling and burning through his belly and he shouldn't be comparing Holmes' insides to wet, hot silk. But it did, and he did, and god…oh god, he had never imagined, in his most depraved thoughts, that sodomy could feel so much better than being inside a woman, that it could wring that stifled groan from his own constricted throat and leave him twitching at the unrestrained, depraved pleasure of being inside something so deliciously tight.

Holmes clawed the coat until he got enough of it gathered in his fingers to shove between his teeth to muffle the unrestrained sobs of pain that he couldn't hold back. Watson breathed hard and fought not to lose control as a plethora of conflicting sensations and impulses sought to wrest the last shreds of morality from him. In an effort to calm them both, Watson laid a series of hurried, chaste kisses all along Holmes' neck and then whispered meaningless words into Holmes' ear. He could have been murmuring encouragements or just babbling about how good Holmes felt – Watson couldn't hear himself past the rush of blood in his ears and the heady pleasure that thrummed through his veins. He would hate himself in the morning, he knew that, but right now, all he could process was the way Holmes restless quivers and twitches contrived to squeeze his prick and leave sparks trailing up his spine like fingertips tripping up his back, and he could almost make himself believe that the pitiable sounds that caught in Holmes throat and smothered against the fabric in his teeth were actually the wanton sounds of a lover enraptured by his attentions. Almost. The set of Holmes' shoulders and the way he strained against Watson's knee bracing his right leg wide argued against that, but Watson had to bask in his delusions lest he lose whatever nerve he had left.

The joints of Blackwood's chair creaked and Watson pushed forward even though he was already buried to the hilt. He didn't move inside Holmes so much as flex against him, sweat greasy against his thighs where they molded to Holmes' legs. Holmes heaved beneath him, and Watson slicked Holmes' damp hair back, more or less petting him with too much force. It almost looked like Holmes would be sick after all, just as he had warned earlier, and Watson kept petting him, combing fingers through his already irreparable disarrayed hair, murmuring reassurances to him that it was okay if he threw up, and he promised he wouldn't tell anyone, just like Holmes had never told anyone about the puddle of vomit behind the settee, or the overturned ash bin, or the broken lamp.

Holmes merely gagged in response and choked in an effort to swallow anything and everything that threatened to come out of him, including fractured sobs and gulps of air. Eventually, he sank his teeth into his own fist and let his nose run all over his knuckles to mingle with the saliva that his glands produced in excess as a side effect of nausea.

Watson had to start moving then; he had no choice. In his periphery, he could see revolvers trained on them, and Blackwood had crept closer, the better to observe his handiwork. Watson lifted his hips a fraction and fought to sink back down slowly, fully aware of the moment his tip grazed Holmes' prostate because of the strangled, involuntary groan it forced from the man beneath him. Holmes tried to shy his hips down, but that only produced a different unwanted friction, and when he jerked his pelvis up to escape that as well, he ended up sucking Watson deeper. Pinioned in place like that, Holmes couldn't help but be stimulated, and Watson could tell how it terrified him to feel anything akin to pleasure in the midst of this act.

The pressure inherent in sex was nothing new to Watson, but for the first time in his life, he felt disgust at his own body's reaction – the sharp thrill of unnamable anticipation, the tightening of his buttocks as his muscles clenched to push forward again, the burning drive toward completion that could not be banked at this late point in the game. Watson's arousal may have been a revolting thing to contemplate right now, but it was no longer half-hearted; he knew that he would be able to reach the end, and that it would come hard when he did. The thought simultaneously comforted and repelled him, and the way that Holmes squirmed around him as he fought to remain still only compounded both the repugnance and the dark heat coursing through his loins. He could feel his prick throbbing in counterpoint to his pulse, hard and gorged and aching, surrounded by the sweetest pressure a man could know.

Watson knew that it was only his hormones that made the air seem stifling all of a sudden, his skin flushed and burning as the pulsing rhythm of his first cautious motions gave way to proper thrusts. A few strokes in, Holmes seized under him. Prostate, Watson thought in a dull rush of thought. He adjusted himself to make shallow thrusts so that he could keep hitting Holmes in that one spot, and when Holmes twisted and gasped at the unwanted flood of arousal, Watson folded him closer and shoved his arms beneath Holmes, both of them. Elbows to the ground and shaking with the effort of moving under the influence of such ecstatic pleasure, he forced his fingers into Holmes' clenched fists.

Holmes latched onto Watsons' hands with a crushing grip, his body moving of its own will to counter Watson's thrusts, his face buried between their joined hands as he shuddered and scrabbled his feet ineffectually at the ground. Watson heard him growl something incomprehensible that ended in a muffled cry punctuated with a hiccupped sob. Holmes sounded like a broken puppy, an impression helped by the way he kept trying to wriggle away from each thrust that Watson landed against his prostate, and Watson buried his face in the heated flesh between Holmes' neck and shoulder, mouthing mindlessly at the skin he found there.

Holmes made an odd sound and tried to move his neck away from the offending mouth at his carotid. Watson had enough sense to leave off tonguing him, but he couldn't help the shudder that wracked through him, or the way it drove his next thrust harder as a brief wave of ecstasy bowled through him, a precursor he knew well. Holmes gave a frantically warbled grunt that made it sound as if he were being garroted, and at the unexpected force of Watson's next few erratic thrusts, he convulsed and blew snot all over the ground in front of them. Watson tried to tug one of his hands free but Holmes wouldn't let go of his fingers, so he shifted more firmly on top of Holmes and curled over him, his rhythm staggered as he gradually unraveled. He needed to free one of his hands – he needed to touch Holmes now, make him come now, because Watson couldn't hold out much longer, and he couldn't afford any further delay even if he had wanted to prolong this incessantly blissful torture.

"Let go." Watson bit the shell of Holmes' ear in the hope of getting him to pay attention to the words, but all Holmes did was flinch was fling his head to the side, then down to bury his ear safe in the bunched wool of the great coat. "Holmes, let go of my hand. I need my hand."

Holmes lifted his head and Watson noticed a slight twitch of Holmes' cheek as he clamped his jaw, a subtle tick that traveled over to flared nostrils and bared teeth. Something in his expression alerted Watson to a foreign overtone that he had never seen on Holmes' face before. He had seen it in others, though – in Afghanistan, after the anesthetic ran out, on the faces of the men who howled and mindlessly fought the doctors trying to take off limbs to save them with nothing but rubbing alcohol to dull the agony of the bone saw.

Watson shoved their joined right hands forward just in time to avoid Holmes' attempt to bite at him. Even in the boxing ring, concussed and beaten halfway unconscious, Holmes never lost control of himself, never failed to reign in his own devastating skill. A thrill of fear pierced Watson's gut at the thought of what that might entail – of Holmes caught in a mindless survival instinct. He was strong, all wiry sinew and muscle on account of his lacking diet, perhaps stronger than Watson, and he certainly didn't have any gimpy limbs to contend with.

Holmes turned his head toward Watson's other hand and Watson barely managed to drag both of their arms down and tuck them safely under Holmes' body, halfway to his stomach. "Holmes, no!"

Holmes' left shoulder dug into the ground without their combined elbows braced to support them, and Watson felt him contort, tipping them both to the left just enough for Holmes to kick at Watson's thigh – his bad one.

A slice of agony lanced up Watson's leg to pierce his hip. "God dammit! Holmes!" He still had hold of Holmes' right hand, and rather than release it to better grapple with him, Watson wrenched his arm back behind Holmes' head and pressed down. "Hold still – Holmes, stop! Please, for god's sake, stop!"

"Laissez-moi – ne me touchez pas!"

Watson couldn't recall ever hearing such an unrecognizable, raw edge to Holmes' voice. "Holmes…Holmes, stop! I have to do this – you told me to do this!"

"Enculé – Arrêtez, fils de putain – non!"

"Holmes, I don't want to hurt you. Please don't make me hurt you."

"Menteur! Vous aimez ceci. Batard – vous aimez me blesser!"

Watson grit his teeth as Holmes turned more ferocious in his struggling, jarring Watson's already tender leg and shoulder as he thrashed. "Stop – Holmes, for god's sake, don't!"

"Casse-toi! Vous avez toujours voulu faire ceci. Vous m'avez dit cela – vous l'avez dit!"

Regardless of the language, Watson could recognize profanity when he heard it. He felt queasy, knowing that whatever Holmes was spitting at him, it was meant to hurt him. Blackwood's high-pitched, muffled laughter in the background, and the realization that he could understand Holmes' cursing, only made it that much worse. Considering Blackwood's audible glee at whatever Holmes was screaming at him, Watson wondered if perhaps he shouldn't be grateful that he couldn't comprehend the full meanings of the words. "Holmes…Holmes, please, it's only me."

Holmes' fury seemed to die down and Watson tried to get on with it, to get it over with. It took him a few hazy moments, his mind fuzzed over with arousal that, to his disgust, had not been dimmed by the struggling, to realize that Holmes had not given in. He had merely diverted his efforts to trying to get his right leg braced beneath himself, preparatory to pushing up and tipping Watson off. Watson grunted, his teeth grinding together, and even as he wondered at his own possessive flash of aggression, he was wrenching his right hand from Holmes' grasp and hooking it behind Holmes' knee. In a frankly brutal move, Watson yanked Holmes' knee out from under him and they both flopped flat again, Holmes wheezing as Watson's weight momentarily crushed the air from his lungs.

"Stop, stop – Holmes, calm down – " Watson's voice had dropped to a frantic, deafening whisper even as tears stung his eyes and his lame leg throbbed. His shoulder didn't appreciate the rough treatment either, but all he had to do there was keep Holmes' arm pinned down around his own waist, and with their combined weight resting on top of their hands, there wasn't much trouble there. "You know me. You trust me. I'm Watson; I'm your friend – Holmes, I don't want to do this, but I have to – I have to because I'm your friend, and I can't let – "

"Vous n'êtes pas mon ami; vous êtes un pédé – un écœurante pédé!"

Pédé. Watson knew that one. Certain slurs, he was familiar with, thanks to his service in the army. Fag. It was stupid, how much that hurt; Watson knew what Holmes was like, knew how terrified he was of this exact thing happening to him. He even knew damn well that when Holmes found himself cornered on a personal level – over something non-empirical, bombarded by emotions that were completely foreign to him – he couldn't cope. In fact, the only thing Holmes could cope with in his life was his work. When anything else reared its head in front of him, he either retreated to the cocaine bottle, or – when that was not an option – he lashed out with whatever he had available, just as he had when Watson had denied him the relief of the needle a week ago. Just like now. Holmes was terrified and in pain, and Watson was the one hurting him, and he couldn't reconcile those two facts because Watson was his Mother Hen, and Watson never hurt him.

"God…Holmes, please. Please listen to me." Watson used his heavier frame to keep Holmes pinned flat beneath him no matter how hard he tried to thrash his way free, and caught again at Holmes' right wrist. "Holmes, it's alright. It's alright! Just stop – "

Holmes spit out something incomprehensible in French, probably too garbled for even Blackwood to understand, and then he broke into a helpless, choking sob as the fury abruptly abated. "Je veux Watson." Holmes heaved a piteous cry into the great coat as he dropped his head and fought to breathe past the mucous in his throat. "Je veux mon Watson."

"I know. Holmes, please, you have to stop." Watson didn't think any of his words were getting through, and he tried pressing his lips into Holmes' hair, barely aware of the crusted saline marring his own face. Holmes went to bite him again, less an attempt to fight him than a residual instinct at self preservation, and Watson twisted Holmes' arm across the back of his neck again, then jabbed his own elbow between Holmes' shoulder blades in an implicit threat. There were pressure points there, at the lower tips of the scapulae. All Watson had to do was press his elbow down, and the pain alone would leave him frozen, as Holmes well knew, but he couldn't – he couldn't hurt his dearest friend any more than he already had, and god damn it, Blackwood was going to pay for making him do this. "It will be over soon. Holmes, I – "

Holmes let loose a horrible wail that fractured into a series of convulsive hiccups when his struggling ended in Watson's elbow jabbing his spine.

Watson shifted over him to try to move his elbow, but when that merely served to prompt a renewed bout of frantic struggling, Watson yelled, "Sherlock!"

Holmes froze, aside from the heaving of his lungs as he struggled to breathe. It had to hurt, the way Watson had twisted him up to hold him in place, but Holmes made no sound other than to gulp in air. Somehow, throughout the entire struggle, they had remained joined below, and though Watson had stilled as well, they both moved in fits and starts as Holmes repeatedly stiffened only to stop himself from the imminent squirming, and Watson tightened his grip to warn him off trying to struggle any more. Watson managed to hold them to each other, Watson's stomach cradled in the small of Holmes' back, his chest pressed between Holmes' shoulders where he could actually feel the stutter-thump of Holmes' heart pounding against his own.

Holmes' right leg jerked in a residual spasm of sorts and grunted when tried to loosen the arm holding his head down, only to have Watson squeeze his fingers around Holmes' wrist. Holmes' stomach muscles clenched as he tried to round and raise his back to unbalance Watson – Watson could feel it against the arm he had shoved under Holmes' body – but again, nothing came of it. He flopped back down, still digging his toes into the ground in a wasted effort, and his breath hitched over some sort of high-pitched squeak.

"Holmes." Watson heard the break in his own voice, winded as he was, and swallowed. He had no idea what to say, though, and to make matters worse, he was now painfully aroused thanks to the struggle, an odd thrill running through his veins that felt like triumph at subduing another, equally virile man. It wouldn't take long for him to finish now, he knew that much – a few more quick thrusts and it would be over.

Of its own accord, Watson's body moved, his hips twitching forward, goaded on by the swirl of arousal that had flooded his body. Holmes jerked and tried to do something with his legs, but Watson had him too securely pinned. A thin whine worked its way from Holmes' throat, and he seemed to elongate under Watson, stretching forward as he arched his head back, trapped. Watson glanced over his shoulder to where his right knee once again braced Holmes' leg at a ninety degree angle to his body, then shut his eyes and jogged his hips forward, mashing his face into Holmes' hair.

Watson wasn't expecting it the next time Holmes tensed – he had honestly blocked out the fact that his was Holmes pinned beneath him – but it wasn't a renewed effort to struggle free. Holmes' respirations had picked up, ragged, irregularly spaced bursts of air past parted lips, and he arched his back without warning, a strained groan caught and strangled in his throat. Watson tightened his hold only because he wasn't sure what was going on, and watched Holmes' cheeks puff out with each labored breath he expelled. Holmes had his eyes closed, creased at the corners, his face scrunched in a concerted if slightly pained expression, and then he held his next breath for a split second before gasping it out, only to hold the next one as well.

"Yes." The word was out before Watson could stop it, and he changed the angle of his thrusts to hit Holmes' prostate again and again, forcing him on. "Yes, Holmes. That's it – come on."

The next breath Holmes let out came tinged in a soft if dejected moan, wrung out at the end, and Watson let his own respirations falter too. He could feel Holmes holding himself back as if the little death might actually kill him, were he to give into it. Holmes strangled the next sound that threatened to escape him and then his eyes flew open, sightless. He gaped as if he'd just been shot, his chest stuttering in an effort to draw air while his body refused to let him.

Watson said something else but he didn't hear it himself because the rush of pressure was already blossoming up his spine. He grit his teeth and pressed his forehead into Holmes' shoulder, blinking his gaze down to the trembling line of Holmes' updrawn calf. His toes had splayed and Watson watched his foot curl. Holmes inhaled a sharp, garbled cry and let his head drop, eyes clamped shut again as he struggled to breathe, his lips trembling over his teeth into a vaguely round shape. Then it took him, and Watson felt the wave roll through Holmes' body, cresting as Holmes flung his head back, his body convulsing against Watson's, strained muscles contracting at random as he twisted at the sweet agony of it.

Holmes bucked and inadvertently impaled himself deeper than Watson had intended. The involuntary clenching of muscles around Watson's prick finally spelled the end for him too and he curled, biting his lip to keep silent as the heat billowed and consumed him for one blinding instant. Holmes was still spasming around him when he came down, panting out clipped moans in the aftermath as each burst of release tore through him, limp even as the little death continued to ravage him and drag his hips forward into Holmes' body. He could hear Holmes whimpering, softly pitched cries interspersed with ragged sobs each time the dull rush of an aftershock sent the pressure of a tapering orgasm to invade and sear through the muscles of his buttocks and inner thighs, his shoulder blades, the base of his spine, hips jerking down against the great coat with each one…Watson knew what that felt like, and oh, how he hated knowing that it felt incredibly good, that each one edged on an insanity of over-stimulated pleasure, an addictive torture. He tried to hold Holmes through it in spite of the fact that he strongly suspected he might pass out himself. He only realized that he had lost his grip on Holmes' right hand when he saw chemical-stained fingers gouge into the dirt in front of them on their way to becoming a fist that Holmes drew over his head as he shook, stifling himself under his own arm.

Finally, it came to an inglorious end, and for one blissful moment, Watson basked in the warm glow that still encased his body, the room silent save for his off-kilter breathing and Holmes' wet, choked snuffs. All of that shattered when Watson blinked his vision back into focus and noticed boots in front of them. It didn't register at first, and then Watson scrambled up onto his knees, his softening prick slipping free, as if he intended to shield Holmes with his own body, like a pissed off cougar standing over her young. His left arm was still trapped under Holmes' body and Watson dragged his unresisting form a few inches back, lifting Holmes' middle partway off the ground and clutching at least that part of him to his own stomach. He felt like an animal in that moment, eyes blazing, nostrils flared. He would have growled but he caught himself in time and settled for glaring daggers up at Blackwood, his shoulders hunched, knees set wide and bracketing Holmes' hips. If he were capable of lunging off the ground like an animal, he would have, revolvers be damned. As it was, Watson merely stayed there, tensed to spring, and bared his teeth.

Blackwood wasn't even looking at him; he had his pocket watch cupped in one hand, his other ticking out seconds as if he were timing a horse race. Watson counted fourteen ticks, wary and shivering with suppressed rage, and then Blackwood sedately called, "Time."

Watson started, and then twitched when Blackwood moved back a step. He had expected an attack, not… "What?"

"Time," Blackwood repeated. A sickening grin flashed across his features, and Watson noticed a snarled front tooth that he hadn't seen before. In a thin mockery of admiration, he added, "Well done, Doctor. For a moment there, I didn't think you'd be able to do it."

Watson's lips worked in soundless shock as he processed… He'd done it? He'd beaten the time limit, he'd –

"Your friend has quite the mouth on him, doesn't he," Blackwood drawled. "Positively vulgar at times. It's enough to make me blush."

Watson hunkered down and dragged Holmes closer in a limp pile of shivering limbs. He didn't want a translation. God, don't let him translate it…

Blackwood's face twitched as if he were hiding a manic little smile. He knew what Watson was thinking; Watson didn't know how he knew, but he did – it was there in the quaver of his lips and the dark glint in his eye. For an instant, Watson could see the desire to tell Watson everything that Holmes had said in French, to widen the cracks in Watson's façade just a little further simply for the joy of being cruel. When Blackwood opened his mouth to speak, Watson stopped breathing. "And now if you would be so kind as to excuse me," Blackwood purred, "I really must get back to my primary responsibilities. You understand, of course."

Watson swallowed as if he had dodged a bullet, his eyes tracking Blackwood toward the door, a shadow misplaced in a dark wood. The sound of metal scraping into the keyhole made Watson flinch and the iron hinges wailed as the bars swung aside. Blackwood swept out with nary a backward glance, his henchmen following in like fashion. One of the bruisers yanked the door closed again, and Watson watched him lock them in before a cacophony of footsteps carried at least five people away down the corridor to the left of their cell. The echo of another door closing filtered into the murk of their prison, and then nothing. Silence descended.

Slowly, his blood still racing to fight, Watson lowered Holmes back to the ground and shifted down to sit on his left hip, his right leg crooked over Holmes' body with his ankle resting brushing Holmes' navel. Watson cast another stunned glance at the empty square of flickering light that marked the door and the sparsely illuminated hallway, and then the relief hit him like a lead weight. He bowed his head and clutched at Holmes' shoulder to anchor himself, then sank down until his forehead touched the space between Holmes' shoulder blades. Faint bruises wavered before his eyes where Watson had used too much force to subdue him.

Holmes had rolled himself into a loose question mark, silent and unmoving, and Watson pawed absently at Holmes' chest as the first sob escaped him. His arms buckled next and he slid down to fold around Holmes' limp body, pulling and grasping until he had Holmes clutched to his breast, his hands splayed over Holmes' heart. He wrung an explosive hiccup from himself and then he was weeping quietly into Holmes' neck, beside himself with too many emotions to count – grief, guilt, relief…the memory of how good it had felt at the end…

"Watson."

Holmes' voice barely carried to Watson's ears, either because Watson's nose was too stuffed up or Holmes had spoken too softly. In any case, Watson couldn't find it in himself to respond. Their friendship was over. Ruined. This was all he had left – this one brief moment of mourning, and he couldn't let it go yet.

When Holmes covered one of Watson's hands with his own, Watson hugged him tighter, certain that Holmes was about to pry him off and shove him away. He didn't understand when Holmes merely insinuated his fingers between Watson's and squeezed briefly. "John, it's alright."

Gratitude, Watson realized. No forgiveness, but only because Holmes wasn't blaming him for anything. Watson had thought he had already broken down, but this was somehow much worse. He sucked in a harsh breath and felt it catch and heave in his chest, and then he could hear himself choking and crying loudly enough that anyone within thirty feet would have heard him and assumed he was spluttering out his death rattle. Thankfully, Holmes didn't try to reassure him again; he just laid there with Watson's hand encased tightly in his own, and let him mourn whatever it was that he thought he had lost.

It felt like hours later that Watson finally quieted, breathing deep and ragged, and allowed Holmes to extricate himself. In reality, he figured that perhaps ten minutes had passed. Holmes claimed Watson's great coat for himself and insisted that Watson get dressed post haste. Watson, of course, obeyed, because that was what he always did when Holmes told him to get up and move his ass. He unfurled himself from the floor, dragged his own shame about him like a cloak, and made himself a passable version of presentable while Holmes tried to scrub the residue of both of them from his stomach and between his legs with one of Watson's handkerchiefs long after the last traces were gone. They didn't look at each other throughout, but Holmes paused every time Watson's breath hitched. Only for a heartbeat, but long enough for Watson to notice.

Escape should have been difficult, but when he and Holmes padded to the door, they stuck their heads through the bars to find no guards in the corridor. To make matters even more baffling, the cell door was hinged on the inside. They exchanged uneasy looks with each other but worked at the hinge pins without comment. The iron rods came free with no difficulty; someone had greased them perhaps a few day before.

They took pains to creep silently through the house, neither one of them steady on their feet, but once they reached the main floor, they found the whole structure devoid of life. Holmes' clothes were folded neatly on a table beside the front door, all of his belongings intact, even his wallet, and though it spooked both of them to their marrow, Holmes pulled his things on prior to them shoving each other out the door. The grounds appeared deserted too, but they sprinted along the side of the house and into the shadows of the landscaping just in case. When they reached the estate wall, Watson gave Holmes a leg up, his shoulder screaming obscenities at him. Holmes had to drag Watson up after him because Watson couldn't contain the winces and gasping breaths that the strain to his old injuries inflicted on him.

The drop down the other side didn't help, and Watson wasn't sure how he managed to get his feet under him. All he could recall was a blinding white flash as he hit the ground, and then Holmes hauling him upright by his arm pits only to lose his grip at the curb and drop him again. The darkness swam behind Watson's eyes and he lost control over his stomach then. It honestly had nothing to do with the pain, and he felt even more wretched when he realized that Holmes had caught him before he collapsed face-down in his own sick, kneeling behind Watson with his arms around him and his forehead pressed between Watson's shoulder blades. Holmes was whispering, in French again, but Watson didn't think he was supposed to hear it. "Vous êtes bien, Watson. Êtes bien, poule mere."

He pulled Watson away from the lumpy puddle as soon as Watson was done, fingers clenched around bunches of Watson's waistcoat, and then dragged him stumbling into the street. They hurried away together in the first gray light of morning, dodging light poles and early risers out for strolls, both of them limping and catching at each other when their feet tripped up on the pavement, moving by force of will alone.

They reached the corner of Baker Street just as a faraway clock tower struck the six o'clock hour, and by unspoken consent, they both stopped to lean against the side of the book seller's darkened shop; it wouldn't open for business until well past eight.

Holmes crumpled forward to brace his hands on his knees and Watson spoke to him for the first time since Blackwood's exit. "Did…did I hurt you? I mean, I did – I know I did, but…badly?"

Holmes straightened and Watson caught the purposefully slackening in his facial muscles as he suppressed his initial reaction. "I'm fine, Watson. I assure you."

"Are you lying to me?"

Obviously, Holmes caught the undercurrent to that question, and he peered at Watson with a gentle smile removed from the moment. "I will be fine. It's over."

Watson nodded and found himself unable to meet Holmes' gaze any longer. "You're lying," he concluded.

In Watson's periphery, Holmes shuffled his feet as he propped himself against the brick wall at their backs, and then Holmes murmured, "They had morphine."

Watson looked up, but only briefly; he caught a glimpse of the twitch at the corner of Holmes' mouth that meant he had failed to deduce something in good time, but nothing more. "I thought it was chloral."

Holmes shook his head; Watson only knew because he heard the swish of Holmes' hair snagging on the brick. "No, before. When… Watson, you don't understand. They knew."

That time, Watson did look at him, and he found that now Holmes was the one with the eye contact problem. He did not intend to sound scornful, but Holmes' cryptic statements had always irritated him. "Knew what?"

Holmes drew in a slow breath as if he needed to muster his resolve, and then he met Watson's gaze. "I took too much."

"Holmes, you already told me about the cocaine."

"Far too much, Watson." Holmes frowned in a manner that begged Watson to reach the correct conclusion because Holmes couldn't say it himself.

Watson's eyebrows drew together. "You mean…enough to be fatal?"

Holmes bit his lip as his gaze slanted aside. "Please don't start another fight on the subject, Watson. I know this is my fault; you don't need to tell me."

For now, Watson ignored the self-reproach in Holmes' words and demanded, "Was that your aim? Committing suicide just because I wouldn't let you habitually poison yourself in our rooms?"

Frightening for its utter softness, Holmes replied, "I was angry. It was an accident."

"You're an idiot." Watson slumped back against the wall and scrubbed at his face, then chanced a peek at Holmes. What he saw shocked him into dropping his hand, and then he grabbed at Holmes' shoulders and turned him in against his chest. "Jesus, I didn't mean it. I'm…not myself. I'm…I don't know what I am, but you're right; this fight is long concluded."

Holmes didn't embrace Watson in return, but he let his head droop onto Watson's good shoulder for a few seconds; it amounted to the same thing. His voice muffled in Watson's jacket, Holmes mumbled, "I'm sorry I made you do it. I shouldn't have let you."

"It's over," Watson assured him. "And it was my choice too. Think of how much worse it could have been."

"You must think me repulsive."

"Why would I think that?" Watson demanded. He pushed Holmes out to arm's length and held him there. "So you don't enjoy carnal pastimes. How does that make you repugnant?"

Holmes eyed him for a moment as if Watson's inability to follow his thought processes were incomprehensible to him, which it probably was. "No, not – because of me, you…Watson, you were sick in the street because of what I did to you."

"You did nothing to me," Watson snapped, his brows darkening.

"But I did – Watson, they were watching me. That's my point. They had been watching me. None of this would have happened if not for me."

Watson shook his head, but not because he didn't understand. "You're saying that they never meant to actually make contact with you?"

"Until it looked like I had screwed up and was about to do myself in." Holmes pursed his lips and glared suspiciously into the gradually rising morning fog. "Watson, this whole…setup. It was clumsy, contrived… Blackwood is more clever than this."

"If the stories can be believed."

"The stories can be believed," Holmes assured him. "This thing… It wasn't planned. He was making it up as he went along because he needed to cover up his real motivation in sending his lackeys in. They had the morphine on them when they broke the door down, Watson. That was their actual goal – to make certain I lived. The rest of this was a blind to throw me off the scent because he couldn't afford for me to know that. He played us both for fools. He knew that you would elect to do it yourself."

"You can't know that."

Holmes bit the inside of his cheek and then looked directly at Watson. "It was over twenty five minutes, Watson. He never had any intention of stepping in."

Watson stared at him without really seeing anything beyond a crust of dried saline that still stained the creases on either side of Holmes' nose. When Holmes grew to fidget and looked away, Watson spluttered, "But…why? Why save your life? Blackwood knows you're a threat to him. Logically, he should have let you die."

"Exactly." Holmes chewed his lips for a moment and then turned toward Watson without quite looking at any part of him. "Why indeed?"

"He needs you for something," Watson stated.

Holmes nodded, his eyes flickering up to Watson's with a guarded air that he'd never had toward Watson before. "Something foul is afoot."

Watson shook his head as a pretense to avert his gaze, and then sighed. "Look. I could use a bath and some hot tea, and then we should wire Lestrade and let him know – "

"No."

Watson cut himself off and glanced at Holmes. "He has to know. Holmes, this is definitive proof of Blackwood's depravity. Scotland Yard has been looking for an excuse to arrest him for years."

"He has done far worse than this in the past, Watson. And I am certain that he is planning far worse for the future."

"Holmes, you can't be serious. They will lock him up for this!"

"For two years at best," Holmes qualified. "And then he will be free again, and perhaps far more dangerous."

Watson gaped and then a flare of anger drove him to crowd Holmes back against the wall. "Holmes, he used us! He made me – "

Holmes moved without warning and clapped his hand over Watson's mouth. "Don't," he whispered. His eyes had gone wild and the dilation of his pupils betrayed his sudden fear. "Watson, don't."

Watson grabbed Holmes' wrist and tore it from his mouth. "Give me one good reason not to hail a cab right now."

Holmes pressed his lips together and aborted a shake of his head. He stared at Watson, trying to speak, and then dropped his gaze. Watson caught the hint of a shiver in the way Holmes shrugged his coat to fit better on his shoulders. Holmes addressed his shoes when he finally replied, "I want him on a hanging offense."

The indignation drained from Watson's body and he felt himself sagging on his own feet. Several seconds passed in indecision, Holmes picking at Watson's sleeve and Watson watching him, and then Watson released him with a nod. "Okay," he breathed.

Holmes looked up as if he hadn't expected that, his fingers curling in the air before he lowered his hand. He seemed vulnerable in the gray, fog-dimmed light.

Watson nodded again where Holmes could see it. "We'll wait, and catch him on a hanging offense."

Holmes' eyelids drooped in something that could have been mistaken for sleepiness. It was nothing like.

"Well." Watson gestured down the street, toward their home. He wasn't happy about this, but he had to admit that he wanted Blackwood hanged just as much as Holmes did. And in Watson's mind, Holmes was the more wronged of the two of them. It was his right to ask that much. "Shall we?"

Holmes made a noncommittal sound and Watson hugged his great coat closer as he stepped back onto the sidewalk. He paused when Holmes caught at his arm, and waited for Holmes to explain himself. No explanation came. Holmes stumbled closer, his fingers still closed over Watson's forearm, and then he seemed to hesitate, his eyes focused inward just long enough that Watson saw it. Before Watson could unravel the meaning of that expression, Holmes leaned up and kissed him. On the lips. It was just a peck, a ridiculous thing in light of what they had just been through, but there was a clear intent of some sort buried within.

Watson moved his head back on his neck without shifting any other part of his body, and regarded Holmes as if he had lost his mind. "…Holmes?"

Holmes shook himself and released Watson's arm. "Nothing." It was clearly something, and not something small. "Watson…I, um…" Holmes tripped back a few steps and nervously scanned the street, unable to look anywhere near Watson as he concluded, "I still trust you."

Watson's mouth went dry and he found himself soundlessly moving his lips with his gaze fallen to a crack in the sidewalk.

"I wanted to tell you…that." Holmes made a gesture of some sort in Watson's periphery, just a flop of his arm and nothing more. "Mrs Hudson will be worried by now. We should go assure her that we're both still among the living, before she calls in all of Scotland Yard to drag the Thames."

Watson didn't move at first, his feet cemented to the ground as Holmes ambled away on visibly unsteady legs. When Holmes glanced back and noticed Watson's immobility, he gave Watson an impatient look and stuffed his hands in his pockets. Watson shook himself and hurried to catch up.

Holmes gave Watson three more unexplained kisses over the following week, perfectly chaste despite their firm placement on Watson's lips, as if he were trying to understand something and couldn't quite put the pieces together. On Monday of the following week, Watson met a Miss Mary Morstan at a small café in Coventry. She was a safe and gentle creature, and Watson latched onto her in a desperate bid to erase the awkwardness that lingered between himself and Holmes. As Watson had hoped, Holmes ceased his attempts to initiate intimacy with Watson, if that had indeed been his aim by repeatedly kissing him; Watson still didn't know for certain, and he counted himself better off that way. It failed to give them back any semblance of ease with each other, however; Watson's newfound attachment merely distilled the awkwardness into something far less definable, and Holmes' perplexed attitude toward him morphed into a subtle hurt that was even less tangible still.

A month after that, a young lady of means disappeared only to be found dead in a ritualistic setting, her body surrounded by elements of black magic, stabbed in the chest at an angle that suggested she had died by her own hand. The girl's family hired Holmes to assist Scotland Yard in first proving that it was murder, not suicide, and after the coroner determined that the girl had been under the influence of a strong hallucinogen at the time of her death, Holmes took on the task of tracking down her killer. Then a second girl disappeared, and another, and another before Holmes finally found the evidence to connect the murders to Blackwood. A fifth girl disappeared before the authorities could apprehend him, but an anonymous tip pointed them to a crypt beneath an old abandoned church…