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The men who took me did not have me for long, barely a handful of hours, in fact. It was still enough to leave its mark on me.
They snatched me from outside of the house Holmes and I were scouting - he had gone to find a way in while I kept watch, and though I am a capable fighter, four against one was a bit much for me. I was summarily wrangled into the back of a cart and driven away into the night.
I fared no better in close quarters. I continued to struggle as much as I was able, but soon they had me blindfolded and gagged, my hands bound. I do not know precisely where they took me; I have never possessed Holmes's ability to determine where he is by the sounds of differing road textures beneath wheels. Suffice it to say that we must have driven for at least twenty minutes, turning this way and that, bumping and jostling all over the place, and I lost track entirely of which direction we were headed.
My captors wasted no time in further securing me once we stopped. I was marched into a building that held a strong odour of paint thinner and cement, then dragged up some stairs and into a small, cold room where they tied me to a chair. All the while they debated what to do with me in hushed, snapping voices. Would they kill me? Hold me for ransom? What the hell had they been thinking, kidnapping Sherlock Holmes’s friend? There was no way they’d get away with it.
I was very much inclined to agree with that last opinion.
Eventually I was left alone. I had no idea where I was and no way of escape. I strained against the ropes, tried to move the chair across the floor, to push the blindfold off against my shoulder, anything. Panic rose in my chest but I forced myself to stay calm; it would do nothing to help. I had not been seriously hurt, and Holmes would find me before anything worse happened. He would.
He would.
He did. Later, I was jolted from a half-doze when I heard shouting, running footsteps, gunfire and screams of agony that turned my blood to ice. If Holmes had come, and he had gotten hurt trying to save me…
Then I heard my name, bellowed in a high and powerful voice. “Watson! Watson, where are you?”
I made several muffled cries, though my throat was hoarse, in hopes of being heard above the din. Seconds later a door slammed open nearby and someone rushed to my side, whether attacker or rescuer I did not know. I cringed away, but then familiar, gentle hands were touching me, and I smelled a cologne and tobacco smoke mixture I would recognise anywhere.
"It's alright, Watson. John. It's me."
He pulled out the gag and kissed me hard, then reached for the blindfold. It was past dawn by then. The sight of his beloved face in the pale sunlight that was fighting its way through the grimy window…I didn't think I'd ever seen anything so wonderful. He freed me as quickly as he could and rubbed my arms and legs to alleviate the stiffness. Since we were evidently alone in my tiny prison, else he would not have taken the risk, he then gathered me to him and kissed me again.
"You found me." I laid my head on his chest and sighed with relief. "I knew you’d do it."
"They hurt you." He spoke through gritted teeth.
"I hurt them first." I'd had plenty of time to catalogue my injuries. They were not serious, thankfully; I had a few bruises, a small cut on my cheek, and my stomach was a bit tender after a well-placed elbow had winded me.
Still, I clung to my Holmes for as long as I could before the sound of approaching police forced us apart. He stayed close until we were able to escape in a cab back home. He smiled and pontificated and said all the right things to Bradstreet, who fortunately didn't appear to think anything unusual of the fact that Holmes would not stop touching me. A careful hand on my back here, a proprietary tweak of my coat collar there, a supportive elbow to help me into the cab. That terribly possessive and protective streak I know so well was out in full force. On the journey home he sat at my side with his arm around me, silent and severe.
Once we were finally safe back in our sitting room behind a locked door, after a quiet word to Mrs Hudson that we would not be taking breakfast just yet, he bade me sit on the sofa. I removed my jacket, shirt, and vest to bare myself to his scrutiny. He took off his own jacket and rolled up his sleeves, then knelt between my legs to look me over in his usual meticulous manner, sharp silver eyes cataloguing every mark on my body. The bruises were minor, as I had expected, though they were some startling shades of purple and green. Holmes delicately cleaned the cut below my eye then kissed the skin beside it. Finally he seemed to be satisfied, though he remained cold and pale as a marble statue. He held me with trembling hands.
"Darling," I said, hating the look on his face, "I'm alright, really I am. All I need is some rest."
His jaw was clenched. "They should not have laid a finger on you," he snarled. "If they had -"
"I know," I said. There was always that risk whenever we went out on a case, even ones which were seemingly innocuous. "But they didn't. I am here, we are home. You found me."
I caressed his neck, trying to calm him down. At that first touch he inhaled sharply like a hound on a scent, his pupils wide and fathomless. I could feel his pulse thrumming under my fingertips.
Suddenly I wanted something far more than sleep.
I could not go one more minute without holding him. I pulled him to me by grabbing handfuls of his shirt and kissed him soundly, moaning into his mouth. His hands flailed for a moment before they landed on my shoulders - he pushed me back and stared at me. "John, you're hurt."
"Then be careful," I whispered.
“John…”
“Please.” I wanted him desperately, needed him to touch me after others had done so against my will. For all my reassurances, my faith that Holmes would not fail in finding me before it was too late, I could still feel those rough and grasping hands and fingers like vices pulling me away from the man I loved. I still heard the voices talking about slitting my throat and dumping me on the steps of our home, or leaving me in that cold room to starve. I needed my lover to wipe it all clean, until all I knew was him.
“Please, Sherlock,” I begged. “Make me yours again."
His answer was not so much words as an expulsion of air, laced with a heavy groan that may have been my name. His hands roved all over me, and I let them; clutching my hair as he kissed me until I could barely breathe; running feather-light across my shoulders and chest, stroking my scar; slipping around my waist to trail up and down my spine. I clung to him like he was flotsam that could save me from drowning.
“They took you from me,” he growled in my ear. He climbed onto the sofa and straddled my hips so he was nearly crushing me against the cushions. “I didn’t see, I couldn’t, John, I -”
He gripped my wrists, then, and I must have winced or shown some other sign of pain because he immediately dropped them and leaned back.
I snapped my eyes open. He looked frozen in place, unsure how to proceed. It was entirely wrong that he was no longer touching me. “Don’t you dare,” I said sharply.
“Your wrists,” he murmured. “The ropes.”
I knew exactly what he meant. “It’s not the same,” I insisted. “When you restrain me, it’s never the same. I did not want what they did to me. I want this, and you, right here and now.”
“Promise you will tell me if I hurt you. If I do anything you don’t want.”
“Don’t I always?”
“Promise me, John.”
I took a few seconds to look at him in all seriousness. His eyes shimmered with desire, though I knew he would hold it all back if I only gave the word, and underneath that he was truly worried. I could see it in the set of his jaw, the wrinkle between his brows. I knew that in his mind even the slightest of injuries to my person was too much. He hated to see me come to any kind of harm, and if that harm were to come from him…
My heart pounded in my chest. I loved him so fiercely right then.
“I promise.”
He smiled for a second or less, and it was glorious. “Thank you.”
The dam broke. He was on me once more and I let myself get swept away, lost in him; his lips, his tongue, his roaming fingers, his warm breath on my skin. Somehow we ended up on the floor, with me on my back. Slowly, so slowly, he slid his hands up my arms and held my wrists again, pinning me down.
“Is this alright?” he whispered.
“Yes,” I said fervently. There was a little pain where the ropes had chafed my skin, but his touch overwhelmed any discomfort.
“Do you want more?”
“Yes…” I tried to give voice to the thoughts spinning through my head. “Please. I don’t want anyone to touch me, not like this, no-one else…”
"Hush, my darling." His lips trailed down my neck until he sank his teeth into my throat. I uttered a soft cry of pleasure. "I'll take it all away. You're mine, only mine.” He used bites and licks to punctuate his words; every swipe of his tongue was a promise, an affirmation.
I writhed beneath him. “Now, please,” I gasped. “I need you.”
“So demanding,” he teased, and oh, there was that particular tone of voice which always renders me a complete mess. It still had a possessive, aggressive undercurrent, but now it was tempered with warm indulgence as he mouthed his way along my collarbones. “Keep your hands where they are. I require more material with which to work.” He moved lower, swirled his tongue around each of my nipples, peppered my bruised stomach with the most delicate of kisses, traced the band of my trousers with his thumbs. I lifted my hips obligingly so he could strip me bare.
Soon we were both nude and wrapped up in each other on the carpet, our legs entangled. We breathed in tandem, exploring each other for endless languid minutes while my lover overwrote every trace of what I had gone through. His touch was cleansing fire over my skin; I was not held in place by cruel fingers and coarse rope, but by his elegant hands that caressed every part of me he could reach. It was not a crude gag that muffled my voice, but his soft lips and clever tongue.
When at last we broke apart, my every nerve felt alight. “How would you like it?” he whispered breathlessly.
“I…” I tried and failed to think. My mind was foggy with lust, but there was one thing I wanted, needed, more than anything else. “I want…”
“Can you use your words?”
I fumbled blindly nearby, patting my hand across the carpet until I found what I was looking for and held it up; his silk tie.
He raised his eyebrows. I believe I had genuinely surprised him. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.” I couldn’t precisely articulate my certainty; I only knew that I wanted it, and it was important that he did it to me, the way we both loved, the way we did to express what we meant to one another. “Sherlock, I…I need you to…” I licked my lips. “To…claim me.”
His eyes grew dark and his lips parted. "Oh, my boy," he said, "I will do it gladly. Sit up, give me your hands. Remember your promise."
He arranged my arms so they were folded over my chest and I was cupping my elbows. He picked up my own discarded tie as well, then slowly and methodically wrapped them both around my arms in a criss-crossed pattern until the ends met in the middle.
"Not too tight?" he asked, leaning over me with his mouth barely an inch from mine.
I tugged at my bonds and found them surprisingly comfortable, though I would not be able to free myself. The feel of the smooth silk holding me fast sent a thrill down my spine. Holmes, my Sherlock, had done this to me. I was entirely in his hands. "No," I said in a strangled voice. “It’s perfect.”
“You are perfect,” he said, stroking my face. “So good for me, so pliant and sweet. Do you wish for me to gag you?”
I considered it for a moment. “No. Not that. Just…please.”
He smiled. “Alright, darling. Be patient.”
With one hand he was easily able to lift my bound arms above my head and keep them there. It did not hurt, but I had very little leverage. He wrapped the long, elegant fingers of his other hand around my aching erection. I very nearly came on the spot; he caught my moan of ecstasy between his lips and swallowed it down. The pace he set was smooth yet punishing, blissful and torturous. I arched my back and tried to thrust into his fist, though he easily kept me pinned.
“I have nothing to prepare you.” He twisted his fingers and stroked his thumb over the head of my cock, where I was most sensitive. I cried out again and threw my head back against the carpet. “I could go and fetch something, but…” He trailed off and ran the tip of his tongue along my bottom lip.
“No,” I said, panting, “no, don’t stop, don’t leave.” The thought of him not touching me, even for the scant minutes it would take for him to go to his room and return, was unbearable.
“It’s alright, pet, I am not going anywhere.” He let go of my arms so he could slip his hand down behind my head, supporting me while he kissed me senseless and brought me ever closer to my peak. “How about this,” he said. “I will give you your bliss here, because I cannot deny you a thing when you act this way. Commanding, yet desperate. Irresistible.” Another kiss, deep and slow. “Then I will take you to my bed, and there, there I will claim you. ”
I was nodding frantically before he’d finished speaking. “Yes,” was all I was able to say, a choked-off plea that soon dissolved into meaningless noise under the caress of his wonderful hands. I was close, so close, but I always needed more of him.
Holmes suddenly moved away from me, sliding down and out of my sight. I lifted my head and tried to follow, but he placed a reassuring palm on my chest. "Stay, John. I am not leaving, I promise. Trust me." He waited for me to nod before continuing down, down, down my body, and taking my cock into his mouth. The heat of him was intoxicating. Barely a minute later I spent between his lips with a shudder and a hoarse groan, gasping for breath.
"You are remarkable," he whispered when he rose again to smooth down my hair and bite my unscarred shoulder gently. "Do you want me to untie you?"
I shook my head at once. "No, not…no." Saying anything more complicated was beyond me at that moment.
He shushed me, trailing his fingers down my neck. "It's alright," he said again, his voice steady and composed despite his own obvious arousal. "I have you."
After a few minutes of Holmes’s delicate hands stroking my torso while I took deep breaths, I felt calm enough to speak properly. "Leave them on," I said, nodding upwards to where my arms still rested over my head. "Please. Take me to bed. Let me feel you."
He helped me to my feet and led me to his bedroom. His bed had not been slept in, of course, and the sheets were cool against my skin as he guided me to lie down on my front. The moment he pressed me to the mattress, however, I felt a lump in my throat. "Wait."
Holmes paused. "What is it?"
"Not like this." I tried to roll over; he helped me, and the moment I could see his face again I felt calmer. "I need to see, I -"
"You couldn't." He nodded slowly. Of course he understood. "Good boy, thank you for telling me."
He fetched the Vaseline from a drawer and wasted no time in slicking up three of his fingers. I was not yet hard again, but it did not take long once he parted my legs and carefully eased the first of those fingers inside me. Again he held my arms down, and again I arched up against him, my cries growing higher in pitch while he worked me open. I believe I was actually saying something, some hushed repetition of his name perhaps, I cannot recall. It did not matter. All that mattered was that he was in me, all around me, taking me apart to put me back together anew.
“Are you ready?” He removed his hand and got more Vaseline to coat his own so-far neglected cock, which stood hard and proud against his belly. I could not tear my eyes from it, but I managed to nod, and then he lined himself up, he pushed, and slowly he filled me until there could be no doubt whatsoever that I was his.
A quiet sob burst from my lips before I could stop it. My chest was heaving. “Sherlock…”
“John.” He let go of my arms to trace his thumb under my eye, catching a tear that had spilled. “I am not hurting you?”
“No,” I whispered, “no, never.”
He held himself over me and gazed into my eyes. “See me now,” he said. He knew exactly what to say, what I needed to hear. “Feel me. I am here, I am with you. I will not hurt you. Nobody can hurt you.”
Then he began to move; with a whine I lowered my bound arms behind his neck and pulled him close, wrapped my legs over his back. He went slowly, letting me relish the sweet ache and giving me time to adjust. I could not speak, only bury my face in my lover’s shoulder and inhale his scent, try to breathe, kiss every bit of skin I could reach. All the while he spoke to me, his voice growing ragged as the minutes passed and our movements became more hurried and fervent.
“I would have hunted them down,” he hissed, “to the ends of the earth; wherever they took you. They would never have escaped me. If they had killed you I would have destroyed them. Nobody takes you from me, John…nobody hurts you.” He bit back a shout, clenching his teeth. “You are - God - you are mine.”
He shifted his hips to drive himself still deeper. There was no part of him that was not touching me, and I loved it all. I threw my head back, losing myself to the pleasure of it all, my eyes wide and staring into his own as I dug my fingernails into his back. I suddenly realised that I was going to come from that alone, not even with his hand around my straining cock but from him filling me, stretching me, and yes, yes, claiming me.
“I…oh…”
“That’s it.” He could see how close I was once again and he angled his hips to make faster, shallower thrusts, all of which sent bolts of ecstasy shooting through me. I could not take it any longer. “That’s it, my darling, my John,” he said, “come for me, give yourself to me. I have you, I have you…”
My mouth fell open in a yell which he covered with a strong, possessive kiss. I came with his hand tight in my hair, his lips on mine, my arms bound by him, my body claimed by him. He groaned a muffled swear word into my mouth and followed me soon after.
We must have fallen asleep tangled in each other, because I was woken by the touch of his fingers on my arms, loosening the knots in the ties. He tossed them aside into the maelstrom of clutter that is his bedroom, then rubbed at the pattern of pink lines across my skin. “I didn't mean to leave those on for so long,” he said apologetically.
I bent and straightened my arms a few times - they were a little stiff, but that would fade quickly. “I’m alright,” I assured him, rolling over to curl into the circle of his embrace. We lay together in silence for a long time, and I allowed myself to relax to the rhythm of Holmes’s chest rising and falling with mine. He was here, we were together. He would keep me safe, like he always did.
Quite abruptly I felt tears welling up in my eyes. I hurried to wipe them away, but my Holmes must have noticed my breath quicken; he caught my hand and used it to nudge my chin upwards so he could see my face. “What is it?” he asked, his eyes wide.
I shook my head, embarrassed. “I don’t know,” I said, “I feel…I don’t know what I feel.” Some great hot ball of emotion kept building in my chest and threatening to overwhelm everything.
“Darling.” Holmes lowered his head and pressed first a small kiss to my forehead, then his forehead to mine. “What can I do, what do you need?”
Again I had to shake my head. “You,” I whimpered. I loathed how small and pathetic I sounded, but my wonderful lover did not seem to care, and that helped. “You…Sherlock, I was so afraid. The things they were saying, what they planned to do to me, I…and I tried to shout for you…” Further words failed me. I surged upwards to kiss him, pouring into it everything I could not say. Whatever Holmes’s reply might have been became a stifled squeak. He wrapped his arms tight around my waist and lifted me up so I was lying on top of him. I pushed my fingers into his hair and held on tight.
“John,” he said when he was finally able to break away, “John, listen to me.”
His voice saying my name has always been an anchor. I stopped trying to devour him and made myself pay attention.
“I meant what I said,” he murmured. “I would have hunted them down to save you. I am only sorry I could not stop it from happening at all. You know I would do anything to keep you safe, dear heart.”
“I know.” My voice was thick, but I felt a little better after my outburst. The pressure in my chest had lessened. Holmes was taking charge, ensuring I was in my right mind, that I was going to be alright. I was not entirely sure of it myself, but he has always been able to read me very well and I trusted his judgement. “I will not forget tonight very soon, but…”
“But you are here, and you are safe,” he assured me. “The danger is over. I will tell you that as many times as you need to hear it.”
It was well we had no visitors that day. We stayed in his room together until late in the afternoon, when my rumbling stomach and the need to attend to the most basic of needs got the better of us. Holmes continued not to stray far from my side long into the night, and for several days after. He touched me whenever he could, held me in a fierce embrace when we shared his bed - for neither of us wanted me to sleep alone on the top floor - and made such sweet love to me that every last trace of my ordeal seemed banished forever.
Though there would always be dangers, I belonged to him. I always would. He would not let anyone take us apart.