Work Text:
Holmes feels odd. Somehow tight in his own skin, and while he has felt many strange sensations while on cocaine, none are quite a match. Somehow it is as though the air is vaguely irritating on his skin, while the bruises and scrapes on his wrists are heavy, like a warm hand wrapped round each one. It is sheer nonsense, but he hasn't time to concentrate on it. He has to get out of here; he doesn't know where Watson is, or how he got here, or even where here is, and there is a hole in his memory that holds the answers to all these questions. There is a shadow at his side, and it turns into a ghost, a man who should be dead, and he raises his eyes to Blackwood's as the man runs a hand along the skin of Holmes' side.
It hurts, and he wonders at the feeling, like Blackwood is sliding a knife into him, but Holmes can see his hand is empty. There is no mark, no blood, but it feels like there should be a gaping slit weeping blood. Blackwood says nothing, only lays a hand on Holmes' chest, covering his heartbeat, and Holmes flinches away, gasping at the pain of contact. This makes no sense. His reaction pulls a smile from Blackwood, a satisfied expression of anticipation. He leans over and kisses Holmes, the way Watson would kiss him, slow and gentle and almost sweet, watching him the whole time and Holmes feels he will lose his mind at the overwhelming pain. He thinks distantly that this must be what it is like to have a mouth full of glass after the worst kinds of bar fights, and he cannot understand why he is not choking on his own blood. It is torture of a kind he had never thought existed, and he is frantic in his movements, desperate to escape. Blackwood pulls back, and there is no blood on his lips; he watches Holmes try not to scream and looks incredibly pleased with himself.
He has a knife now, and Holmes braces himself, certain now that this will be a pain like no other. Blackwood draws it along his cheek, spreading the skin aside, and Holmes gasps. It is not pain. It is pleasure, pleasure like nothing else, dragging a moan from him, sending a curl of arousal crawling down his spine. If his brain was working at all, he would be astounded at this, but it is not, his thoughts blotted out by rapture. Blackwood draws the knife across a collarbone, and the line of blood is a trail of sucking, biting kisses, leaving the same restless sensation of need in its wake. Holmes is shifting, hips rising in way that would shame him if he had any mind left. Blackwood smiles, and buries the knife in the hollow connecting space of shoulder and collarbone. Holmes shudders, giving voice to a cry of incomprehensible ecstasy. His fragmented mind provides him with the memory of Watson taking his cock in one swallow, and he is mildly surprised when he finds no mouth at his crotch.
His vision clears slightly after moments of panting, short moans. His hands are free, and Blackwood is further away, seated on an ostentatious chair, watching him with cold, hungry eyes. Holmes reaches across himself and yanks the knife out, almost missing the spurt of blood as euphoria burns its way down his body. He shudders and lets the knife fall to meet skin, painting a line of blood across his abdomen, startling another gasp out of him, his head falling back as his body arches upwards to meet the metal. The press of it against his skin is intoxicating, and he cannot stop his hands, running over his body, leaving trails of blood, smearing each pristine line across the next until he is a canvas of red that would put hell to shame. He is so close, so desperate, so utterly unfocused on the world around him that he keens at the loss of the knife, at Blackwood's interference. "Please, please," he begs, not even knowing what he asks for.
Blackwood's voice is harsh against his ear. "Not yet," he husks. "I've to get some of my own pleasure first." His hands are brands pressing apart Holmes' legs, and the hand around his cock almost causes him to black out. It is fire, it is needles, it is torture, and it slides up, and back down, a laceration of tender skin, and it turns out he is screaming after all, voice catching on the movement of hands and breaking like shattered windows. Blackwood doesn't waste any movement, and his hand presses a flaying caress along the inside of his thigh as he seeks out Holmes' opening. The press of fingers is one moment pain, one moment pleasure, and it is one thing that is almost normal. Blackwood has no fear of hurting Holmes, and his preparation is only for his own pleasure. He pushes in, and the rip of skin should be agony, but it is the brush against his prostate that sends Holmes' mind reeling, rips anguished cries from his throat. Each stroke begins with the pleasure of torn skin, and ends with the pain of stimulation. Holmes cannot begin to move in rhythm as each sensation sends conflict sparking across his mind. His hands are clawing at Blackwood's as the man holds them down: he leans forward and sucks Holmes' bottom lip in between his teeth, and Holmes is dying of torment. Blackwood takes pity on him and bites, drawing blood, followed swiftly by orgasm as ecstasy overwhelms him. Blackwood is drawn to the edge and then beyond it by the tightening of Holmes' body, and he takes his time withdrawing, each shift sending more sensation though Holmes, radiating waves of mingled pain and pleasure.
He stands, and looks at the ruin of a man on the bed. Holmes is stained with blood, a hundred open wounds bleeding him out, and there is not a shred of sanity in those eyes. Blackwood smiles, and tosses him the knife. It lands buried in the sheets by Holmes' hand, and he opens his fingers on the blade as he grasps it once more. Blackwood is satisfied; he turns and walks away from Holmes. He doesn't need to see Holmes bring the knife to the blemished skin that lies below the curve of his ribs, to watch him press, and press, and press, the blade sliding through flesh and muscle, carving a deep and final path, the spray of blood marking the sheets and wall. Holmes moans in pleasure behind him, and Blackwood knows there is no turning back from the brink of orgasm; Holmes dies, behind him, in a spiral of blood and rapture and stuttering heartbeats.