Adult-FanFiction.org : Books

The Gilded Room	By : DayjaJadie Category: Titles in the Public Domain > Sherlock Holmes > Slash > Slash Views: 7684 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work fiction, based on the Sherlock Holmes series by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Chapter List
- 3
- 4
- 5
Chapter 4

Sherlock awoke slowly with a vague, unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach that something was wrong. He was in a bed, was his second observation, but he dismissed that as the reason behind the wrong feeling because he almost always awoke in a bed. His first observation was pain and the disturbing, hot sensation of something foreign being thrust in harsh jerks up his anal passage. He was lying on his stomach, which he thought was a good thing though he couldn’t quite remember why, except that it had to do with the pain. Hands gripped his waist, heavy and strong, and were connected to the sharp thrusts. It was, altogether, decidedly uncomfortable and not a very nice way to wake up.

It didn’t hurt as badly as memory told him it should. But memory was an unpleasant train of thought to pursue and so he didn’t. The memories didn’t feel quite real in any case, and were nowhere near complete enough to explain key information, such as where he was, and who was on top of him, and why he hurt and expected to hurt worse. He was awake, but not really, because despite his awareness his mind didn’t feel quite attached to the happenings of his body. The man above him was saying something, or at the very least making noise which might have been words in the English tongue. But to understand those words, Sherlock would have to bring his mind back into the moment, to pay attention. And if he paid attention to the words, he would have to pay attention to the feel of flesh sliding uncaringly inside him and hands bruising skin, and pains, both phantom and real, that he instinctively knew would grow and grow the more connected to the world he was. So he heard and felt everything but did not listen and did not sense, and though he was awake he was not there.

Time slid in weird patterns, as the flow of his mind came closer to his body and further out to where he hardly knew himself where he was. Sometimes the evil man was there, using his body or giving him food or just to talk. Sherlock never answered, though he was never completely absent. Sometimes the evil man would grow angry and there would be pain. Sherlock never knew why. He was most there when the evil man left.

Sometimes there was the dark man, who was very good at silence, who helped him to change his clothes or take a bath or eat a meal. With the dark man Sherlock’s eyes would come alive a bit, his mind as quick and active as ever as he took in the world with the intense fascination of an infant, where everything is data and new but without full purpose or reason. He still did not speak. The dark man did not seem to mind in the least. He was large and gentle, but never quite safe. Because he did what the evil man said. Even when it hurt.

Sometimes there was the angry man. The angry man was not scary but had a tight face and gentle hands. Sometimes he looked happy and sometimes he looked sad but his face was always tight and his eyes a bit dangerous. He mostly came when Sherlock’s blood felt hot and sticky against his skin. Sometimes he was there at the same time as the evil man, the anger hiding behind his eyes turning furious and dark, and sometimes he was there with the dark man and sometimes he was there when Sherlock awoke. Of all the people Sherlock saw, he liked the angry man best but he always felt a bit guilty when he was there. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was for the sad look that got into his eyes, even when he smiled, or the way he asked Sherlock questions that Sherlock couldn’t answer. He was closest to being alive with the angry man, allowing the words to make sense in his ears, allowing understanding to hover at the edge of his thoughts, despite the sickening feeling that he stood on the edge of a very large cliff. But he could come only to the edge, and all the words were trapped inside his tongue and never made it out. So he didn’t answer when the man called him ‘Holmes’ or ‘Old Boy’ or ‘Dear Chap’ and he didn’t call the man anything, not Angry Man, not ‘Dear Fellow’, not ‘Watson’, though he knew them all.

He knew the angry man and the dark man were planning something. He kept that secret too, better than he had before. Before the evil man asked questions and sometimes he forgot what he was not supposed to say, and he thinks that that was another reason the guilty feeling still came. Now he says nothing, and they are safe.

Sometimes the angry man looks tired, and he limps hard, and has a pinched, thin look about his face that scares Sherlock more than the evil man’s rages, but the pain is entirely different and threatens to break some of his carefully built walls. And a feeling deep inside coils, and he thinks, behind the numbness, behind the pain and the dream feelings, that he might be a bit of an angry man too.

“Holmes,” the Watson man whispers, cool cloth against his split skin, a wound he abstractly recognizes as a bite mark, but without memory or meaning to connect it to how it came to be upon his chest. “We’re almost ready; just a little bit longer, and we will be free. One way or another.” Sherlock considers this, words that make perfect sense but without any meaning for him to connect. His Watson looks pale but determined, the yellowed remains of a bruise staining his face just under his left eye. Sherlock stares at the bruise, picking at the oddity of it (was he accosted by a left-handed man? Or did he fall and hit it on something?) and he lifts his hand to reach out and touch it. Watson catches his hand, folding his fingers over his and kisses them briefly, lips chapped but warm, moist breath ghosting over his knuckles. “It’s alright, dear chap, I’m alright.” But the stain of yellow remains.

And sometimes Sherlock is afraid and he doesn’t know why, but he can’t breathe, and the walls of the room dance menacingly and remind him of the precipice beyond which his memories burn, threatening and alive. And sometimes he understands perfectly that something vital is missing, that something is broken inside, and his Watson promises that it is alright to be missing, that he will come and get Holmes back when the time is right. But sometimes words aren’t enough, and Sherlock is alone inside the room, and he is afraid the bad feeling will settle into his limbs and heart and never let him free. And sometimes, when he is at his most lucid, Sherlock suspects he might have gone a little mad.
- 3
- 4
- 5
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Adult-FanFiction.Org is not in any way associated with or related to FanFiction.Net

Adult-FanFiction.org (AFF, the site), its owners, agents, and any other entities related to Adult-FanFiction.org or the AFF forum take no responsibility for the works posted to the Adult-FanFiction.org by its members.

While AFF and its agents attempt to remove all illegal works from the site as quickly and thoroughly as possible, there is always the possibility that some submissions may be overlooked or dismissed in error. The AFF system includes a rigorous and complex abuse control system in order to prevent improper use of the AFF service, and we hope that its deployment indicates a good-faith effort to eliminate any illegal material on the site in a fair and unbiased manner. This abuse control system is run in accordance with the strict guidelines specified above.

All works displayed here, whether pictorial or literary, are the property of their owners and not Adult-FanFiction.org. Opinions stated in profiles of users may not reflect the opinions or views of Adult-FanFiction.org or any of its owners, agents, or related entities.

Website Domain ©2002-2017 by Apollo. PHP scripting, CSS style sheets, Database layout & Original artwork ©2005-2017 C. Kennington. Restructured Database & Forum skins ©2007-2017 J. Salva. Images, coding, and any other potentially liftable content may not be used without express written permission from their respective creator(s). Thank you for visiting!

Powered by Fiction Portal 2.0
Modifications © Manta2g, DemonGoddess
Site Owner - Apollo

The Gilded Room