“Now then, Mr. Holmes,” Hawk said, with a bookkeeper’s precision. “What form of payment will you be making today?”
Holmes—Lestrade struggled to remember his first name, something unusual, faintly comic—poured himself off the couch, stood and straightened his clothes. He didn’t look particularly scared, or even upset that his dealer and two thugs had just forced entry into his flat. Nor did he give any sign of recognizing Lestrade, thank goodness. He looked miffed—in a supercilious kind of way.
“Ah. Mr. Wren. I’m afraid you find me a bit short of ready cash,” Holmes said, in a deep drawl that seemed too resonant for his slight frame.
“Well, it don’t have to be money, Sherlock, do it?” Sherlock, that was it—how could Lestrade have forgotten a name like that? “Toss the place, lads.”
“Nothing here but trash, boss,” Georgie proclaimed, a fine leather-bound volume dangling from each hand, after they’d done the obligatory shake down of the flat.
“What about you, Lou?” That was the name by which they knew Lestrade. “You find anything?” Lestrade shook his head. “No gold watch, Sherlock? No silver cufflinks?”
Sherlock looked down his nose at them. “I think you’ll find the first edition Lytton Strachey your colleague is mauling would fetch a pretty penny at the antiquarian book dealers. You’re welcome to it, if you like.”
“If you say so, Sunshine, but it won’t do.” Hawk’s happiness seemed to be expressing itself as an odd form of courtesy. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to take it out of you in kind. Grab a hold of him, would you, Lou?”
Lestrade stepped behind Sherlock and pulled his arms tight behind his back. Sherlock didn’t resist—indeed, he seemed somewhat limp, skin clammy through his shirt sleeves, perhaps finally realizing the gravity of the situation. Lestrade steeled himself to witness another beating, for another miserable hour of trying to make his own blows look as realistic as possible. But Hawk seemed to have something different in mind this time.
“Now, ordinarily I’d do a pretty young thing like you myself,” he said, drawing a deliberate finger up Sherlock’s ribs, “but you’re a bit scrawny for me—need something to dig my hands into, I do. Georgie, would you care to do the honors?”
Georgie smiled, slow and mean, and the back of Lestrade’s throat went cold. He’d seen plenty of Georgie’s forms of persuasion: they were all thorough, efficient, and unremittingly brutal. His methods of sexual coercion were bound to be worse. Sherlock’s arms stiffened under Lestrade’s hands, as if he had deduced the same thing.
“Aw, boss,” Lestrade heard himself say, though he had no real plan in mind. “How come Georgie gets all the fun?” Hawk squinted at him, leered. “So the new boy wants a piece of the action, eh? Took you for more of the retiring type, Lou. But if you fancy him, be my guest. Provided Georgie here don’t mind.”
“No problem, boss,” Georgie grumbled.
Lestrade felt Sherlock’s muscles relax infinitesimally. He wondered why. Maybe simply because Lestrade looked less rough than Georgie. Maybe because Sherlock really had made him for a copper, and thought Lestrade had a way out of this for them.
Re: Certain Events in Lambeth, Lestrade/Sherlock, non-con, (nc-17), 2/5
Holmes—Lestrade struggled to remember his first name, something unusual, faintly comic—poured himself off the couch, stood and straightened his clothes. He didn’t look particularly scared, or even upset that his dealer and two thugs had just forced entry into his flat. Nor did he give any sign of recognizing Lestrade, thank goodness. He looked miffed—in a supercilious kind of way.
“Ah. Mr. Wren. I’m afraid you find me a bit short of ready cash,” Holmes said, in a deep drawl that seemed too resonant for his slight frame.
“Well, it don’t have to be money, Sherlock, do it?” Sherlock, that was it—how could Lestrade have forgotten a name like that? “Toss the place, lads.”
“Nothing here but trash, boss,” Georgie proclaimed, a fine leather-bound volume dangling from each hand, after they’d done the obligatory shake down of the flat.
“What about you, Lou?” That was the name by which they knew Lestrade. “You find anything?” Lestrade shook his head. “No gold watch, Sherlock? No silver cufflinks?”
Sherlock looked down his nose at them. “I think you’ll find the first edition Lytton Strachey your colleague is mauling would fetch a pretty penny at the antiquarian book dealers. You’re welcome to it, if you like.”
“If you say so, Sunshine, but it won’t do.” Hawk’s happiness seemed to be expressing itself as an odd form of courtesy. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to take it out of you in kind. Grab a hold of him, would you, Lou?”
Lestrade stepped behind Sherlock and pulled his arms tight behind his back. Sherlock didn’t resist—indeed, he seemed somewhat limp, skin clammy through his shirt sleeves, perhaps finally realizing the gravity of the situation. Lestrade steeled himself to witness another beating, for another miserable hour of trying to make his own blows look as realistic as possible. But Hawk seemed to have something different in mind this time.
“Now, ordinarily I’d do a pretty young thing like you myself,” he said, drawing a deliberate finger up Sherlock’s ribs, “but you’re a bit scrawny for me—need something to dig my hands into, I do. Georgie, would you care to do the honors?”
Georgie smiled, slow and mean, and the back of Lestrade’s throat went cold. He’d seen plenty of Georgie’s forms of persuasion: they were all thorough, efficient, and unremittingly brutal. His methods of sexual coercion were bound to be worse. Sherlock’s arms stiffened under Lestrade’s hands, as if he had deduced the same thing.
“Aw, boss,” Lestrade heard himself say, though he had no real plan in mind. “How come Georgie gets all the fun?”
Hawk squinted at him, leered. “So the new boy wants a piece of the action, eh? Took you for more of the retiring type, Lou. But if you fancy him, be my guest. Provided Georgie here don’t mind.”
“No problem, boss,” Georgie grumbled.
Lestrade felt Sherlock’s muscles relax infinitesimally. He wondered why. Maybe simply because Lestrade looked less rough than Georgie. Maybe because Sherlock really had made him for a copper, and thought Lestrade had a way out of this for them.