Which he didn’t. There was no other room to take Sherlock into, and Lestrade very much doubted that Hawk would respond to a plea for privacy in any case. The point of this was Sherlock’s humiliation, not anyone’s pleasure. And so Lestrade probably hadn’t made anything better by volunteering for the job. In fact, he was starting to feel ill at the prospect.
“Alright, then,” said Hawk, all business. “Get his trousers down. We don’t have all day. I’d do it over the end of the sofa if I were you, but suit yourself.”
“Hey boss,” Lestrade said, grasping at straws. “Wouldn’t mind a bit of cigar rolling, if you know what I mean. Been jonesing for it all week.”
He didn’t know if it would be any better that way. But at least Sherlock could keep his clothes on—and there’d be less chance of him getting hurt. And maybe, just maybe, Lestrade could think of a way for them to fake it.
“Yeah?” Hawk looked interested. “I like the way you think, Lou my boy. He does have a very pretty mouth. Very pretty indeed.” He ran the pad of his thumb over Sherlock’s lips, played with sticking it between them, laughed nastily when Sherlock jerked his head away. “Right. On your knees, you junkie cunt.”
He kicked Sherlock’s legs out from under him with a vicious, well-placed blow, and wrenched his head around so that Sherlock was facing Lestrade. “All yours, mate,” he said, and settled into one of the room’s spindly chairs as if he were watching a game of darts at the pub.
Sherlock gathered himself from the ungainly heap Hawk had left him in. If the kick had hurt him, he didn’t show it. He looked up at Lestrade, his pale eyes gone even paler, almost translucent. Something bubbled to the surface in them, some shard of lucidity.
Re: Certain Events in Lambeth, Lestrade/Sherlock, non-con, (nc-17), 3/5
“Alright, then,” said Hawk, all business. “Get his trousers down. We don’t have all day. I’d do it over the end of the sofa if I were you, but suit yourself.”
“Hey boss,” Lestrade said, grasping at straws. “Wouldn’t mind a bit of cigar rolling, if you know what I mean. Been jonesing for it all week.”
He didn’t know if it would be any better that way. But at least Sherlock could keep his clothes on—and there’d be less chance of him getting hurt. And maybe, just maybe, Lestrade could think of a way for them to fake it.
“Yeah?” Hawk looked interested. “I like the way you think, Lou my boy. He does have a very pretty mouth. Very pretty indeed.” He ran the pad of his thumb over Sherlock’s lips, played with sticking it between them, laughed nastily when Sherlock jerked his head away. “Right. On your knees, you junkie cunt.”
He kicked Sherlock’s legs out from under him with a vicious, well-placed blow, and wrenched his head around so that Sherlock was facing Lestrade. “All yours, mate,” he said, and settled into one of the room’s spindly chairs as if he were watching a game of darts at the pub.
Sherlock gathered himself from the ungainly heap Hawk had left him in. If the kick had hurt him, he didn’t show it. He looked up at Lestrade, his pale eyes gone even paler, almost translucent. Something bubbled to the surface in them, some shard of lucidity.
“I know you,” he said, very distinctly.