Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Five… six… seven… eight,” the instructor called out in a shrill voice.

Sherlock brought his arm through first and then extended it out to second, perfectly in time with the delicate piano music blasting from the speaker system. Breathing in deeply, he bent at the knees for a perfect, low plie, feeling his sore muscles scream in protest. He was terribly sore from dancing for eight hours straight the night before; Swan Lake rehearsals were in full swing and he didn't have much time to rest and nurse his sore muscles. Only a quickie in the shower and a five minute soak in epsom salts was all he could do.

Besides, pain and sweat and blood was all part of the work that came with being a ballet dancer. All his life, every day since the age of three, he’d come to the studio, work for hours on end, and come home, exhausted, bleeding, sore, but happy. Dance was the only place where he could feel…. Or more correctly… be himself. It was a way that he expressed himself despite not usually showing emotional tendencies. There was something exhilarating and truly releasing about a grand jete done across a brilliantly lit stage. There was something magical to the way he felt like flying as he performed a series of pirouettes across the floor.

“A Holmes has become a ballerina,” Mycroft would mock and Sherlock’s parents would also display their equal distaste of Sherlock’s choice of profession. Everyone at school called him ‘the ballerina freak’ and would make fun of his dancing skills just to make him mad. His own teachers mocked him and tormented him, encouraging the other students to join in. Every day, he came home from school, covered in mud, his nose bleeding, and his papers torn. Yet, he bore it all with his head held high. It didn’t matter what they thought. He loved dance and nothing was going to stop him from pursuing his dream. Nothing and nobody.

“Holmes! Pay attention! Your feet are sloppy!” the instructor snapped, pinching Sherlock’s bum with her sharp fingernails.

Sherlock shook himself out of his reverie and focused on rolling through his foot to achieve a perfect point. His toes grazed the floor as he extended his leg out for a tendu and pulled it back to lapse into another plie. Sweat trickled down his back and forehead and he laughed inwardly, remembering how his instructor had promised him 10 pounds if he could sweat a bucketful.

Throughout barre, Sherlock focused on his technique, and when the time came for center work-leaps, turns, etc-he was sweating profusely and out of breath. Joining the queue for the grand allegro, Sherlock watched as his fellow ballet students took turns doing a tombe pas de bourrée glissade grande jeté, seemingly gliding across the floor. Someone nudged him in the back, reminding him that it was his turn and he took his spot at the corner of the room. Closing his eyes and breathing deeply, he felt adrenaline rush through his veins. Suddenly, it was only him in the dance studio, dancing alone in the darkness.

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John Watson watched from the viewing window, bored out of his wits. Harry had just finished her turn across the floor and gave him a silly look. John was ready to go home. Why did Mum make him take Harry to ballet classes? They were so boring and he had nothing to do except play games on his phone-which was dead. Propping his head up on the palms of his hands, he watched with disinterest as the dancers in the studio leapt and twirled across the floor. It was twenty minutes until rugby practice started and if Harry wasn’t done by then, he was leaving.

Then, his gaze was caught by a dancer who stood out from all the others. Unlike the others in the class, this dancer was male, dressed in a tight white shirt that showed his perfectly sculpted abdominal muscles, black leggings, and black ballet shoes. The dancer was during a series of turns across the floor, spinning around so fast that John could barely make out the boy’s features. John held his breath, watching as the boy launched into a leap, his legs out in a perfect split, then landed elegantly, his chin proudly tilted upwards.

Now that the dancer was still, John could see his features. The boy had unruly black curls that looked like they were in need of a trim and very thin, angular features, with high, sharp cheekbones. His skin was almost translucent; John could make out the blue and green veins beneath the thin surface. Despite the fact that he was finely muscled, he seemed dangerously thin-almost unhealthily so. God…. he was beautiful. Utterly beautiful. John didn’t realize he was staring until the boy looked up and met his eyes.

The boy’s eyes were a startling combo of sea green, skin blue, and silver, framed by long, dark lashes. They had such a depth of them, as if he could see the darkest parts of John’s soul.

John blinked, feeling his cheeks warm, and averted his gaze quickly.

Stupid, stupid! What the fuck was he doing anyway? He wasn’t attracted to boys-at least he didn’t think so. Wiping his sweaty palms off on his pants, John struggled to turn his attention back to his sister, who was giving him weird looks.

A shadow fell over him and John hesitantly looked up. The boy was standing, hands pressed against the glass. He was staring at John with those otherworldly eyes, his cupid-bow lips parted in a slight smile. John felt his heart start to pound and before he could give it a thought, he smiled back, meeting the boy’s gaze.
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Sherlock smiled at the blond boy, inwardly wondering why he was even bothering. Most boys didn’t look twice at him-unless they wanted him to suck their cock and give them a good blowjob. None of them had ever looked at him the way this boy was looking at him: admiration, awe, and….attraction? He was utterly surprised when the boy returned the smile, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling in an endearing way.

Swallowing, Sherlock attempted to calm his rapidly beating heart. He fought the urge to look away in self-consciousness; the boy was looking at him with a sort of spellbound ravenousness. The other boy was enchanting….utterly beautiful and Sherlock didn’t deny it. Blond, messy hair that was a bit too long hung down in front of cornflower blue eyes. A wide smile reached the eyes, flooding them with genuine, exuberant joy. He wore a ridiculously ugly jumper, but it made him all the more attractive.

The blond boy tilted his head and Sherlock did as well, the sounds of the class fading as he was caught up in the boy’s enchanting trap. Who are you? Sherlock wondered. And why do you look at me like that?

Chapter Text

“I thought you had rugby practice, Johnny,” Harriet said when she exited the class and spotted John standing near the doorway, looking rather lost. “Aren’t we supposed to be in a big hurry?”

John blinked, tearing his eyes away from the dancer boy. “Um… yeah… right…” he stuttered.

Harry slanted her eyes and gave John a suspicious look. “You were eyeing that boy, weren’t you?” The corners of her lips tugged upwards in a mocking smile. “I thought you were straight, John. Holmes is as gay as they come. He snogs all the boys at school. I heard he gives especially good blowjobs too. He’s a virgin though...”

“Harry!” John hissed quietly. “Stop being so inappropriate! We are in public, in case you’ve forgotten.” He wrapped his hand around Harry’s arms and yanked her close. “I am straight, Harry. I was just…. It was sort of a surprise to see a boy dancing. Never really seen that before.”

“Uh huh,” Harry replied, yanking her arm out of John’s grip. “I know that love-smitten look when I see it, John. You should go talk to him.” She gave him a nudge on the small of the back and John bit back a yelp of pain. “Maybe you really are gay, John. I saw you both giving each other the puppy eyes during class. Holmes got so distracted he fell out of a pirouette.”

“Holmes? Is that his name?” John asked, unable to contain his enthusiasm.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, actually. Just Sherlock for short. I only know his full name because his shitty big brother likes to yell it down the halls at school.”

“Sherlock.” John rolled the name on the tip of his tongue, liking the sound of it. “He goes to your school?” He was beginning to feel very jealous of Harry at the moment.

Harry rolled her eyes and smirked. “He’s kind of new, and he keeps to himself. Most of the kids at school don’t like him because….” Her eyes strayed to Sherlock, who was exiting the dance studio, his dance bag slung over his thin shoulder. Leaning close to John, she whispered, “Because he can look at you and tell you your whole life story, what you ate for breakfast, and if you’re straight or gay.”

John barely heard Harry’s words as Sherlock was walking right towards him, those dazzling eyes staring into John’s own eyes. He was frozen solid, like a block of ice, as the attractive boy stopped in front of him and licked his lips nervously. John vaguely heard Harry whisper something like “gay” in his ear and he was determined to shut her out. Without a second thought, he extended his hand forward. “Hi.”

Sherlock looked down at the outstretched hand for a few moments, brows wrinkled, then slid his slender hand into John’s grasp. His fingers felt cold and fragile, as if they might break if John squeezed. “Hello,” the boy said in a deep, rich voice that sent shivers down John’s spine.

“This is my brother, John,” Harry said, stepping up to Sherlock and smiling at him. “He was just noticing how very attractive you are.”

John instantly lashed out a fist but Harry ducked. “Harry! Fuck you!” he hissed, already making plans for strangling his sister once they got home. “Keep your mouth shut for once!”

Sherlock Holmes’s lips twitched upwards in a small smile. “Like what you see, John?” he asked softly, his glittering eyes focused on John’s face.

John felt his mouth go dry. Was that interest in the other boy’s eyes? “Um… sorry… I didn’t… I mean…”

“No need to apologize.” Sherlock ran a hand through his dark, unruly curls. “I’m looking for a new client and you… you might be the perfect one.” Sherlock stepped closer, his face so close to John that John could smell the other boy’s minty breath. Slender hands rested on John’s chest and trailed provocatively down to his stomach.

The warning bells going off in his head, John placed two hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and shoved him back. “Sorry?”

Sherlock snatched his hands back and offered John an enticing smile. “You think you’re straight, but you’re not. You think I am extremely attractive and a quick look at your crotch gives away the fact that you are aroused. You want me and you’ve only just met me but you know this is wrong. Come on, John… have a little fun once in your life.”

John licked his lips and swallowed, desperately willing his rising erection to go away. “I… uh……” What the fuck was this boy? A rent prostitute? Whatever he was… he was gorgeous. The most beautiful creature John had ever laid eyes on and god, he wanted him badly. He longed to bruise the bow lips with passionate kisses, trail his fingernails down the snowy white chest, and fuck that delectable bum.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, apparently scrutinizing John’s reaction.

Fuck! John nearly slapped himself. What in the world was he thinking? He had a girlfriend… He was straight! “Fuck it all,” he whispered under his breath, his cock throbbing painfully. “I-I need to go... Come on, Harry. Let’s go. Now.” He grabbed his sister by the arm and pushed his way through the crowd before Harry could protest, leaving behind a very puzzled and very aroused Sherlock Holmes.

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Sherlock Holmes watched as John Watson exited the dance studio. To be honest, he was as shocked as John was by the turn of events. What the fuck was he doing, flirting with a boy he just met? Why the fuck was he getting aroused? No other boy had aroused him like that before. The other boys he’d been with had been using him merely to relieve sexual frustration. Sherlock had felt no connection and no arousal. He only did it for the money, which he needed badly. What was it with John Watson that he felt an instant connection to?

“I want you, John Watson,” he whispered to himself, the words coming automatically out of his mouth with no warning. He wrung his hands together, taking in deep breaths. He knew he was flushed and his tight leggings probably betrayed the fact that he was aroused, but he paid them no mind. Something within him wanted John Watson-more than anything in the world. “I’d even give up my virginity for him,” he murmured and nearly laughed because he thought he would never say that about another boy.

I must get to know him better. I must find out everything about him.

“Holmes! Come by to my flat. I’ll pay 20 pounds… certainly enough to get your next dose of ecstasy,” Sebastian Moran sniggered, giving Sherlock a harsh poke in the ribs.

Sherlock snapped back to reality and swallowed hard. “I’ll do it for 30,” he said quietly.

“You should let me take you in the arse, Holmes. You’d make a nice, tight fuck.” Moran pinched Sherlock’s bum and then leaned forward to press a bruising kiss to Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock felt bile rise up in his throat but he forced it down and reluctantly kissed Moran back. “Remember, you’re mine, Holmes. No one gets to fuck you except for me-and I will fuck you someday.” Moran brought his mouth down to Sherlock’s neck and sucked at the exposed flesh greedily. “You’re my greedy little whore, aren’t you?”

Sherlock closed his eyes, desperately trying to wish himself away. Once again, he was reminded of the used slut he really was and once again, he felt like the lowliest creature in the world.

Chapter Text

Moran pounded his cock into Sherlock’s mouth, letting out high-pitched moans of arousal. One hand was curled around a handful of Sherlock’s curls and the other was caressing Sherlock’s jaw. “That’s right, Holmes… what a pretty mouth you’ve got. Only you know how to suck me off so perfectly,” Moran whispered, his voice husky and his eyes dark with lust. “You enjoy this, don’t you, slut?”

Sherlock didn’t reply. He only focused on increasing the pace of his tongue, sliding it up and down Moran’s thick cock.

“Ahhhh…. I’m coming!” Moran squealed and Sherlock had no time to pull away before Moran’s thick come filled his mouth and dribbled down his throat. Dutifully, he swallowed it down while Moran collapsed back onto an armchair with a relieved sigh. “Ahhh… what a good boy, Holmes.” Moran ran his fingers through Sherlock’s thick mop of black curls. “It’s been a stressful week. Coming home to you sucking me off is the perfect medicine.” When Sherlock didn’t reply, Moran tilted his head. “Why so quiet, Holmes? Usually you talk a mile a minute.”

Sherlock licked the semen from his lips. “Well… I did what you asked… Can I have it now?”

Chuckling, Moran ruffled Sherlock’s hair and reached into his pocket, pulling out a packet of clear crystals. “Here you go. Hey, wanna stay? We could shoot up together.”

Sherlock snatched the packet away from Moran. “No… I need to get home. My father will be wondering where I am.”

Instantly, Moran’s eyes darkened and Sherlock knew that he had said the wrong thing. “He won’t miss you, Sherlock. He’s probably doped up and too drunk to see straight. Besides…. It would be so lovely to spend an evening with you.” Moran leaned forward and nipped Sherlock’s earlobe playfully.

“I-I can’t, Seb… I need to get home. Please..”

Moran stood up, raising himself to his full height. “You will stay here, slut, if I say so,” he growled between gritted teeth, wrapping his fingers around Sherlock’s pale neck. “I’ve waited for a long time to fuck you and I’m going to do it tonight. Your virgin hole will become mine.”

Sherlock clawed at Moran’s hands, desperately trying to free himself. “Seb… please let me go! I need to get home or my father’ll beat me!” he cried out in-between gasps for air.

“‘Fraid of your old man, huh Holmes? Well…you should be even more afraid of me. Undress.” When Sherlock hesitated, Moran pulled out a switchblade and waved it in the younger man’s face. “Now, Holmes.”

Trembling, Sherlock undid the buttons of his dark purple dress shirt and let it fall to the ground at his feet, revealing his hairless, muscled chest. He sent a pleading look at Moran, who merely waved at him to continue. Slowly, he pulled his jeans off and stepped out of his underwear, revealing his dusky pink cock-locked tight in a stainless steel chastity cage and straining against its prison, desperate for attention.

Moran, licking his lips eagerly, ran his hands down Sherlock’s body and cupped the boy’s buttocks in his hands. “Look at that… my beautiful boy with my brand,” he said, tracing his finger over the ‘Property of Sebastian Moran’ branded into the soft white flesh. “Are you all hard for me, my love? You haven’t been toying with yourself, have you? You know that your body belongs to me..” Moran teasingly nipped Sherlock’s neck and the boy jumped in surprise.

“Please.. Seb… I already gave you what you wanted. I-”

“Shut up, bitch, or I’ll cut you, I swear. I think I’m going to have to gag that pretty mouth, hmm?” Moran leaned over to the coffee table and pulled open the drawer. Pulling a thick, rubber ball gag from the drawer, he held out triumphantly to Sherlock, who quavered at the sight.

“Seb…” Sherlock began.

“What did I say, Holmes? Shut the fuck up!” Moran brought his knife to the side of Sherlock’s neck and dug the tip into the pale flesh. He dragged the knife downwards, inflicting a two-inch cut. Sherlock cried out and clutched at his neck; his hand came away dark with blood. “You were warned, Holmes. I’ll do it again. Now, open up.”

Sherlock saw the dangerous glint in Moran’s eyes and he shuddered. The cut on his neck ached horribly and Sherlock had no idea what else the crazed madman would do if Sherlock dared resist. Opening up his mouth, he let Moran shove the ball gag in-which the man did with a little too much force. Sherlock felt the edges of his mouth tear and he tasted blood on his tongue.

“Look at that… scaredy-cat Holmes!” Moran mocked, ruffling Sherlock’s curls, then taking his left nipple between his fingers and twisting it cruelly. “Listen Holmes… I’m going to fuck you until you pass out and if you dare tell anyone, I’ll deny it. No one’s going to believe an orphan prostitute who’s high on drugs all the time, will they? They will have to believe me-the son of a wealthy banker and a most respected member of the community. Remember what you are, Sherlock. A slut and a bitch… the only thing you’re good for is fucking.” With those words, Moran threw Sherlock’s naked body onto the couch and was upon him in seconds, freeing his massive cock from his dress pants.

Sherlock stared up at Moran, unable to make a word and frightened out of his wits. Think, think, think, his brain screamed at him but all he could do was lie there, as if paralyzed.

Moran attacked Sherlock’s body, touching everything. He sucked and bit on Sherlock’s nipples until they rose to swollen, red nubs. Pulling nipple clamps from his pocket, he cruelly put them on and tugged on them, laughing when Sherlock let out a strangled cry of pain. “You are so pretty when you cry, darling,” he whispered, yanking on the chain between the two clamps again.

He began to plunder Sherlock with his mouth, kissing all over him and licking his cold flesh. Sherlock shivered beneath the touch and closed his eyes, hiding the tears. “Pretty boy,” Moran murmured, running his hands down Sherlock’s chest and pausing just above the crotch. “Oh look at that! My pretty boy’s hard and leaking! He must want me badly! Don’t worry, darling. I’m going to give you what you want. Spread your fucking legs.” He gave Sherlock’s legs each a slap on the thigh and with a groan, Sherlock spread his legs, feeling his face grow warm.

“Oops! It looks like I don’t have any lube on me! I suppose that means I’ll have to fuck you dry. It’ll hurt.” Moran threw back his head and laughed maniacally, ignoring the struggles of the naked man beneath him. “Finally… it’s time to destroy this virgin arse.” Lining up his huge cock with Sherlock’s small, pink hole, he gripped Sherlock’s hips, pulling him close and allowing his penis to penetrate Sherlock.

Sherlock let out a strangled scream of agony as unimaginable pain shot through his arse. The tears broke free and flowed freely down his cheeks. Moran pushed in and out at rapid speeds and with each thrust, Sherlock experienced excruciating pain. He couldn’t speak so he moaned and whimpered around the gag, grabbing at Moran with his hands in an attempt to make him stop.

“Oo…. you’ve got a tight arse, Holmes, but it’s probably the best arse I’ve ever fucked!” Moran mocked, his balls slapping against Sherlock’s arse. “Shh, darling. We don’t want to attract the attention of any unwanted guests!"

Stop it! Let me go! Sherlock screamed inwardly. Everything hurt. His head pounded. His arse burned. He could feel warm liquid trickling down his thighs and he knew that he was bleeding. Raped! The great Sherlock Holmes had been raped! Sherlock wept-not at the loss of his virginity but at his stupid idiocy. Why had he trusted Moran? He should have known things would lead up to this! Suddenly, Sherlock wished he’d never met Moran. The man had preyed on Sherlock’s want for drugs, treating him kindly only to trick him to this moment.

A few minutes later, Moran pulled out but Sherlock was unconscious.

Annoyed, Moran splashed some cold beer on the younger man’s face. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open and he sputtered, spitting beer everywhere. The pain came roiling back and he whimpered, trying to look down and see his abused hole. “You’ll be fine,” Moran remarked, giving Sherlock a hard slap on the arse. “God, Holmes. That was the best fuck I’ve ever had! You’re so tight!” He leaned forward, holding the tip of the knife to Sherlock’s throat. “And remember what will happen if you tell….”

Sherlock nodded, his entire body trembling.

“Good boy.” Moran unbuckled the gag and took it out of Sherlock’s mouth, grimacing with disgust when Sherlock drooled. “Now... suck me off.

Sherlock slowly rose to his hands and knees Moran’s lap, every move causing him great pain. “Please… Seb… don’t… I don’t want this… anymore…. I just wanna go home…”

“Shh, lovely,” Moran whispered, placing his finger over Sherlock’s lips. “You’re going to suck until I come and then, I'm going to fuck you in the arse again."

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to fight back but he was in so much pain.

A few seconds later, Moran shoved his cock in.

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock woke up to find himself sitting on the doorstep of Moran’s apartment, soaked with rain. He was no longer naked; Moran had taken time to dress him in his clothes. Whimpering, Sherlock pulled himself to his feet and wrapped his arms around his chest. “What the fuck just happened?” he whispered brokenly. He’d been raped. Violated. Abused. By the very man he thought he trusted. Moran was right. He couldn’t tell anyone. No one would believe a slutty prostitute. They’d probably accuse him of being high on drugs. Suddenly realizing how alone he really was, Sherlock began to cry openly, the tears mingling with the rain.

He had to get home and clean himself up… He probably stank and he wanted nothing more than to get Moran’s stench off of him. With much effort, Sherlock staggered down the street, half-blinded by the rain. He walked for five minutes until he could walk no more, and he sunk down to his knees in a shivering heap.

God… he was dying. He could feel it. Everything was slowly going numb. “Let me die,” Sherlock whispered, letting his head rest in a puddle of freezing water. “Just…. Fuck… let me die!” If only he had a gun or a knife. He’d put himself out of his misery quickly. No one would miss him and the pain would all be over.

Suddenly, he was shrouded in bright light and heard footsteps on the pavement.

Someone was shaking him.

“Go ‘way!” Sherlock murmured. “Let me die!”

“Sherlock! It’s me, John! Hang on. We’re getting you to the hospital.”

That was the last thing Sherlock heard before he lapsed into blissful unconsciousness.