#johnbastion

@endofmygun

John Watson awoke naked, hogtied, and gagged in an unfamiliar apartment.

He looked around in a panic; he could wriggle slightly, but not move much. The floor beneath him was luxurious carpet; the cool air around his naked skin was a good temperature. The furniture was fine, best money could buy...and John could feel something on his ass. He squirmed, but it would not budge; it felt light and fluttering.

John couldn’t see it, but it was a piece of paper, taped to his arse, that said,

“Merry Christmas, Sebastian. I’m sorry we couldn’t be together this year, but I got you a nice little puppy for Christmas. Train him well, he’s yours.”

John pushed his hands out to either side of himself as far as he could, until they touched the metal bars of the cage he’d been placed inside. Stupid. So bloody fucking stupid, to be walking out after dark with vampires about. So bloody, bloody stupid.

Looking around, John could see that somebody or other had placed him in a rather luxurious room. The floor was a muted red carpeting, lush and thick, with matching drapes along the walls; a fire crackled gently in the grate against the nightly rain.

Crack.

John’s body seized as the whip lashed across his back, leaving another welt across the many others that quickly started to bleed; his pants had long since soaked through with his own blood.

Crack.

HIs lips, squeezed shut. Still refusing to scream. Refusing to give in. 

Crack.

Face white, muscles seized with tension and dehydration.

Crack.

Chains lightly clinking in a mockery of the sound of the fancy dinners he used to go to with Sherlock.

Crack.

A scream building up within him. Mustn’t let it out. Mustn’t let them know, give them the satisfaction.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

[Anyone wants to continue this with me as Jim - or Seb - or both - let me know.]

“Shh, baby, I know it hurts.”

Jim stroked gently over John’s trembling cheek as the small blogger stared up at him with hateful, fearful eyes. He had been tied here for two days now, leather cuffs around his wrists, almost tight enough (but not quite) to stop the blood flow, keeping him bound to a metal table. His ankles, as well, and his throat, his forehead, his hips, all were strapped down quite securely. They’d left him his pants, which was, John supposed, a small thing to be grateful for.

Sebastian, meanwhile, was carving some new shape into his legs. Digging the blade nice and far into the muscle of his calf as John refused to scream, clenching his teeth so hard they were squeaking with the pressure, and as Jim Moriarty held his hand, and stroked his cheek, and brushed back his hair.