Another unfinished BBC Sherlock fic
The working title for this is ‘dancing slavefic’ so. Warnings for AU, slavery, noncon/rape, explicit sex (Moran/John), Sherlock being shady in pursuit of a case.
Context: An AU in which Sherlock is looking to collect evidence suitable to convict one Sebastian Moran of crimes such as drug trafficking, human trafficking and murder. He has followed his quarry to a den of iniquity, posing as a fellow fan of disgusting and illegal practices. Here, he meets John for the first time, in a very different context.
***
The place was a dive.
Not the kind of dive that smelled of unwashed feet and burnt coffee, but the kind that hid human filth in the shadows of mood lighting and sold you any drug you could ask for if you knew the right code words. Of course, that was why Sherlock was here; he needed a DNA sample.
He signalled to one of the circulating house slaves. “Another round? Anything you’d like, so long as it doesn’t involve gold foil.”
His companion laughed, more at Sherlock’s sharp breezy smile than his half-assed joke. “Well-connected and generous. You’re a good kind of friend to have.”
This was Sir Sebastian Moran: half-English, half-Irish man of the world. Which was to say, smuggler with a minor title. The title, interestingly, was Swiss.
“I’m here for the dancer,” Moran confided as the waitress left to fetch their drinks. “This place is a human cesspool, but you’ve never seen anything like this dancer.”
Sherlock lifted his eyebrows tolerantly. “Coming from someone with your experience, I’m prepared to be impressed.”
Music began, something with a rhythm like a heartbeat, and the house lights fell to a low glow as the dancer stepped out from behind the curtains. He looked good; short and trim, well-muscled, with an athletic grace many people would probably find appealing. But it wasn’t the dancer Sherlock focused on as he emerged. He was more interested in the hungry way Moran’s eyes followed him.
“His name is John,” Moran murmured, eyes not leaving the stage. “Watch.”
Sherlock turned his attention obligingly to the front. When his foot hit the stage, the dancer–John–unwound one of the gauzy translucent scarves wrapped around him as part of his costume to loop it around the metal bar hanging above his head. Leaning out from it with his back arched and his toes touching the ground, he made a slow, lazy rotation, face to the room.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes as the man’s flat, considering gaze swept over him. Sizing up the audience. No, his expression was too cold for that; almost hostile. A challenge? There was a low stir at the tables around him as patrons reacted to whatever they saw in his face.
Apparently satisfied with whatever message he’d just sent, John pulled himself upright and twisted to swing up into the air, spinning off the ground in a wild, seemingly effortless upward tumble.
Moran was right. Sherlock had never seen anything so compellingly angry as John’s dance.
He undulated in time to the deep throb of the music, his body strong and curving in a way that made Sherlock want to sweep his palms over the beauty of him. But every movement was laced with power and disdain. Head high, bare feet stamping out a counter-rhythm to the music, his hips hitched and rolled with a life of their own, flaunting his untouchability.
As the tempo picked up, he unwrapped more scarves from his body with a series of laybacks and coiling movements so sinuous he reminded Sherlock of a snake. Each of them he caught on the bars overhead, until he danced through a shimmering cloud whose drift concealed him one moment and then parted to reveal him the next.
Underneath the scarves, he was all but bare. His skin glowed subtly golden in the play of shadow and light. Fine, elegant patterns of silver glinted across him as he swayed and spun, intricate traceries of metallic body paint etched on his skin.
The scarves clung to him as he strutted through their long gossamer tails. He reached out to them, let them brush insinuatingly through his fingers and wind around his limbs as he spun through them, teasing his audience with a cycle of bondage and escape. He swayed through one sultry passage with his wrists trapped high over his head while the rest of his body moved to the press of invisible hands, groping and seducing him. At last he slithered free with his head held fiercely high, shoulders turned just so to communicate scornful, uncoquettish rejection.
Almost as if in answer, another scarf wrapped around his throat and across his mouth, his skill creating the illusion that it moved by its own will. Leashed and gagged, he danced through the next sequence almost ferally, a wild animal taken captive, pulled back from escape each time he reached the perimeter of his captivity, until he reached up and tore it away with a triumphant snarl.
And then he wound his arms up in the fabric and swung up into the air as if climbing up out of reach, pressing and sliding through the silks like a lover, body moving sinuously against the coils in mimicry of sex as the melody fell away and the rhythm deepened into a surging bass beat before it began to fade out.
Sherlock glanced back to Moran to see if he’d caught the contemptuous curl of the dancer’s lip as he glanced down at the tables. Moran must have seen it. He was fixed on John’s every move, all but salivating.
In time with the closing flurry of drums, John let go with his hands and unraveled, falling back in a cascade of limbs to hang head-down and rotating slowly above the room, watching them all with cool shadowed eyes that sparked blue and orange in the low lights.
“You’re right,” Sherlock murmured. “He’s electrifying.”
Moran grinned.
“He hates the audience, you know.”
Moran chuckled. “I know. Isn’t he magnificent?”
The shadows buzzed with the sounds of men’s voices as the silent auction began. John tumbled down to land in a crouch, skin gleaming with body paint and sweat in the stage lighting. His master stepped out onto the stage to guide the bidding. Hands flashed in and out of the light. “They all want to be the one to ruin him,” Sherlock murmured, tugging on his trousers. “I can hardly blame them. What would it take, do you think?”
“Not much of an animal person, are you?” Moran’s barrel chest swelled with a deep breath. “You don’t break a creature with a spirit like that. You teach it to love you.”
He raised a hand. John’s attention turned to their table at the movement. Kneeling, glittering in the lights with each fast breath, he sized them all up in the weird light with the night-eyes of a hunted fox while his owner stood behind him, managing the bidding for who’d lead the second half of John’s performance for the night.
There were some deceptively wealthy men in the room, but none of them had access to the kind of money Moran did. The outcome was inevitable. In the end, John’s owner invited Moran up onto the stage with what may have been intended as a gracious bow.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow to his companion. “In front of everyone?”
“That’s half the fun.” Moran smiled crookedly at him and headed up the short flight of stairs.
John stood to meet him. With them both on the same level, Moran’s mass dwarfed him, but John stood straight and willowy strong, tensed muscles of his body clearly visible and his hands fisted as though he truly meant to fight. How many times he must have gone through this same production, Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to guess, but for some reason John still mustered the will to resist.
Moran backed him up to the drifting upside-down forest of scarves. Catcalls and a few vulgar suggestions sounded from shadowed corners of the room as he caught John’s wrists and tied them together above his head.
Neither Moran or John seemed to notice the noise from the audience, and it died down quickly, seeming caught in the spell as those big meaty hands stroked slowly down John’s slim body. John shivered as Moran’s thumbs brushed over his nipples; sensitive, clearly. The room seemed to catch its collective breath as Moran’s thumbs hooked in the waistband of the mesh underwear that had kept John’s genitals tucked safely away during his performance; the only clothing he was still wearing. After a dangling, suspenseful second, he let the garment go and instead reached back to clutch at John’s arse and pull his hips forward against Moran’s.
He rolled their hips together in a lazy rhythm any man who’d ever gotten off would recognize, John shimmering and naked in the low light and Moran in his fitted shirt and black jeans. Moran tilted his head down and said something in John’s ear. John’s lips parted and his eyes narrowed, but his body didn’t tense, didn’t interrupt the graceful movement of their bodies together.
Those big hands glided up John’s back. His musculature was so beautifully distinct that Sherlock couldn’t resist imagining how the broadening sweep of of John’s latissimus dorsi would feel under his hands, its elegant curve flexing under his palms as he was pushed off-balance and those muscles were forced to take his weight. The way he had spun up into those scarves, they must be incredibly strong.
Moran’s hand slid all the way up the back of John’s neck to grab his hair, pulling his head back for a commanding kiss that garnered more whistles from the audience. John twisted against him a little, caged and dwarfed by Moran’s body, but he had nowhere to go even if he could break free. A knee pushed in between his legs and then he was straddling Moran’s thick thigh, more trapped than ever. Moran whispered into his ear again. This time Sherlock could read the words: ‘dance for me.’
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