Say something, I'm giving up on you
I'm sorry that I couldn't get to you
Anywhere, I would've followed you
Say something, I'm giving up on you
Monday morning, the telephone rang shrilly, startling Sherlock awake. He swore quietly under his breath, and looked over at the clock on the nightstand. It was only eight-thirty in the bloody morning, and the only people who called this early were Mummy or Mycroft, neither of whom he had any desire to speak to at the moment. The ringer screamed again, and he groaned angrily before stomping over to the where the telephone sat on his desk, and snatched it up, barking ‘Yes?!’ into the the handset, his other hand already poised over the receiver to disconnect the call as soon as possible.
‘Oh! Hello? Is this Mr Sherlock Holmes?’ A woman’s voice that did not belong to Mummy asked in surprise at the harsh greeting, ‘This is Genevieve Trevor, I believe you know my son, Victor.’
‘Oh. Oh. Oh my goodness, my apologies, Mrs Trevor, yes, this is Sherlock,’ Sherlock stuttered into the phone, suddenly wide awake, ‘Yes, I am friends with Victor. He is my friend.’ He was repeating himself like a damn idiot, but there was nothing he could do to control his rambling in the wake of his nervousness.
‘Ah. Yes,’ Mrs Trevor said, sounding polite, but certainly as if she was questioning her son’s judgement, ‘Well anyway, as I’m sure you know, Victor’s birthday is coming up at the end of the week, and we just received news that his older brother, Alexander, will be coming home to visit from Aberdeen, and younger brother, Jonathan will be in from Bristol, so we were thinking it would be a lovely surprise for Victor if we threw a small party for him with his brothers and a few friends. I just got off the phone with his friend, Lucy, and she mentioned I should make sure to call you next. I know it’s short notice, but do you happen to know if you might be free to join us Saturday night around six?’
‘I would love to, Mrs Trevor,’ Sherlock said honestly, though very surprised, ‘Thank you very much for thinking of me.’
‘Of course, Sherlock,’ Mrs Trevor said, sounding slightly more at ease, ‘From what Lucy said, you’ve become one of Victor’s best friends.’
She went on to give Sherlock more details for the party on Saturday, and he listened halfheartedly, but truthfully his ears were too full of the echos of something he had never heard before. She had said that he was Victor’s best friend. Sherlock mulled this over, while he jotted down Victor’s parents’ address, thanked Mrs Trevor again, and hung up the phone.
Best friend. He’d never had one of those before.
He found he didn’t half hate the idea.
It was something of a seriously unhappy coincidence that the end of the week brought about Victor’s birthday on Saturday, because Friday happened to be Liam’s birthday as well. Sherlock passively contemplated how two such different people could have birthdays so close together, but then shook this thought off with the same contempt he viewed astrology and numerology: fanciful nonsense that was rooted in pandering to the weak-minded.
Much harder to ignore, however, was the fact that Liam did in fact have a birthday coming up, and Sherlock had no earthly idea what to get for him. He had even gone so far as to ask Liam point blank what he would like as his birthday present, but Liam had shrugged indifferently and said he would let Sherlock know once he had a better idea.
The ‘better idea’ came about the evening of Liam’s birthday. Sherlock had resigned himself to a quiet night in whilst Liam was out to dinner and drinks with some mates. The exclusion from the event had stung momentarily, but deep down, Sherlock was not that distraught. It was nice to have a night to himself. He had just settled back on his bed with another borrowed library book that Victor had claimed was one of his childhood favourites — the Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe this time — when he heard the door to the flat fly open, and a thundering of feet enter. From the sounds of the chatter now in the sitting room, Liam had brought most of his party back with him.
A feeling of dread washed over Sherlock, and it proved to not be in vain when Liam summoned him moments later.
‘Sherlock,’ Liam called from the sitting room, ‘Come here, please.’
Sherlock closed his eyes for a brief moment, and took a deep breath. A tight knot was forming in his stomach, but he knew better than to refuse. He exhaled sharply, and rose from his sitting position, and went to the other room meet Liam.
Though he had expected to find more than just Liam waiting for him, nothing could have prepared him to find six guests lounging in various states of sobriety and undress in their living room. He darted a quick look over to Liam, who was pouring himself a drink by the bar. Liam caught his eye, and smiled, extending his hand warmly towards Sherlock. Sherlock obediently went over to him, and allowed Liam to wrap a possessive arm around him, and press a kiss into the side of his head. His heart was pounding so furiously that he was surprised Liam didn’t hear it. Perhaps he did, but he certainly didn’t comment on it.
‘Gentlemen,’ he addressed the room at large, ‘This is my boyfriend, Sherlock. He’s a bit shy. He’s never had this much attention on him before, so please be patient. Sherlock,’ he said, taking one of Sherlock’s hands in his own, and giving it a gentle kiss, ‘Remember when you asked me what I wanted for my birthday?’
Sherlock nodded silently, understanding exactly what Liam was implying. He raised his eyes to meet Liam’s, and when he saw Liam raise his eyebrows, he took that as confirmation of what was expected of him. He lowered his gaze to the floor, pulled his hand from Liam’s grasp, and raised his hands to begin unbuttoning his shirt.
Liam’s guests whistled and clapped, much to Sherlock’s humiliation. Several of them already had their own shirts untucked, and trousers undone. Sherlock focussed stubbornly on the floor, and shrugged his shirt off his shoulders. Liam pulled it the rest of the way off, and threw it haphazardly in the corner. He gestured to Sherlock’s trousers, and, reluctantly, Sherlock began to undo his belt.
‘He doesn’t look to pleased about it, now does he?’ One of the men called out to Liam with a laugh, ‘We’ll just have to show him what he’s missing.’
Cruel laughter erupted from the room, and even Liam smirked when he replied, ‘Just you wait, Dan. He secretly loves it. You’ll see. He’s a screamer when he comes.’ More hoots, hollers, and laughter.
Sherlock’s cheeks burned with humiliation as he slid his trousers down his hips. He was not wearing any boxers, as per Liam’s usual request, and this did not go unnoticed.
‘Hey!’ Another man said, pointing, ‘He’s not even got any pants on. Guess you were right about him being an eager slut, Harrington.’
Sherlock grabbed his trousers, and began to fold them, but Liam snatched them from his hands impatiently, and tossed them to join his shirt in the corner. He gave Sherlock a bit of a push towards on of the men sitting in an armchair, and pressed down on Sherlock’s shoulder, coaxing him to his knees.
‘Crawl over there, and show Geoff how good you are,’ he instructed, nudging Sherlock with his shoe. He leaned down and whispered in his ear, ‘Thank you, love. Make me proud.’
It felt as though these times were the only time Liam called him love anymore, but even so, the term of endearment made Sherlock feel a warmth in his stomach that he terribly missed, so he nodded, accepted Liam’s kiss, and obeyed, crawling across the floor to the man he called Geoff, doing his best to tune out the laughter and cat calls.
Geoff was leaned back in his seat, his trousers wide open, legs spread, and was stroking his cock. He watched Sherlock hungrily, as Sherlock crawled towards him like the wretched beast he was. He wasted no time entangling his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, and forcing his cock deep into Sherlock’s throat. He fucked Sherlock’s face brutally, as the rest of the room watched and jeered as Sherlock gagged and choked against the assault.
And that was only the beginning.
It wasn’t long before the others, jealous of the attention Geoff was receiving, pushed and pulled Sherlock every which way, demanding his services. Sherlock barely had time to catch his breath before another cock was forced down his throat, and then another. At one point, someone had pushed a bottle of whisky to his lips, and tilted it backwards, until the vile stuff ran down his chin, down his throat, and onto the floor. They forced his head down to the ground, and make him lick it up like a disgraced dog. Then they started again, even going so far as to push him until he was deep throating the neck of the bottle. Sherlock’s throat was burning, and his head was pounding from the assault and the alcohol.
He had certainly been involved with rowdy bouts of sex with Liam’s guests before, but this was at a whole new level; this was wild and animalistic. He could sense that the group was actually out of control, and felt as though they might literally tear him apart. And Liam sat in the center of it all, laughing, and drinking, and accepting the others’ pats on the back and compliments at having landed such a beautiful slag.
‘Liam, please,’ he had cried at one point, but the others just silenced him with another blowjob, and he realised that help would not be forthcoming.
The next time the bottle was pressed to his lips, he accepted it without protest, hoping that inebriation would help him survive this night.
A few moments later, he felt several pairs of hands rearranging him onto his hands and knees, and then someone spreading and spitting on his arse. The next moment was agony, dulled only by the booze singing through his veins, when someone buried their cock to the hilt in one brutal thrust. He screamed from the pain, the laughter of Liam and his friends ringing in his ears. Tears flowed from his eyes freely, as the dick in his arse fucked him like a piston.
They took turns, like horses on a carousel. And Liam just watched. Sherlock didn’t understand what kind of birthday gift this was, if he wasn’t even going to partake.
Sherlock was well drunk now, and incredibly thankful for it, because the intoxication made him feel as though he was not actually present, as though he was a part of the scene, but not actually involved in the action.
From across the room, he caught sight of Victor’s copy of the Little Prince sitting on an end table. He forced his blurry vision to focus on the cracked yellow spine, remembering their afternoon chatting and laughing about the absurdity of it.
(‘It’s supposed to be sad, Sherlock,’ Victor had said, ‘When he gets bitten by the snake and goes home to his planet to be with his rose. The idea is that he naively thinks that death is the way back to what he knows.’
‘It’s not sadness, Victor, it’s meant to be a celebration,’ Sherlock argued, ‘He has completed his adventure across the galaxy, and realises now that the very best adventure of all would have been to stay where he was loved and happy.’)
Sherlock was shaken from his reverie by one of the group calling for Liam, who rose from his seat on the sofa like the benevolent, bashful king, set to address his adoring subjects.
‘You’re doing so well, love,’ he said, staring down at Sherlock, who was not doing well at all. His head was positively swimming from the alcohol, and he could barely hold himself upright. Luckily there was another cock in his arse that was fucking him in earnest now, distracted by the exchange between Liam and the other man, and rough hands gripping his hips to do the job for him.
‘Harrington, I had a thought... Given that it’s your birthday, don’t you think it’s only fitting that your boyfriend here should help you with your birthday bumps!’ The man — not Geoff — continued with a laugh, ‘How old are you anyway?’
‘Twenty-two,’ Liam replied, laughing as well, ‘Well, you’re certainly welcome to try. I don’t know how much he can take though.’
‘Much more than this, hopefully! We still haven’t determined if he’s a screamer as you say,’ Geoff interjected, and the rest of the group cheered.
‘Birthday bumps, then we make the slut scream,’ The first man said decisively, ‘Thanks for arranging this little show for us Harrington, it’s been well worth it.’
Liam smirked, and raised his glass in a mock toast. Sherlock just stared, not quite understanding what was going on.
The man behind him withdrew from his arse, but the relief was short lived. The man who had been so keen on the idea of ‘birthday bumps’ held Sherlock in place on all fours by keeping a cruel hand woven in through his hair, and another just below his arse.
Sherlock couldn’t turn his head, so he heard the whistle of the belt before he actually felt it.
Someone from behind him had brought their belt crashing down against his bare arse. The pain as sudden and intense, and Sherlock cried out against it, but he could do little to get away.
‘That’s one,’ the man holding him in place said with a chuckle, ‘But you drunk arseholes are going to get me with that damn belt if you’re not careful. Next time use the cane.’
Someone produced a wooden cane from behind the sofa, and Sherlock realised that this had been part of the plan all along. There was more laughter and comments about ‘birthday bumps’ to Liam, and he did nothing to dissuade them.
The impact and subsequent pain from being stuck with a cane rather than a belt was even worse. There was no give, so Sherlock felt the blow in his bones. He cried out pathetically, and reared like a beaten animal, but to no avail. Several more blows came raining down upon him, and the man holding him counted each out loud. Each was met with hoots and hollers from the rest of the crowd, and there was a cruel pause between each blow as the cane switched hands, as everyone wanted to get their turn.
After blow number thirteen was dealt, one of the guests said thoughtfully, ‘You know... When I was growing up, it was ‘birthday kicks’, not ‘birthday bumps’... So maybe we should try that. You know, give this slag a good well rounded experience!’
More laughter, and Sherlock found himself roughly pushed to the floor, and the group surrounded him.
They chanted the numbers for fourteen to twenty-two like mad footie fans as they kicked drunkenly at him. Sherlock curled into as tight a ball as his aching body would allow, but it did little to spare him the pain from being used as a human football. He had never heard of this bizarre tradition before; birthdays in the Holmes household were usually solemn and dignified, the most festive part being a chocolate cake that Mummy would allow exactly twice per year — on his and Mycroft’s birthdays only. There had certainly been no birthday bumps or birthday kicks, or any of this savage nonsense.
‘One to grow on!’ The man next to Geoff cheered once they finally reached number twenty-two, ‘Harrington, give him once to grow on!
‘I’m not going to kick him, Charles,’ Liam said disdainfully, and for a moment Sherlock felt warm gratitude wash over him, but it fled as soon as Liam continued speaking, ‘Hand me the cane.’
The blow from Liam somehow stung so much more than the ones before it, because this one was laced with betrayal. After, he threw the cane from him with a flourish, and was enveloped by the many hands patting him on the back and ruffling his hair.
‘Back to the party?’ Yet another man asked, and Liam nodded his consent.
The sexual assault recommenced then, but this time, Sherlock could not contain his cries of pain, or even his tears, as he was jostled one way and another, jarring his bruised (and possible broken) ribs, and his badly beaten arse and thighs.
It went on, and on, until finally — blessedly — the guests seemed to be wearing down. Most of them had already climaxed either in Sherlock’s mouth, or on his face or chest. It was disgusting, and Sherlock did his best to wipe it off of himself with his own shirt that was passed to him with a sneer.
‘We still haven’t tested your theory, Harrington,’ one of them reminded Liam with a smirk. Liam snorted, and shoved him out of the way.
‘Watch,’ he said simply, and knelt down behind Sherlock, removing himself from his trousers. Throughout it all, Liam had stayed mostly clothed, which was both surprising, but also gave him an authoritative and powerful air compared to his nude and drunken associates.
‘Are you okay?’ He murmured in Sherlock’s ear, gathering his badly beaten body into his arms. Sherlock just stared up at him, still sickeningly inebriated, as well as in excruciating pain.
‘Liam,’ he groaned, head heavy, feeling as though he was underwater. He nuzzled into Liam’s side, and Liam kissed the side of his head.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this drunk before, love,’ Liam said with a chuckle, ‘You really are magnificent. Fine way to celebrate, isn’t it?’
Sherlock didn’t quite agree, but he was suddenly so tired he couldn’t find the words to argue. He just leaned into Liam, and moaned softly as Liam kissed him gently on his face and neck. He felt himself being lowered to the ground on his back, and he found it was a relief to be braced against a solid surface, even though it made the room seem to spin every time he closed his eyes.
He felt Liam spread his legs, and line himself up, and made only the faintest noise of protest when Liam pushed in. He was incredibly sore, and it burned, but after a few moments, the familiar movements from the familiar body above him brought about a sense of comfort and home. It was as though the other six men in the room didn’t exist, and it was just the two of them again. He missed this.
Liam gently grabbed Sherlock’s knees, and pressed them into his chest to get a better angle, and apparently it had the result he wanted, because Sherlock’s breathing grew heavier and faster, until he was positively panting. Finally, it felt right.
Sherlock could tell that Liam was nearing completion as well, as the thrusting grew faster and harder. Liam reached down, and took Sherlock in his hand, and within moments, Sherlock was unabashedly moaning, pushing back against Liam with all his might. He was right there, at the brink, about to topple over when-
Everything stopped. Liam pulled out abruptly and let go of Sherlock’s cock, kneeling back on his heels with a grin as he watched Sherlock’s eyes fly open in surprise and desperation.
‘Miss me?’ He asked cheekily as Sherlock keened incoherently at the loss of the stimulation and friction, ‘Want me to keep going? Ask for it. Beg.’ He re-entered Sherlock, but only an inch or so, fucking his shallowly enough to maintain his own erection, and drive Sherlock absolutely mad.
‘Please,’ Sherlock panted, trying to push back and take more of Liam’s cock in him. He reached for his own cock, but suddenly there were several sets of hands — Dan’s, or Charles’, or Geoff’s, or one of the others’, it really didn’t matter — holding him down, and securing his wrists on either side of his head. Sherlock nearly sobbed in frustration, trying to twist his body out of their grasp, and chase down his orgasm, but he found he was quite immobilised.
Liam, still grinning, circled his hips cruelly, thrusting a little deeper this time, and laughing at Sherlock’s anguished cry.
‘Beg,’ he said again, brushing ever so slightly against Sherlock’s prostate. ‘Please what?’
‘Please fuck me, Liam!,’ Sherlock cried, completely disgraced, his words slurred, and his head spinning, but not even caring. He just needed this to end, needed to feel good after so much pain, ‘Please, fuck me harder. Please let me come. More, just finish it. Please.’
The room erupted in laughter, and several of the men surrounding them clapped Liam on the back again, and Liam drove home. He gripped Sherlock’s hips brutally, and someone else grabbed Sherlock’s cock. It only took a few strokes before he was crying out loudly again, and then coming hard, humiliation flooding him as he felt his own semen cooling against his stomach.
Liam followed suit a few moments later, and when he pulled out, Sherlock rolled onto his side, and curled in on himself, hating absolutely everything.