Priceless Treasure

John Watson was pacing back and forth in the Italian ambassador's study. He'd never dreamed that Sherlock's virginity would command such a high price in the online auction. Any pangs of conscience had swiftly been assuaged when the money arrived in his offshore account.

He reminded himself that it wasn't as if he'd delivered his flatmate and friend for execution. The man was a thirty-four year old VIRGIN, for Christ's sake, and that went a lot way toward explaining some of Sherlock's neuroses. He'd probably delete what was going to happen to him tonight, but somewhere, in the part of that amazing brain that controlled his emotions, there would surely be an improvement. Perhaps he'd start caring more. About the people he was supposed to save. And stop deriding John for trying to make him into a hero.

John felt better already.

He paused in front of the computer monitor that was displaying the CCTV feed. Before leaving to get ready, the ambassador- Signor Corelli- told him that Sherlock had just been picked up and was en route. John peered at the screen, taking in the ornate room where the anticipated event would take place. He told himself that he wanted to watch in order to ensure that Sherlock didn't come to serious harm.

To admit to darker reasons would make him feel like less of a friend.

The car finally stopped, and Sherlock was more terrified than ever. He was dragged out into the cold night and hustled into a building that smelled faintly of rich cooking (olive oil, tomatoes- Italian?) and expensive wood furniture. As soon as his captors halted and cut the plastic ties off his wrists (while keeping a solid grip on his arms) he gave in to panic and began to struggle violently.

Upstairs, John pulled a chair up to the computer monitor and watched as the gagged and blindfolded Sherlock was pulled into the room by two men while a third followed. There was no sign of Corelli yet, but everything else was in place.

Sherlock twisted and bucked fiercely as he was wrestled toward a four-poster bed in the richly furnished bedroom. Grunting behind the duct tape, he aimed a savage kick at one of his captors, but missed and threw himself off-balance instead. The three men seized the opportunity to lift him off his feet and force him onto his back on the bed.

John watched breathlessly, his nose inches from the monitor screen. While one man pinned Sherlock's wrists high above his head on the mattress and another held his twisting thighs together, the third went over to an ornate desk in the corner, opened a drawer, and took out the small glass bottle and disposable syringe that John had supplied earlier. After casting a disapproving glance at Sherlock's still-frantic bucking on the mattress, he filled the syringe and approached.

Sherlock tensed when he felt unseen hands slide his coat sleeve up and bare his arm below the bicep. A deep voice soothed, "You're only making it harder on yourself by carrying on like this. Just settle down."

The man leaned over, drove the needle into his inner elbow, and pressed the plunger down, injecting the sedative. Seconds later, Sherlock felt his struggles weaken and paralyzing warmth settle over his entire body. The tape was peeled off his mouth but it was as if his throat was packed with sand, leaving him unable to cry out. He was still afraid, but his heart rate was slowing and the earlier panic subsided to a dull anxiety.

The hands that had formerly been restraining him now began to pull off his clothes. His Belstaff coat was the first to go, followed by his shirt, shoes, and socks. When he felt his belt being unbuckled and trousers slid down, he moaned in protest and tried to fight again, but his limbs refused to obey. Sherlock whimpered when his boxers were removed, leaving him completely naked.

"Stop," he groaned.

"It'll be okay, Sherlock," a new voice said in a tone meant to be reassuring. "No one will hurt you."