Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/587221.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      Other, F/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV)
  Character:
      Sherlock_Holmes, Mycroft_Holmes
  Additional Tags:
      Bestiality, Disturbing_Themes, Foxes
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-12-09 Words: 3847
****** What We Have Tamed ******
by kirstenlouise
Summary
     "What does that mean---tame?"
     "It is an act too often neglected," said the fox. "It means to
     establish ties."
     "To establish ties?"
     "Just that," said the fox. "To me, you are still nothing more than a
     little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And
     I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To
     you, I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other
     foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other."
     ---Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince
Notes
     A thousand apologies to Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, but once I
     remembered that quote, the idea wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote
     it down. While I do not mean to give the impression that I believe
     that what Sherlock did is conscionable, I felt compelled to at least
     attempt to understand what might have brought him to this moment, so
     if I seem overly sympathetic, please remember that depiction is not
     endorsement.
     Written for this_dear_anon at sherlockbbc-fic who wanted a serious,
     sheep-free exploration of zoophilia. Substantial rewriting and
     expansion (~700 words) has occurred.
Sherlock cracks a branch off the nearest tree, shaking free the frozen droplets
still clinging to the underside. The switch whips through the air with a
satisfying swish. He silently weighs the odds of being able to sneak up on
Mycroft, swat him across his rather enormous backside, and still evade capture.
An hour spent with his nose pressed to the wall may well be worth making
Mycroft howl.
He advances slowly on the tips of his toes, switch in hand. Mycroft struts like
a peacock, oblivious as he swings his brolly back and forth in front of him.
Sherlock raises the switch, but before he can bring it down, his attention is
diverted to a small, black thing half-curled in a puddle of snow-melt. A
kitten, perhaps. It wouldn't be the first. He'd stumbled across an entire
litter frozen in a cardboard box down by the pond a fortnight ago. They're
buried under Mummy's prize rosebushes now. It's the only place he could find
where the soil had thawed enough to be overturned with a trowel.
He prods the thing with his switch, startling when it whimpers. Not dead at
all, then. He can see her side rising shallowly with each labored breath. He's
about to pick her up for closer inspection when Mycroft yanks at the back of
his jacket.
"How many times must I tell you, Sherlock? We don't touch dead things with our
bare hands."
Sherlock wriggles out of his grip and glares. "She isn't dead, Mycroft. She's
been abandoned. I want to help her."
"Vixens only abandon their kits if they're born small and weak, which means
that 'she' is likely the runt of the litter and just as like to die with or
without your intervention," Mycroft says, the impatience obvious in his tone.
He taps his umbrella smartly against the path. "Come along, we're late for
supper as it is."
"I don't care about supper," Sherlock mutters. The thought of leaving her,
unwanted, to die of exposure or be gobbled up by some passing scavenger turns
his stomach. If what Mycroft says is true, well, he can't make it any worse by
at least trying to nurse her back to health. He scuffs his heel against the
pavement. "My laces are undone."
Mycroft responds with an exaggerated sigh. "You know perfectly well how to tie
them on your own."
He strides briskly down the path as Sherlock crouches. There's nothing wrong
with his laces, but Mycroft's attention to detail never did fare particularly
well when faced with the prospect of a dinner party. Sherlock gives him one
last glance before scooping up the tiny fox kit. He smuggles her away in the
pocket where he'd tucked his woolen mittens earlier, taking care not to jostle
her as he catches up with Mycroft.
They approach the gates in silence. Sherlock can't help reaching into his
pocket to ensure that she's still breathing. He smiles when she huffs a wet
little breath against his hand to clear her lungs. It bodes well, he thinks, if
she's strong enough to clear them on her own.
"You're a terrible liar," Mycroft says, once they reach the door. "And too
soft-hearted by half."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't play games with me. I know you've that mongrel tucked away in your
pocket."
Sherlock's free hand balls into a fist. "You'd have left her to die."
"Yes," Mycroft agrees, "and with good reason. If you've any sense at all,
you'll put it back where you found it, or drown it in the bathtub."
"Is that what you wanted to do to me?"
"On the contrary, I'm the one who pulled you out." His smile is flat and cruel.
"And I've been paying for it ever since. We are responsible for what we have
tamed, Sherlock. You would do well to remember that."
***
Mycroft's comment sticks in his gullet like a half-chewed hunk of meat. I'm the
one who pulled you out.
Sherlock excuses himself halfway through the first course under the pretense of
stomach upset, ignoring Mycroft's disapproving stare. That's all Mycroft is
good for---disapproval and casual cruelty. It's as he's been fed a steady diet
of it since birth. It may have made his coat sleek and pleasing to look at, but
Sherlock can imagine the way his insides must look, curdled and tumorous with
hatred. He's infested, crawling with fat, pale grave-worms that will pick the
flesh from his bones and leave only a husk.
No one pays him any mind at all once he's left table. He filches a half-empty
bottle of milk from the kitchen and a handful of flannels from the linen
cupboard before retreating upstairs to the nursery.
The kit stirs into wakefulness once Sherlock pulls her from his pocket, a
blind, squirming ball of fur no larger than his hand and clearly no more than
hours old. Her eyes will be closed for days yet, if he can keep her alive that
long. The moment he sets her atop the duvet, she begins to whimper loudly. She
has quite an impressive set of lungs on her.
The kit quiets somewhat when scoops her up, using his shirt to wrap her in. She
shivers against his chest, her little body clearly still trying to fight off
the cold, but as he sits with her in his arms, gently blowing gusts of warm air
over her, her shivers begin to subside. Keeping her warm is the most crucial
thing, but he can't imagine she'll be anything but starving by now. He steadies
the bottle of milk between his knees so he can dip the corner of a flannel into
it. He lets the milk dribble onto her mouth, but it doesn't take. She whines
and wriggles.
Cold. Of course. Not at all like mother's milk. Still cradling her, he takes a
sip of milk, swirling it around in his mouth to warm it before letting it soak
into a second corner of the flannel. This time, she begins to suckle weakly.
Sherlock strokes her with his free hand as she drinks her fill, taking her
little warbling sounds as a sign of her contentment. She's very beautiful. He
can see that now that she's dry. Her coat is dark and fine, like a dandelion
bloom or the powdery, velvet center of a poppy. Once she's finished feeding,
she burrows up under his armpit and huffs. He makes the sound back at her,
smiling when she nuzzles him.
It's early yet, but he thinks she might have imprinted on him. His must be the
first human hands to touch her.
The thought sends a peculiar sensation rippling through his belly.
***
They only use the trick with the flannel and the milk bottle for the few days
it takes Sherlock to plan and construct a more efficient delivery system. The
relatively simple series of tubes and reservoirs, the bulk of which can be
easily concealed beneath his shirt, permits her to lie curled against the soft
flesh of his belly when she feeds, just as if she's taking suck from her
mother. Every four hours, he sets her against the dummy, petting her with an
old rabbit pelt he found in the attic to mimic the crowding of other kits.
Keeping her fed is easier than keeping her warm, he's found. She's still
completely unable to thermoregulate on her own, but they manage well enough
with a hot water bottle during the day, when he isn't there to let her burrow
under his arm.
At fifteen days, her eyes open, and it becomes clear to Sherlock that he needs
some name to call her by. He spends a week poring over Father's old texts
before he finds something with the proper mixture of beauty and ferocity.
Teaching Sigrid to respond to his voice is simple enough when she already knows
him by smell. She exhibits none of the wariness natural to her species, but
then, why should she? His is the only smell she's ever known, aside from her
own, and if he doesn't smell like her, his is still the scent she associates
with food, warmth, and affection.
When she nips at his fingers, he can feel her sharp little teeth beginning to
erupt. He finds her endlessly fascinating---her expressive little ears, her
playful nature, the way she barks, wow wow wow wow wow, and tugs at the collar
of his shirt with her teeth when she craves his attention.
Sherlock likes it best when Sigrid climbs atop his chest and stares back at him
with her wide, milky moon eyes in the early hours of the morning, before she
settles down to sleep for the day. Frequently, he slips into sleep under her
watchful gaze, waking only when Sigrid needs to be fed or wants to be petted.
He steps out of the nursery, having got her settled with the hot water bottle,
and finds Mycroft waiting for him.
"You didn't heed my advice, I take it."
"It was rubbish advice."
Sherlock tries to duck past him, but Mycroft catches him around the waist and
crowds him against the wall.
"She's a wild thing, Sherlock. Not a pet. How long do you imagine you'll be
able to keep her like this?" His breath is hot and foul.
Sherlock twists his face away from Mycroft's glistening maw, arms breaking out
in gooseflesh. "Let me go, Mycroft."
"Are you such a fool that you think she won't grow tired of your coddling? An
animal does not hesitate to bite the hand that feeds."
"You're wrong."
"Do you truly believe that?"
He swallows the bile threatening to choke him. "Leave us alone. We aren't
hurting anyone."
It seems an eternity before Mycroft finally steps aside. Sherlock retreats to
the nursery and buries his face in Sigrid's fur, swallowing a sob. They'll be
safe soon, when Mycroft leaves for Cambridge, but that's still a week out. It
terrifies him to think how much could happen in a week, so he pushes it out of
his mind and breathes. Sigrid's coat smells of warm, clean fur with a wash of
milkiness, the way infants smell, and a touch of violet. It isn't strong at
present, but it will be, once her scent glands mature and she begins wanting to
mark his territory for her own.
His belly swirls again, nearly painful.
Sherlock ignores it. He's become very good at that.
***
Sherlock breathes easier when Mycroft leaves to make something of himself and
Mummy resumes her policy of benevolent neglect.
Sigrid's eyes are beginning to make the shift from blue to deep, burnished
gold, the hint of red in her cheeks and the black smeared around her eyes
already visible. She no longer needs the hot water bottle and he's since begun
to try her on solid food, filling his pockets with scraps from the table to
chew for her and feed her from his palm. He's been catching game for her to
hunt as well. Frogs are the easiest, though Sigrid clearly finds them
distasteful, but he manages a squirrel or a vole every now and then. Those she
demolishes with relish.
After the first few, she begins to bring her kills to him. He wonders if she
thinks he's ill, or somehow unable to hunt for himself. Perhaps it's a form of
kin-selection. None of it has been to his liking taste-wise, but Sigrid seems
content regardless of whether he shares in eating what she kills or not, as
long as he signals his acceptance. It's somewhat of a mystery how she sees
their relationship, in terms of hierarchy, but Sherlock isn't overly bothered
by the imprecision.
That isn't what keeps him awake at night.
He has a hypothesis, about the odd sensations he's been having. They've become
more and more frequent over the last several weeks, to the point of
distraction. He can scarcely be in the same room with Sigrid anymore without
his insides trying to rearrange themselves. His skin breaks out in a flush at
the sight of Sigrid, whose coat has begun to blossom into a resplendent red,
her limbs growing slender and willowy.
No one is likely to bother them, but Sherlock bars the nursery door as an extra
precaution before stripping off his clothes and climbing into bed with Sigrid.
She licks his chin with a yap, her eyes warm and bright as he pulls her against
his chest. A sigh escapes him at the brush of fur, involuntary. Sigrid
startles, her ears perking up at the sound. She flicks them quizzically and he
smiles. Her hearing is exquisitely sensitive.
"It's all right," he assures her. "I'm not hurt."
She settles back down with her muzzle pressed into his belly. It's maddening,
the wrenching in his stomach, now that he can feel her side rising and falling
as she drowses against him. He swallows, heart leaping into his throat as he
slides a tentative hand down the length of his hip.
"Sigrid?"
Her head pops up at the sound of her name. Sherlock scratches behind her ear
with the one hand, the other slipping down between his legs. He chews at his
lip, not wanting to frighten her with any sudden sounds, but she's very well
attuned to him. She nuzzles his palm and gives a soft, high whine that sends a
shiver rocketing down his spine. He squeezes himself, breathing hard through
his nose as she does it again and rolls onto her back, exposing her soft, white
underbelly.
She's months away from estrus, but the show of submission could not be more
plain.
Sherlock's eyes drift down past her belly. He's looked at her here once before,
but only briefly to confirm her sex. Anything else would have been sordid. Not
that there's much to see. It's little more than a delicate, pink slit at
present, mostly obscured by soft tufts of fur, but it's been enough to make him
wake up sticky and sweat-covered most mornings. She's close enough to smell,
the warm fur smell softened by a gentle waft of violet.
Sigrid whines her soft little whine as Sherlock brings his fingers up to his
mouth to wet them with saliva before bringing them back to gently stroke her
exposed vulva. His penis throbs at the velvet feel of her sex. Warm urine
dribbles out against his fingertips as he touches her, coupled with a groan
that must come out of his own mouth.
His hand trembles as he brings it toward his face, unable to keep from jamming
his fingers back into his mouth to taste her. It occurs to him that she's just
staked her claim on him. Tamed him.
The thought prompts him to ejaculate messily into his other hand.
Once the aftershocks have quieted, Sherlock rolls onto his back. Sigrid leaps
onto him and settles on his naked belly, head resting on her forepaws. He
offers his fingers to her, feeling the heat rise in his face when she laps up
his semen with her rough, pink tongue.
"I like the way you taste, too," he tells her, breathless, as she stares at him
with her hooded, honey colored eyes.
They belong to one another now.
***
They've been comfortable in their makeshift den for several months when Sigrid
finally starts scratching at the door, wanting to explore. He watches her run
off into the wood, enraptured, only to run back to him with some small,
wriggling creature caught in her jaws. They come to an arrangement to meet at
the pond, where she buries whatever she hasn't eaten and then lies swiping at
the small fish that swim just under the surface.
He's taken her out a hundred times without incident, but today, when they reach
the edge of the wood, Sigrid refuses to hunt. She won't even drink from the
pond, or dip her paws in to swipe at the little fish there. She only twines
herself around his ankles and folds her ears down against her head, unwilling
to go more than a few feet from him. His heart tries to collapse in on itself.
Something is wrong and Sherlock doesn't know what.
Once they make it back to the nursery, Sigrid knocks against his legs with a
sound he's never heard before. He sits on the bed and she immediately leaps up
into his lap, raising herself on her hind legs and resting her forepaws on his
shoulders.
"What's the matter?" he asks, as she nuzzles his cheek. He kisses the soft line
of her neck. "Tell me what it is."
With a whine, she begins to lick at his mouth. He opens up for the rough stroke
of her tongue, his penis swelling. He likes it when she kisses him, even when
her teeth catch on his lips and leave them blooming with red. Her tail flicks
rapidly back and forth as he strokes her spine. Something wet drops onto his
trousers. Urine, he assumes---Sigrid marks him, every now and then, when he's
kissing her, or when he masturbates her. When he looks, however, the splotches
are too dark to be urine.
He delicately runs a finger over her vulva. It comes away red and he tries not
to panic.
It's only November---far too early to start carrying kits if she wants them to
survive---but something seems to have offset her cycle. No wonder she's so
opposed to leaving his side, if she's in estrus.
Sherlock soothes her as best as he can while he undresses, as quickly as he can
manage. She's frantic by the time he finishes and coaxes her onto her back. Her
vulva is red and swollen, engorged with blood. Her heat makes it more
prominent. She whines when he rubs her belly, miserable with the need to be
bred.
"Shhh," he murmurs. "It's all right, Sigrid. I'm here..."
She'll be very tender at this stage, Sherlock knows. He lowers himself onto his
stomach, nostrils flaring at the pungent smell of her heat. He lowers his mouth
to her vulva and gives a tentative lick, continuing only when she signals her
acceptance. It's only the second or third time he's been able to stimulate her
orally, though she rolls over for him often enough. He supposes his tongue
feels right to her now, given what the heat has trained her to anticipate.
The taste of her is like nothing he's ever experienced, the array of flavors
entirely distinct from when he's had his mouth against her vulva before. She's
muskier, now, and little coppery with blood, but such a description falls
woefully short of accurately describing the way she floods his senses and makes
him swell to the point of bursting. He'd love nothing more than to fill her, to
feel her from the inside, the way he's dreamt about.
When she rolls away from his mouth, the taste of her lingers. She holds her
tail high and his mouth dries up. She's presenting, which means he must smell
like a mate, but something about her feels off. He pulls a blanket over them
for their burrow, hoping it will be more natural for her. The shift is
immediate and he sighs, gripping his shaft and lining up the head of his penis
with Sigrid's swollen little vulva. Even if he weren't awash in his own seminal
fluid, she'd be more than slippery enough for him to frot against her. He moves
the head with slow, circular motions. Even that, something so simple, is
unbearable ecstasy.
He can hardly breathe, every exhalation coming out as a moan, his hips rocking
back and forth as he slides against her vulva, making her whine.
Tentatively, he pushes at the entrance of her vagina, to see if she might be
able to accommodate him. To his surprise, the head of his penis breaches her
easily, but she's too shallow for any sort of depth. He can already feel the
mouth of her cervix, slightly spongy against his slit. His teeth sink hard into
his lip as he tries to hold back his moans at being inside her, however
shallowly. It means everything that Sigrid is letting him mate with her, that
she thinks he'll give her a belly full of pups. His toes curl at the thought.
His face is wet with the tears leaking out of his eyes with the effort to stay
quiet as he rocks his penis gently inside her vaginal canal, rubbing her belly
and listening to her soft whining as he breeds her.
It's over too quickly.
All too soon, Sherlock has to extract his soft penis from her. Semen falls to
the duvet in gobs and suddenly nothing feels right. His heart pounds. He feels
starved for oxygen. It's the tie, he thinks. Sigrid will be expecting one and
he doesn't have one to give her. His penis swells and then deflates upon
climax, without any knotting, or any proof that the coupling is over.
He isn't made for being inside her.
For some reason, the thought sends a fresh, hot gush of tears down his cheeks,
even as Sigrid nips affectionately at his fingers and curls up under his arm
with her nose beneath her tail. Estrus is meant to span up to three weeks, with
the first several days given to mating. He doesn't know if Sigrid will be like
that, now that she's gone into estrus early.
He doesn't know anything about how things will be, in the coming days.
***
Sherlock is afraid to touch Sigrid, even when her heat makes her keen for him,
because Mycroft is back in the house and he knows.
All it takes is one look. One careful, sweeping glance. One infinitesimal
moment and Mycroft knows everything about what he's done to the half-frozen,
wild little thing Mycroft wanted him to drown. There is no taking it back, now.
No apologizing. There is no begging to be forgiven and, even if there were,
Sherlock wouldn't know what to ask forgiveness for.
They sit in front of the fire and Sherlock can hear Sigrid upstairs, calling
for him. He wants to go to her, to scoop her up in his arms and press his face
into her fur and never leave their den again.
"I didn't hurt her," he says. Maybe... maybe Mycroft doesn't understand what he
means to her. "Please---"
"Don't you dare plead with me." The words come out vicious and forceful.
Sherlock's bladder tries to empty itself. Mycroft doesn't even look at him when
he swings the gavel. "You are a very, very sick little boy."
His tone is like nothing Sherlock has ever heard before, but he knows Mycroft
is right. He's sick on an atomic level. His quarks are misaligned. The charges
of his ions are improperly calibrated. He cries, ugly and loud, and Mycroft
says nothing, makes no move to comfort him. Sherlock supposes he's beyond
comforting.
He's beyond being something Mycroft can bear to lay his hands on.
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