Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1119678.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/John_Watson
  Character:
      Sherlock_Holmes, John_Watson, Sally_Donovan, Anderson_(Sherlock), Mycroft
      Holmes
  Additional Tags:
      Rape_Recovery, Rape_Aftermath, Past_Child_Abuse, Past_Sexual_Abuse,
      Torture, Kidnapping_Sherlock, Emotional/Psychological_Abuse, Rape, Male
      Slash, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Forced_Feminization, Non-Consensual_Drug
      Use, Past_Drug_Addiction, Sherlock's_Past, Alternate_Universe_-_Canon
      Divergence, Forced_Crossdressing, Gender_Confusion, Johnlock_Fluff,
      Explicit_Sexual_Content, On_Hiatus
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-01-04 Chapters: 5/5 Words: 32574
****** The Case of the Dress Up Murders ******
by darkphoenixreal_(phoenixreal)
Summary
     Lestrade's team is working a case involving a serial rapist/murderer
     that targets adolescent boys. Sherlock, of course, is on the case. He
     is brought in on the third crime scene much to Donavan and Anderson's
     annoyance. As he's leaving alone, he and Sally are shot with some
     sort of dart and disappear. Sherlock finds himself locked up in a
     basement with Sally, drugged on opiates. Sally, though, is
     clearheaded. Soon, their captor reveals himself to be the man they
     are already hunting. Confused, he informs Sherlock that he targets
     those who have a past of sexual abuse as children, and that according
     to a certain consulting criminal, Sherlock fits his requirements of
     that and being "unspoiled" since.
     He uses Sally as Leverage to get a very high Sherlock to cooperate as
     he reveals what he has planned, to dress Sherlock as he had the
     others he's murdered, and have a nice tea party. Sally manages to
     escape, only to be recaptured and both are moved. Now, Lestrade and
     team have to deal with uncovering the secrets of Sherlock's past, and
     trying to find him before his captor tires of him and kills him like
     he has killed his other "dolls".
Notes
     This is SUPER OLD and needs editing.
     On Hiatus at the end of first story arc. Will be adding five chapters
     later on after revisions.
     I am currently editing. Donovan's name is misspelled, my spellchecker
     decided autocorrecting Holmes to Holms was a great idea, and I have
     Anderson's first name as Mike when it should be Phillip. No idea why
     I got it in my head that his name was Mike. I swear, I thought it was
     in the show.
     Once editing is done, I will begin posting the second part of the
     story, chapters 6-10. If there is anything you would like to see,
     comment and let me know. I have not written the next part, but there
     will be another baddie, and John and Sherlock working on their
     relationship together.
     Disclaimer: Don't own, don't make money.
     Warnings: Graphic non-con, torture, emotional manipulation, graphic
     mentions of past child abuse/non-con. Please heed tags and such.
     The doll dress is here: albu_252292951_00-1.0x0/2013-two-piece-squre-
     neck-long-sleeves-unique. jpg (remove spaces)
***** Dolls *****
Chapter Notes
     1/8: Edited! Yay!
eople like Anderson and Donovan were sure they knew Sherlock Holmes. They were
very sure he didn't have a heart and that he only got a thrill out of coming to
murder scenes. And this one was perhaps one of the worst kind. It was a string
of children between eleven and thirteen who had been raped, abused severely,
and murdered, each one left in a room that was decorated like a tea party
inside abandoned buildings all over London. They were missing a week, and about
the time they discovered the body, another child would be reported missing.
They had hit their third scene in three weeks, and if the pattern held true,
the next week would show another death. So far no new missing children had been
reported, but they had to act fast. And of course, today, Lestrade had called
in their resident freak. He'd visited the others scenes, after the bodies had
been removed, but of course the freak wanted to see one before the body was
taken to the morgue. She sighed deeply and waited for the inevitable.
Before long, a black cab came up and let out Sherlock, and immediately they
noticed that he was without his tail of the doctor. He wrapped his coat a bit
tighter and walked toward the tape, going through by Donovan. She wondered why
he always seemed to gravitate toward her even though she gave him no reason to
remotely com in her direction.
"Hello, freak, how are you? Got one that'll really get you off tonight, huh?
Where's John?" she asked, not letting anything but heat seep into her voice.
John at least was normal.
"At a conference in Wales," he said, rolling his eyes. "Now, if you'll excuse
me, I'm interested in catching a serial killer, not your droll conversation."
She sneered after him. He ignored her and went into the scene. A few moments
later, he'd informed them to test the tea for the rapidly denaturing poison
that was contained it in for the cause of death, had determined that the killer
had been molested, possibly sexually assaulted, as a child, now collected
Victorian dolls, dressed his male victims like the dolls that he had, and sewed
the clothing himself by hand. He himself had a mother that wanted a daughter
instead of a son. A DNA sample should be attainable in the seaming of the
dresses he put the boys in, because no one that sewed by hand could avoid
pricking their finger now and then. He lived above or within a doll shop, and
could be certain to have the clothing of the children he'd killed still in his
possession. He told Lestrade he'd figure out where he lived quickly for
Lestrade.
He stepped out into the air outside and breathed in deeply. It was a cold
night, and the case, though grisly, had been easy enough for him to put
together. They really should have called after the first murder. While it was
true he didn't have the killer in hand, he was confident he'd make his way to
his flat within a short time. After all, how many doll shops could there be in
London? Still, though, there was something tickling at the back of the mind, as
though there was something he was missing, something right in front of him…
Sally was the last one left outside, the crime scene had been taped off, and no
one seemed too interested once the cars with the lights flashing had left.
Lestrade, Anderson and the small forensics team were all that were left.
Anderson had gone around the back to check on the back entrance when Sherlock
showed up.
"Enjoy yourself, freak?" Sally asked with another sneer at the consulting
detective. He fixed her with a glare.
"I've solved your case, isn't that enough for you? Now, if you do not mind, I
shall go actually catch your criminal, doing your job," he said and went to
walk off. He flinched, then and reached up and pulled a tiny dart from his
neck. He turned and stared at her, his eyes crossing, and he slumped to the
ground. Sally frowned and felt a sting herself, and found the world spinning
around her violently as she fell just as hard.
"Where's Donovan?" Anderson shouted into the building the others were inside
of. Sally had been on duty outside.
Lestrade looked up. "She should be right there. She was standing out there at
the tape."
Both went out and looked around. Lestrade felt a crunch under his boot. He
reached down and picked up a metal dart. He looked over and saw another one
glinting on the sidewalk beside an all too familiar blue scarf.
"I think we've got a problem," Lestrade said, pulling out his cellphone and
texting madly.
-Somewhere Else-
Sally blinked, her dark eyes opening slowly and sluggishly. She thought for a
moment that perhaps she drank too much the night before, but no…she was at a
crime scene. It was dark, but there was a little light streaming in from a high
window that was frosted nearly opaque. She felt handcuffs around her wrists and
felt she was secured to a pole of some sort. She looked over to her side and
saw that she wasn't alone. She sighed. Of all the people to get kidnapped with,
she had to get kidnapped with the freak. He was still out, head dropped, dark
curls falling over his face. She couldn't see what she was personally secured
to, but it seemed to be pipes or columns of some sort running down in the
basement.
There was a bang and Sherlock sat up straight suddenly, blinking and looking
around him. He barely noticed her as a rotund man came toward them. He had a
huge grin on his face. He was balding, the top of his head quite shiny. His
hair that remained was dark brown. A pair of square framed glasses perched on
his pudgy and pockmarked nose. He wore a decent suit, navy blue, but it was
rumpled quite a bit. Sally assumed from dragging them around unconscious since
he didn't have accomplices.
"Sorry for the accommodations, sergeant," he said, smiling at Sally as though
it was the most normal day in the world.
"What have you taken us for?" she said, trying to at least figure out why she
was here.
"He's the one we were after, the one that killed those three children,"
Sherlock said, and she looked to see he was still groggy. That was strange, she
was clearheaded. He should have cleared whatever was used before she did. She
watched the balding man carefully as he crouched between Sherlock's legs with a
grin.
"Of course, dear Sherlock. I knew you'd realize who I was right away, but do
you have any idea why I've brought you here? You know, you remind me of my
dolls? I saw you at the first crime scene, the next day, you know, and I
thought, my, my, what a pretty boy is he," he said, tilting Sherlock's head
upward, finger digging painfully into the soft flesh under his chin. "Not too
witty today, are you? Oh, I doubt that. Here, time to give you a bit more,
don't want you deducing your way out now do we?"
He pulled a syringe from his pocked and popped the cap, jabbing it into
Sherlock's leg in one fluid movement, getting a gasp from the man under him.
"There we go. Now you can't do a terrible lot of thinking, now can you?"
Sherlock lifted his head and frowned. "Wha…Wha you want with her?" he finally
managed.
He smiled at him. "Oh it was a matter of convenience. You are notoriously hard
to control, I hear from a certain consulting criminal. He gave me the most
excellent idea of holding an extra hostage to get you more…agreeable. I was
going to take your dear John, but he wasn't with you, so I settled for her."
Sally couldn't help herself; she gave a derisive snort. "You could have picked
someone better, we hate each other," she said with a roll of her eyes.
"Ah, is that true, Sherlock?" he asked, lifting his head slowly. "Do you hate
her?"
Sherlock's jaw worked. "Leave me alone," he said finally, though it came out
sound a bit like lemmalone.
"Oh, no, you've got a tea party to come to, Sherlock. You won't break like my
other dolls, now will you?" he said, holding his face upward and petting it
gently. "I've got a perfect outfit in mind for you, has lovely short dark
curls, just like you, yes…"
Sherlock tried to extract his head from the grip and muttered, "Goway,"
sluggishly. "Leggo…"
"I'm afraid not, Sherlock. I've got a lovely time planned for us. So right now,
let's stand up here, I'll need your measurements to complete the look I have
planned," he said, pulling a tape from one pocket and a small notepad and golf
pencil from another.
Sherlock shook his head, refusing to stand when he was pulled. "Now, now, if
you throw a tantrum, your not-friend here gets to suffer. Is that what you
want? I don't like my little ones to throw tantrums, it makes me very upset."
He moved over toward Sally and Sherlock's slumped posture moved to watch. "See,
until we have our tea party, I can't play with you, but I can play with her…"
he said, pulling a knife from a holster at his back and tracing the blade on
her neck. She sucked in a breath. Well, she'd die here. No way the freak was
going to do what he wanted.
"Stop," he muttered, almost too low for him to hear. The man turned back to
him, but Sally caught the almost manic gin on his face.
"What was that? Are you going to cooperate?" he asked.
Sherlock nodded. He moved back to him and roughly yanked him to his feet.
"First, this has to go…" he said, taking his knife and ripping down the sleeves
of the shirt Sherlock was wearing. Sally realized his coat was crumpled the
floor beside him, leaving him in a blue long sleeved button up shirt. The shirt
fell away. She frowned at him. The man was skinny. She could see his ribs. She
remembered something about John and Lestrade saying that he forgot to eat
sometimes for days on end, and refused to eat when on a case. At the time, she
had thought it was merely attention seeking behavior.
"Sherlock, you don't take care of yourself, look at this…" the man said running
hands over Sherlock's sides. "Are you anorexic or something?"
Sherlock didn't answer, just stared upward. "Oh my," he said. "And what's
this?" he said, running hands down Sherlock's bare arms. "You cut, don't you?
That's a surprise, even M didn't know about this…"
At that, Sally's head did snap around and stare. She could see the lines of
perfectly straight lines running from his shoulder down the sides of his arms.
There weren't any fresh ones that she could see, but there were lots in
different stages of scarring. Some were pink and relatively recent. She noted
they stopped a couple inches below the inside of his elbow, but she saw two
wide, thick cuts nearer to his wrists. The man ran fingers over the deeper
scars and smiled.
"Hum, let's see about here too?" he said and she saw him flinch as the man
undid the belt and dropped his black trousers to the floor. She saw the
distinct marks of fresh cuts across the top of his thighs under the hem of his
black boxers. Lines followed down to the just above his knees in various stages
of healing. Well, that answered the question of what kind of underwear he wore.
"You hide it now, don't you? I bet your doctor friend would be very
disappointed if he saw this, wouldn't he?"
"He thinks I stopped," he muttered, almost sadly. Sally couldn't believe the
emotion that was belied in those simple words. The man ran his hands over the
scabs and scars, fingers lingering on the inner part of his legs enough that
she caught the shaking in Sherlock's bound hands.
"Why, Dolly?" the man said softly.
"Hum…" Sherlock said, looking away. He wasn't going to dignify him with an
answer when he wouldn't even speak of it with his John.
"Dolly, now, now, remember what happens if you don't cooperate, your not-friend
is going to gain my attention…" he said, and Sally was amazed that Sherlock's
hazy eyes locked onto her again. She, for the first time, saw emotion flitting
there. Emotion that she was sure that this freak, this man, didn't have.
"Forget and feel," he muttered, turning his eyes away from her and staring
upward again.
"Forget what?" he continued, running his hands over the wounds along his legs
still, and Sally could tell that Sherlock was trying to put it completely out
of his mind, and failing, either from shock or from whatever drug had been
injected.
"Mem'ries," he slurred. "Forget them."
"Oh, my what kind of memories, little one?" he purred, hands stroking the
taller man's sides against the ribs softly.
"No…" he said softly. "Don't…"
"Yes, little one, you'll tell me, or I'll take my knife and carve your not-
friend with it," he said, and Sally saw his hands gripping Sherlock's biceps
and squeezing enough that she saw redness blooming around his hands.
Sherlock swallowed, thinking if it was just this psychotic bastard, it would be
different, but he wasn't alone. He turned his head to look at Sally, hoping to
find her looking away, but no, she was staring.
"M'father, okay…f'get 'im. Wanna f'get, your case 'minded me of 'im, so I did
it," he said finally, head rolling to look the other way.
The man ghosted hands over Sherlock's face then, bringing his face to stare at
him. "And why do you want to forget him? And why on earth would my case of all
things remind you of your father?"
Sherlock shook his head out of the grip. "Stop, lock'd up this, don bring it
out, p-please…" he was begging. Sally's eyes widened. "Deleted it, tried, keeps
comin' back, don't…"
"No, no, remember what happens, little Doll?" he gestured toward Sally.
"F-fine…he hurt us…th-then he left and it was me…alone…so he hurt me…" he said
quietly, words still slightly slurred and stammered.
"How?" he whispered into Sherlock's ear.
"P-please…not this…I don't…" he begged. "I can't…"
"Oh you can, M said you would do just fine. Now, what did he do, little one?
Did he hit you? Did he beat you? Did he starve you? Or did he touch you? Or did
he do what I did to my other little dolls? Did he love you that much?"
Sherlock shivered violently. "No, stoppit…" he slurred, but he held up the
silver knife and Sherlock's eyes danced and followed it. "Aight! Yes, all of
it, just stop!" he begged, and Sally was taken completely back, her mind
reeling at the victims they'd found. All had been beaten severely, all raped,
and all looked perfectly fine when they were found.
The man seemed satisfied by his victim's state of distress and Sally watched
with disgust as the man took his time taking Sherlock's measurements, wrapping
the tape around his waist, hips, each thigh, chest, arms, everything seemed to
take twice as long as it should as the man's hands lingered against the pale
skin. And good lord was the man pale. Sally had to wonder if the man ever went
outside without the bloody coat on. Finally he was done and he stepped back and
smiled, leaving him to slide down to the ground still clad in his boxers. He
kicked away the trousers where they'd fallen and smiled down at Sherlock again.
Sally realized his shoes were sitting with his coat between them. He stared
upward as he tried to move his legs to a more comfortable spot. He then took
off and the door banged closed again.
She wasn't sure what to do. She worked at the cuffs but there was no way she
could pull her hands free, and with the freak drugged up like he was… He faded
in and out of consciousness from what she could tell, occasionally muttering
something, but it was barely coherent. After a couple hours he sat up suddenly.
"I have the worst headache," he muttered, rolling his head around on his
shoulders. "Dammit Mycroft…where the hell are you when I actually need you?"
"Who's Mycroft?" Sally asked.
He started and glanced over, blinking, as if realizing for the first time he
wasn't alone. "Oh, it wasn't in my head, wonderful, you really are here," he
said sighing, and banging his head into the pole behind him.
"Who's Mycroft?" Sally asked again, louder, ignoring his statement completely.
"My overprotective and interfering older brother who usually has a tail on me
whether I like it or not, except of course, today he would choose to call his
men off," Sherlock said with a sigh. "Not sure why, he already knows John is
out of town, so normally he'd have at least one care tailing me and one at the
flat. Bastard. I'll send him a whole cake when I get out of here," he said,
looking around. His eyes weren't as quick as Sally knew they should be, he was
obviously still drugged, but at least coherent.
"How does he do that?" Sally asked, not really understanding and honestly
surprised that Sherlock had a brother. And he was interfering and
overprotective. Wasn't that the strangest thing?
He snorted. "He doesn't work for the British government. Last time I listened
to him I wound up in Buckingham Palace in a sheet. If he'd put his endless
funds onto something besides following me around…stupid British government."
Sally was a little confused. "Where is he now?"
"Off taking over some small country, probably," Sherlock huffed and sighed.
"Otherwise I wouldn't be stuck here; he'd already have come in on his white
horse. He loves to do that when he thinks I can't handle things myself. Usually
he's wrong. But of course, this is the one time I doneed him and he's nowhere
to be found. And he wonders why I tell him to bugger off the rest of the time."
Sally smiled though. "Sounds like any other older brother to me."
Sherlock fixed her with a glare. "You have no idea. Though I guess in his own
way, he thinks he's making up for things…" he said leaning his head against the
thick pipe behind him. "He thinks he could have done something about the drugs
and he could not. I made that choice, nothing was going to stop me."
Sally blinked. Obviously, whatever the bastard gave him was making him chatty
and honest. "You know what he's giving you don't you? That's why you're not
asleep anymore."
"Oh yes, between the coke and the heroine I used to shoot, this is not that
strong. Medical grade narcotics. Doesn't work so well on me. Going to have to
detox again after I get out of this, if I live of course. I hate detox. Goddamn
Mycroft dragging me there."
Sally couldn't resist. She'd always wondered. "Why'd you start drugs,
Sherlock?"
There was a long pause and she wondered if he was going to answer. "Too much.
First the boarding school, then uni. No one likes a freak, too many of them to
deal with it. Drugs made it hurt less when they yelled and hit. Needed
oblivion…found it in a needle. Blanks the entire brain for me, stops the
synapses, pauses the working, and that never happens otherwise. Can't shut it
off, y'know? Just keeps going, never stopping, swirling with information I
can't fucking delete."
There was a bang and they both looked up. The rotund man returned. "What is
this? You should have been out of it for another couple hours at least, Dolly."
Sherlock sneered. "I'm most certainly not your 'Dolly'. Who are you and what
are we doing here?" he demanded, attempting to project strength into a voice
that was quite bereft of it. "Basement, obviously, and…hey!"
Before he could get anything out, the strange man had plunged another syringe
full of something into his thigh muscle. "He warned me you used to use, my but
you have quite the resistance to opiates, don't you? I'll have to double your
dosage, Dolly."
"Not your Dolly," he muttered, his head starting to spin.
"No, shh, you will be. I'm half done with your lovely outfit, sweetheart. Now,
now, just relax until we have our little tea party. But don't worry; I plan to
keep you for a while. Now that I got my perfect Dolly. Those others don't
compare to you. I was worried when he suggested it, since I'm fond of little
ones. But he was right, so very right. You're so much better. Pretty as a
picture, smooth, and a little grooming, you'll be just like one of the little
ones. I'll be down to divest you of this nasty stuff," he said, running a hand
down his chest and plucking at the sparse hairs on him. His hand dipped down
into his boxers making him jump. "Oh yes, that has to go…"
"Stop that," he muttered, frowning as he squirmed away from the hand.
"Stoppit!" he tried, but his words were becoming more slurred as the drugs
began to slow down his head.
The man stood back up. "Yes, yes, I'll be back to deal with that. Can't have
that on you, now can I? No, dolls are nice and smooth with pretty porcelain
skin. I'll get some covers for those scars on your legs. Can't have them show!"
Sally was starting to worry now. They'd been there hours, more than six by now,
and she was beginning to worry about food and water. She didn't fancy dying of
thirst or hunger in a dirty basement with some psycho child rapist and murderer
who apparently decided that the freak, of all people, was what he wanted. If he
liked children, why was he going after Sherlock? It didn't make any sense.
Once he was gone she turned back to him. "Sherlock!" she called, using his name
for perhaps one of the few times ever in her life.
He turned a bleary eyed look over to him. "Sherlock, how can we get out of
this?"
She wondered if he understood him but he shook his head. "Can't tell…no info."
"Sherlock, focus! If anyone can figure this out, you can! If we don't, you're
going to end up like those kids!" she said. She wasn't sure why that bothered
her. How could she feel like this about him? She thought, for some reason,
seeing him in such a situation would give her joy. Instead…
He blinked owlishly at her for a moment. "Can't think. Got time. Didn't kill
right away. Spent a week with each victim. Cuffs?" he asked.
She shook her head. "I can't slip them."
He glanced to his coat between them. "Lock picks," he said glancing at his coat
and she understood.
"In your coat? A set of lock picks?" she asked and he nodded to her, trying to
turn around, pushing one leg sluggishly toward it, trying to push it closer to
her. As he turned, she could see the extent of the cuts across both his legs
now. The precision with which they were applied was impressive, equidistant
apart and apparently the exact same depth. She could tell they went further up
under the hem of his shorts when he shifted.
"Sleeve, right side…in cuff…" he mumbled, forcing the coat toward her with his
toes a few inches.
She reached out with her own foot and snagged the material and inched it closer
to her until she thought she could get to it with her bound hands. "Got it,"
she said.
"Missed it," he mumbled. "Can't…believe I missed it…" Then he giggled almost
hysterically for a second and was quiet, head starting to loll forward.
She flipped around and yanked the coat in, moving along the seams until she
managed to get to the arm. Of course, the first one she found was the left one.
She huffed in frustration but managed to query what he meant. "What did you
miss, Sherlock? Stay with me. You work best when you're thinking. Tell me what
you missed. You are always talking ideas out loud. Don't pass out on me, okay?"
He turned toward her and blinked again, eyes unfocused. "The victims…" he
muttered. "They were all…molested by their…fathers…he…works at the
school…nurse…" he said softly. "Moriarty…damn him…put him on me…he found out.
Dunno how…how'd he find out? Father and Mycroft removed the records…they're
gone…he purged the files. All the hospital records…they're gone. Moriarty had
them…" he was rambling now, his eyes rolling and hazy. "How did he get the
records? When they took me away that night…the police were there, but he paid
them off, I know he did…no one would know…not Mycroft Holmes' little brother…oh
no we can't let anyone find out something happened to him, can we? People talk,
I know, musta been the first responders, someone talked and they talked to
Moriarty, dammit! Why can't they keep their mouths shut…makes me remember…"
Sherlock paused, breathing heavily and Sally swore he was on the edge of
hyperventilating.
"Sherlock!" Sally called, getting him to focus on her. "Calm down!"
He stared for a minute then closed his eyes, concentrating on his breathing.
"Happens when I'm like this…started drugs to forget, y'know…shut down m'brain,
moves too fast, far too fast sumtims…but scary, so damn scary to not be able to
think right after so long…"
She continued working with the bloody coat. How had she managed to work around
to the bottom instead of the top? She groaned in frustration, but heard the
bang of the door. She turned forward, dragging the coat and dropping it behind
her back.
The guy seemed far too happy as he skipped down toward them pulling a metal
table with him that rattled across the floor. She stared because he was
skipping; pulling the table at a quick pace, excited by what he was going to
do. And she just thought about how weird this situation got as he hummed under
his breath as he got closer. How…strange. This guy was insane.
He undid Sherlock's cuffs and quickly snapped them onto the table, then pulled
another set and secured the other side. He picked up a bowl, and she realized
it was a bowl of hot wax. He smiled as he tipped the bowl over Sherlock's chest
and the detective gasped at the hot wax contacted his chest and stomach. He
thought for a moment then he divested his victim of his boxers, dropping them
beside him on the floor, and even though Sally couldn't see what he was doing,
she knew all too well as Sherlock practically popped his wrist out of place as
he yelled then.
"Wha…stop…" he begged, and she heard the pain in his voice.
"There, there, Dolly, let that set for a moment, I'll go get the second pot for
your back, had to keep it warm, and the electric doesn't work down here," he
said smiling and leaving again.
Sally heard him breathing heavily, but all she could see was the top of his
head and his hands as he wriggled them against the cuffs. She heard another
clink and realized he must have cuffed his ankles before he left. She was back
on the coat though, because damn it all, she'd lost the sleeve when she'd
dropped it, but finally she felt the distinct hardness of something inside the
seam. Carefully she worked it out, dropping one of the picks into her open palm
as soon as she could. But the door was opening again. He came back over and
tapped on the wax that was rapidly drying on Sherlock's chest, humming.
There was a clink and Sherlock was flipped onto his stomach, groaning as his
arms crossed over each other in an obviously painful manor. Then he yelped
again as he continued coating him with the wax. This time, he went ahead and
covered his arms as well. He stood back.
"Such a lovely thing. You don't find many boys your age unspoiled. Maybe that's
why I never found a lovely doll that was older. I only desire that which no one
has touched, you know, well, no one that someone else has touched with their
permission, lovely. Not your fault what people do to you against your will.
Imagine my surprise when M let me know that my infatuation was well placed, and
that you fit my desires! Never thought I'd find such in a grown man, but I'm
happy I did... And I have to make sure," he said. "Please, tell me, little
Dolly, are you indeed a virgin like he said you were? Never touched, by man or
woman? Or…even yourself? Except of course what I know of, because that's why
you're here, since daddy dearest was so fond of you…"
"Wha ya mean…" he mumbled into his arms. "Dunno what you mean."
"Tell me, or I'll do something not nice to your not-friend over there."
His eyes turned back to her and he gulped. "Yes, never, too m-many m-mem'ries."
He clapped his hands briefly before flipping the detective over with a little
more force than necessary. "Goody! I had it on good authority that M was good
for his word but I just thought I'd check. Good thing too, I really didn't want
to shoot you both before I had our tea party. And I don't honestly have another
friend lined up after you…M thought you'd entertain me for several weeks at
least…won't that be fun? Then I don't have to worry about being caught when I
steal the other little ones!"
Then he started to pull the wax off Sherlock's body with great ripping sounds
as the sparse hairs on his chest and stomach left on it. Sally cringed. She had
her eyebrows and lip waxed now and then. But she'd never gone and got a full
Brazilian or anything. He let out a loud yelp when he got down to the thick
pubic hairs. Sally squirmed, imagining how much that had to hurt. The guy
hadn't even bothered to shave the hair down before he dumped he wax over him.
She'd never had it done, but knew enough friends that had bikini waxes, and it
hurt like hell. Before long, the man stood back, dropping his last bit of wax
into the trash can, leaving Sherlock breathless. She had to give him credit, he
didn't scream.
"Not bad, here, let's finish up," he said, reaching into a bag and removing a
razor, again flipping him when he needed to do so. She heard his breath harsher
now than before. "That wasn't as bad as I thought, I've only had to wax one of
my toys, the oldest one, and it was just a little. I thought a grown man would
have more to do…but you're quite smooth already. You do make a perfect
replacement for a child. You should be proud, Sherlock, really, you're saving
at least two or three lives, because I would have had at least two or three
more before you caught me. Now I've got a lovely one all to myself."
"Prat," she heard Sherlock say, breathless.
He smiled and looked at him. "Daddy, call me Daddy, there little Dolly."
Sherlock huffed, and she looked up, still able to see his hands crossed at the
elbows probably, head resting on them, his dark curls showing above them.
Suddenly his head shot up and he squeaked. She could only see the top of his
forehead from her position, though, and his hands were splayed wide, jerking
against the cuffs.
"Now what was that?" he said, and Sally was pretty sure she didn't want to know
what he was doing. "Do you want me to take this over and play with your not-
friend?"
She heard him gulp. "N-no…" he said softly.
"Now what are you going to call me, Dolly?" he said, and Sally winced as a low
keen escaped him. "Come on, or I'm going to give you a cut to remember me by,
and then I'll cut her throat for you to watch. It hurts so much more when I
turn it the other way…"
"D-dad-d-dy," he stuttered finally and then his head dropped with a sigh onto
his crossed arms, and he moved where she could see him dragging the silver
knife's handle up his spine.
"Perfect! Now, I'll go get the under-layer of the lovely outfit I have for
you," he said with a smile, running from the area, leaving him breathing
heavily with his face in the table.
"Sherlock!" she called again, not sure what else to do as she was attempting to
work with the cuffs. "Come on, say something, you have to have some witty
retort about how stupid this guy is!"
His silence spoke volumes more than anything he could have said. What this guy
was doing, it was so much more than just what he'd done to the other three boys
he'd taken. No, he was using those murders to get to Sherlock specifically, and
this M, or Moriarty, as Sherlock said, had something to do with it all. Her
stomach growled and she realized that far more than six hours must have passed
while she was out, because it felt more like twelve. She looked up; the light
from the window was fading. It had been night time when they'd been at the
crime scene. Shit, she thought. A day at least.
Sally worked at the cuffs diligently but didn't have time to finish as he came
back too quickly. He held an armload of clothes and a doll. He held up the
doll, a faceless doll with short, curly dark hair. It wore a Victorian dress of
black lace and red satin.
"See there, isn't that just like you, Dolly?" he asked, smiling at him.
He unhooked the cuffs on his ankles, and she saw him try to kick out, only to
be caught easily as a set of black ruffled pants were slipped onto his body.
The insane man was humming now as he put socks and petticoats on him. Done with
the lower half he unhooked him from the table, pulling him off and pushed him
toward his previous position, pushing him down to the floor and pulling a black
lacy camisole over his head. Sherlock frowned and started to pick at the
ruffled mess in his lap. A moment later, both his hands were cuffed behind the
pipe again, leaving him blinking as the man took off again.
"Sick fuck," Sally heard Sherlock mutter and she laughed out loud. She'd never
heard him cuss before, at least not like that, and she couldn't help it in the
situation.
"You got that right, Sherlock," she said. "I know if you weren't drugged to the
gills you'd have us out of here, wouldn't you? Even if you don't like me."
He looked over and she swore she saw sincere emotion in his eyes. "Don' hate
ya, ever'one hates me, s'okay, m'usta it."
She paused, thinking about that. He was used to being scorned. Before it had
driven him to drugs…but now… She cursed under her breath as she fiddled with
the cuffs blind. It was so much harder when she wasn't looking. But then the
door banged again and she sighed in frustration.
"Shh," he said, rolling his eyes over to her. "He'll take me up, get out…call
Greg…get help…go left at the stair, door's there…" he said, trying not to slur
as the man came back with a black lace and red satin dress identical to that
which the doll was wearing as it lay beside Sherlock's now black socked foot.
The man removed the cuffs completely now and pulled him forward, sliding the
dress over his head and shifting it down. It fit absolutely perfectly, and if
Sherlock were smaller, he would have looked exactly like a little girl the way
his large eyes were dilated especially from the drugs. He held him standing by
the shoulders.
"Now, there's a good Dolly. You behave, when we're done, I'll let your friend
go, okay? No fighting, okay? We'll have tea and cakes and a lot of fun…okay?
Just like a good little Dolly."
Sherlock nodded slowly, brain so sluggish he could hardly put two words
together. Then he looked at his arm to feel another pinch as he injected him
again. Dully, he wondered how long before the dosages triggered an overdose.
He'd had one of those. They were not something he wished to repeat. He looked
up at him. "Just in case, you shake off the effects quickly. Wouldn't want you
running off in the middle of our tea party, you know? You'll have to sit in
Daddy's lap after all, and I can't have you getting up and falling down and
hurt your pretty little self." He half drug, half pulled him out of Sally's
line of sight.
She waited a moment and then tackled the cuffs with fervor when she heard the
door bang closed. She seriously doubted he had any intents of letting her go at
all, not if she was leverage to get Sherlock to behave well. And no matter how
amused she should be at the fact the freak had been dressed up like some sort
of living doll, she found herself frantic to get him out. He'd shown obvious
care about what was happening to her despite them having no relationship to
speak of that should have meant he would risk anything for her. Yet, he had
backed down every time he threatened to harm her. This wasn't the freak she
knew. Not at all. Maybe she didn't know him at all.
The cuffs fell away and she jumped to her feet and then found the door to be
locked from the other side. Of course, and it was the only exit. She went back
and grabbed Sherlock's coat and worked out the remaining lock picks and set
about picking the door as silently and quickly as she could. When it was done
she debated doing what he asked and trying to take him out on her own. No, the
safer route was to call for help. Who knew if he had accomplices and he might
just stab Sherlock the moment she came into the room. Her gun was gone, and she
had no access to other weapons. She rifled Sherlock's pockets and found his
cellphone. She turned left and slipped out the door into a large open lot. She
hid herself beside the steps and dialed Lestrade's number.
It rang a couple times, and Greg's voice came on the line.
"Sherlock?" he said, panicked. She heard John's voice in the background.
"No, look, help, the doll guy, he has Sherlock, and he's planning on…" there
was a brilliant flash of bright white light in her vision and the world
suddenly had every bit of color sucked out of it.
***** Search *****
Chapter by phoenixreal
Chapter Notes
     1/8: Edited!
On the other end of the line, they heard the thump of a body. Then a noise and
a new voice. "That wasn't very nice of her; after all, she is just leverage.
But now, I guess I have to invite her to my tea party as well. Do you think she
likes to watch tea parties? I mean, mine are much more entertaining than anyone
else's I would guess." The voice was confident, and there was a surety to it
that could only come from someone totally insane.
"Who are you and what do you want with Sherlock and Sally?" John yelled at the
mobile that was on a tracking device sitting on Lestrade's desk.
"Why, you should be proud of him. Because of him, there won't be any more
murdered lovelies because he won't break so quick. M assured me he'd last at
least three weeks. So I tend to have my fun. Though I guess Sally here won't be
able to leave my observation this time. My fault for leaving her alone when I
took my Dolly to his first tea party. She is a police officer, I suppose.
Definitely should have expected it. I could drug her like my Dolly, but you
know, maybe it would be more fun if she could watch everything. And feel the
pain. Maybe. She…he does look so lovely with those dark curls and big eyes…such
fun to dress up! And twice as much to undress…"
The line went dead, leaving the three in the room, Lestrade, John, and Anderson
blinking in surprise. John had his phone out already, texting Mycroft. He was
out of the country last John knew, but he knew this would bring him back. Right
now, they needed Mycroft's uncanny ability to locate people.
John turned to Lestrade. "All right, first off, we have to figure out why a man
who is a serial rapist and murderer would suddenly change from young boys to
someone Sherlock's age. There is no reason for that that I can fathom,
otherwise I would have thought about the case earlier. He mentioned M, my guess
is that Moriarty is involved in this, the guy from the pool explosion.
Anderson, come on, you've got a brain, you may hate Sherlock, but you should
want to find Sally. Get all the files for the three victims. We have to find
what links them. Sherlock came up with the profile, and given time, no doubt
found the killer, but now, we've got to rescue him before he ends up dead."
John was always impressive when his military side came out in force. Even
Lestrade seemed somewhat taken aback by the authority and control he exerted
around him as he spoke. In short order, the table was covered with the files of
the three boys.
"We know that serial perpetrators pick their victims based on something that
connects them. We had assumed it was age, but since he's taken Sherlock, that's
not the case. What else is common between Sherlock and the other three
victims?" John said, somehow pulling everything he'd ever learned from being
with Sherlock to the surface. It was amazing after a couple years with the
arrogant bastard how much rubbed off.
Anderson looked up. "All three of the boys lived with a divorced mother, two
had remarried, one had not."
John looked up. "Good, what age when the divorces happened?"
Anderson skimmed it again. "Six, seven, and nine. But the freak…er Sherlock's
parents weren't divorced."
"Something else then, something Moriarty found out and gave to him…" he
muttered, looking over the files.
The door opened and he looked up to see the umbrella wielding Mycroft standing
there with two suited men remaining outside. "John, it may be what is not in
Sherlock's file that connects him to the case. But unless there is reason, I
cannot reveal information. So pray, continue, and I'll inform you if something
about the other three children coincides with information about my brother. And
no, our parents were not divorced."
Anderson frowned and looked up at Mycroft. "Who the hell are you?"
Lestrade put a hand up. "Phillip Anderson, this is Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's
older brother."
"Didn't know the freak had an older brother," he muttered, going back to the
files, but his arm was gripped tightly by Lestrade and he looked up to see the
warning in his DI's eyes. He took one glance at Mycroft who sat twirling the
umbrella and glaring through slitted eyes at Anderson. He glanced back to
Lestrade and nodded, not needing to be told that it was not a good idea to put
down Sherlock in front of his brother.
"Let's see, it says that there were filed charges against two of the fathers,"
Lestrade said. "And a restraining order against a different pair of them. All
filed by the mothers before they were divorced from the fathers. There is a
note about sealed child services records on all three…wait…"
John looked up. "So all three of them had an intervention through child
services…and the records are sealed. That could be abuse, neglect…several
things. I don't know of any connection to Sherlock there, but who knows what
has been scrubbed from his files," John said, looking at Mycroft who was
studying a point on the ceiling. John knew he was taking in everything about
the room and what they said like a recorder. John was again amazed by the elder
Holmes brother. A mind as sharp as Sherlock's but with the charisma of a
politician… Not for the first time he wondered which of the brothers was
actually more intelligent.
"Anderson, call the caseworkers listed, see if they'll give you any
information," John said. Anderson grabbed all three papers and headed out to
another office.
"What else have we got?" John asked.
"All three go to the same school…all three have recent accidents during
gym…wait. Someone at the school would have best access to students, and if
they're all three…" Lestrade began.
John nodded. "Still doesn't connect Sherlock. But if Moriarty is involved, we
can assume that somehow he fits the profile of this psycho and Moriarty is the
one to tell him so, since he didn't have access to any records. So that means
that whatever connects them is something that these three kids told someone
about, something not generally known…"
Lestrade frowned. "I noticed this before, all three recently moved here, within
the last six months, from different areas. So they would have been adjusting to
a new school. That makes them vulnerable, few friends to confide in, fewer
teachers they trust to talk to yet."
"So, we know so far that the boys were all injured, all had something they told
a trusted source in the school…wait…the nurse's office. What if it was the
nurse? We know that it is a male, and that there is a DNA trace we're still
running from the dress on the last boy, so how hard is it to find out if there
is a male on nursing staff at their school?" John said, sitting up suddenly.
Moments later, they had the information. There was one man on staff at their
school in the nurses' offices, and he rotated between grades. He was a short,
pudgy man who spoke very little, and often ignored the other staff. His name
was Jaffrey Dalton. And according to the head nurse for the school, he was a
little odd, but strangely good with the kids. And he missed work every week the
day after one of the kidnappings took place, including this day.
Anderson walked in, looking slightly pale. "What is it?" John asked.
"All three boys were taken in by child services after an anonymous report of
child sexual assault and molestation. The charges were filed, and shortly
after, they were put in sole custody of the mothers, their fathers charged.
None were jailed, probation, but all were restricted in their access to
children and added to the register. I don't know how we missed that. Fr…er
Sherlock said that the perp had been molested, but he didn't mention the kids."
"He may have known already. Sometimes he files information away in his head and
waits to see if it is proven true or not, as you know, Greg," he said with a
sideways glance to the DI.
The room was quiet and considering this was the only thread they had, John
turned an eye to Mycroft who sighed deeply.
"I believe you've found your commonality, then," he said quietly. "You'll find
no records; I've purged all the hospital files as well as child services and
police reports. What was left after our father paid off everyone he could.
Obviously, Moriarty was able to find someone who had been involved when my
brother was removed from the home briefly before money and position won out.
I'm sure father bought off every individual that knew of the situation, but
time loosens lips, especially now that he's dead," Mycroft said clinically.
John blinked. "You're telling me your family bought off everyone so no one
would find out your father…" he stammered. "And where were you? I thought you
took care of him!"
Mycroft sighed, glancing down. "I was away at Uni. I didn't know until Mummy
called me in a panic telling me he was hurt and was afraid to take him to the
hospital out of fear of what Father would do. I told her to take him anyway,
and of course, he was ten at the time, so child services immediately stepped
in. Terribly hard to make up excuses for a boy who's obviously been beaten and…
He spent a week in the hospital, and then another week in care of child
services before Mummy could convince them she would not return to the mansion
with him. Divorce was not possible, in this case. That's when I put him and her
up in the flat in London until Father died, I'd already gained enough
connections to secure it for them. Then, she returned to the mansion."
Mycroft looked distant. "That's why I wasn't surprised when he went to Uni and
turned to drugs. The slightest indication of anyone coming close to him set him
off after that. Even you know how he hates to touch anyone or anything without
gloves. Or hates to be touched. He never lost the slight hapnaphobia after the
assault. You can't imagine how hard it was on Mummy, having a ten year old that
she couldn't even pick up. He pulled away, locked it away in his mind palace,
along with everything not essential. I tried, desperately, to get him to come
out of the shell he built himself. As you've seen, John, it doesn't work too
well. He pushes me away, and refuses even to visit Mummy. He says seeing her
makes the walls shake, and he won't have those things come back to him. He
utterly refuses to come near the mansion, and hasn't been back since the day
she took him to the hospital."
A pin could have dropped in the room. Mycroft sighed and stood. "Other than
that, the only other connection with your victims is a lack of sexual activity,
other than the obvious childhood trauma. Sherlock, since then, has refused all
romantic entanglements and become asexual in nature, referring to sexuality as
a 'bother' and 'non-essential'. Refusal of touch is in particular one thing
that makes intimacy difficult. It became a part of him that he simply didn't
touch or allow anyone to touch him. I tried to send him to therapists, dragged
him there on occasion, especially around the time of his drug problems, he
tended to put them in such a state they called me saying if I ever sent him
back, they were going to move from the country. I instead simply kept an eye on
him."
John nodded. "And the cutting? When did that start?" Mycroft frowned and looked
surprised. "I've seen his arms, Mycroft. We do live in the same flat."
Mycroft nodded. "Yes, after the drugs, it was the cutting. Sorry, I just
assumed you knew about it, John. You know more about him than I do these days.
Which, unfortunately isn't very hard to do. I'm not sure he's ever really
stopped."
John nodded. He wasn't stupid. He knew what an addiction self-harming was. And
he wasn't blind to the times Sherlock would disappear for hours into his room
or the bathroom for a shower. But without proof, he couldn't push the issue,
and he'd never indicated there was anything wrong with his arms, and John had
made sure to check now and then, in a hopefully inconspicuous way. But he
blinked, feeling entirely stupid all of a sudden.
"I know his arms are scarred but he hasn't had fresh cuts in a long time…
Dammit. I never checked his legs or sides," he said softly. Mycroft nodded
slowly, sadness coming over his eyes.
Lestrade frowned, "His legs and sides?"
John sighed deeply. "People that cut, often times when they've been 'caught'
they appear to stop, to appease everyone. But a lot of times, they move
location. From the arms to the legs, from the extremities, to the torso, places
harder to be caught cutting. Stress exacerbates the need. My guess is that's
how he deals with cases. Especially this one…" he said, thinking. "Actually,
come to think of it, just after the first crime scene, I found a bloody
washcloth. I asked him, he said he'd cut himself when he was doing one of his
experiments. I don't remember seeing any bandages."
"You're telling me that the…er Sherlock actually cares about the victims of his
cases?" Anderson asked incredulously.
John sighs. "Of course he does. Why do you think he goes days on end without
sleeping or eating just to solve a case? He can't rest until he's done, and
says eating slows his thinking down."
"DI Lestrade?" came a voice from the door, a detective looking warily between
the two suited men and into the room.
"Yes?" he asked.
"There's an old lady here, Mrs. Hudson? Says she needs to see you or John
Watson about Sherlock…" he said softly.
"Show her in," he said, standing up.
"Who's Mrs. Hudson?" Anderson said softly.
"Oh, John!" came the high pitched worry voice of the landlady.
"What are you doing here, Mrs. Hudson?" John said, coming closer. "I told you
I'd tell you when we found out where Sherlock went."
"I know, I know, but I found this on the doorstep," she said, handing an
envelope to John with his name written in elegant script. There was a folded
note attached.
"Dear John, Thought you'd enjoy a little extra reading material, JM," he read
out loud. "Dammit, it is from Moriarty."
Mrs. Hudson frowned. "Isn't that the man who blew you and Sherlock up?"
"Yes, yes, it is…" he said, opening the envelope and nearly dropping the
contents. "Oh my God," he muttered.
Lestrade frowned. "Wait, is that a copy of all the missing files? How…" he
said, taking it.
Mrs. Hudson put a hand to her mouth, lifting up a group of pictures, obviously
from when Sherlock was admitted to the hospital, taken by children's service.
Mycroft's eyes were wide.
"I had everything destroyed. How could this even be here…" he said, taking the
pictures, still amazed at the state his little brother had been in.
"It's another not from him. 'In case you're wondering, some good Samaritan
decided to take copies of the files when she found out they were to be shredded
the next day. JM.' Well that explains how this exists," John said with a sigh.
It looked like the complete file from children's services. "My bet is on
whoever his caseworker was. So why'd she give it to Moriarty?" John mused.
"I remember her, Cheryl, I think," Mycroft said. "I remember how she looked
when she came into the hospital room the first night. I think if Father had
been there, the lady may have gone to jail on her own…"
John made a choked sound. "Wait, if this guy, this Jaffrey, has this…what's it
going to do to Sherlock if he actually shows him this stuff?"
Mycroft stood stiffly. "I'm not sure, I'm really not. He refused to talk about
it, even then, completely avoidant about it. If I brought it up, he stormed
off, you know how he is. Refused for the longest time to acknowledge our father
had done anything. Then he just referred to it as the 'bad time', and that was
it."
"Mr. Holmes!" came a call from the doorway, and another suit stood there.
"Yes?" he answered.
"We've traced the mobile signal. We're already en route."
"Fine, transmit the information to DI Lestrade, we'll meet the team there," he
said, nodding.
They were off, before long standing in front of a large abandoned house
surrounded by a large lot. It was outside the city, and a little secluded. As
they approached, they saw the abandoned phone by the step, Sherlock's phone, as
well as brick with wet blood on one side. They entered, and found a completely
empty house. However, they knew they had the right place. The dining room was
dressed as the other scenes had been. Fine china tea set, several Victorian
style dolls. The living room had the remains of red satin, black lace, and
black silk fabrics strewn around a chair. Sitting in the chair was a Victorian
doll in a dress made of those exact materials. John swallowed thickly because
the hair on the doll was identical to Sherlock's thick, dark curls, but the
doll was faceless.
"He doesn't need the doll anymore," he said quietly, looking around the room
again.
"Basement," called Anderson.
Lestrade and John went down and they found it dimly lit, and near the two poles
in the center were all of Sherlock's clothes as well as several sets of
handcuffs. He saw a table where more handcuffs were hooked and frowned, then
glanced into a trash bin and looked away.
"What is it?" Lestrade asked and looked. "You've got to be kidding me…"
"His preference is for dolls and boys, Greg, you can't be surprised," Mycroft
said, hands at his back and looking into the discarded wax and a couple
disposable razors. "Waxing is the most efficient method of removing hair from
the human body and the method that takes the longest for the hair to grow back
other than laser removal," he added, arching brows at the DI. Beside the table
were a couple of wax bowls that were often used at spas. John was sure the
heating unit for them would be upstairs.
Anderson flinched back. "Good God, that had to hurt…it…her waxed everything by
the looks."
"Good thing Sherlock wasn't too hairy," Lestrade said softly. All, however
cringed at the thought of having their lower regions waxed. That just…ow.
"Sir!" came a voice from up the stairs. "There's something else up here!"
"Anderson, get your team, bag all the evidence, I want to know if we can figure
anything else out from what he's left behind," Lestrade said, heading up,
followed by John and Mycroft.
"Mycroft, you didn't know he'd left already?" John asked as they headed back to
the living room.
"There aren't any security cameras or traffic cameras close enough to this
place. I wonder if Moriarty warned Sherlock of the fact that I often use them,"
he said thoughtfully. He sighed. "I'll leave a detail with you, I've got to go
back. Let me know if you find anything."
John looked for a moment. "We both know you will already know before I can send
you a message," he said dryly. Mycroft merely nodded and left.
"What have you got, Lestrade?" he asked, coming into the room.
Lestrade handed him a note, John cleared his throat and read out loud. "Okay,
it says: 'Good job, but too late. I liked this place too. No nosy neighbors in
case my pretty is a screamer. He probably is, I can tell, you know. However the
nice sergeant messed things up for me, but Doll didn't want me to punish her,
so I agreed. Of course, I'll have to punish someone. I guess we'll deal with
that later. Don't bother looking at the school, I won't be returning there, or
any property connected with my family. So many empty buildings and warehouses
in and around London. And yes, I know of Dolly's brother and his penchant for
using cameras, so plan on us avoiding them. I've left a little picture to
remind you of your friend, though I doubt he remembers having it taken. I might
have given him a little too much this time, but he's quite resistant to
opiates. Doesn't he look darling! I'll take good care of him, like a good daddy
should, and I'll be so much better to him than his real daddy was! See, I've
already treated him to keeping his not-friend alive! Would his sad excuse for a
daddy have done that? No, I don't think so! I'll be what he needs, and I'll
treat him so much better, you'll see. And this time, he won't leave me like the
others, he'll stay, and he'll be mine. Because if he tries to leave, he'll end
up like my broken dolls. And I really don't want to break him. He's a lovely
doll…' Oh, my God, this guy is completely insane."
John picked up the instant photo and swallowed. "Wow, if I didn't know this was
Sherlock…I mean, I saw the pictures of what he did to the other boys, but
still…"
Sherlock was dressed identically to the doll that sat in the chair. The picture
had been taken with him sitting in that same chair instead of the doll. The
dress was obviously hand made for him, just like the dress on the doll sitting
in the chair now. Red satin over black lace, with a set of petticoats in black,
and a pair of ruffled bloomers most likely made from the silk they found scraps
of. He'd put a pair of black socks and black Victorian shoes on him. The
sleeves were long tiered with lace, to flare down on his wrists. There was a
large black bow on the chest, and a high collar with black lace down the front.
Sherlock was awake, but he was obviously heavily drugged, his eyes wide and
almost black with the pupils completely blown. His jaw was slack and he sagged
against the chair he was in. If it weren't for the mop of dark hair on top of
his head, John would have no idea he was looking at his flatmate and friend.
Anderson cleared his throat, having just caught what was said as he came
upstairs. "What makes someone do this? I mean, really? The guy is a pedophile
to start with, kidnaps boys, dresses them like girls, and treats them like
dolls?"
"I think we need to find out," Lestrade said. "Pack up everything, dust
everything, and then get back to run tests. We need to find them, fast. This
man is unstable at best. Having to move locations before he was finished could
be extremely detrimental to Sherlock's safety."
Before long, they were back at Lestrade's office, a large file open on the
table for one Jaffrey Dalton.
"Okay, he's forty six years old, employed for the last ten years at the school
as an assistant nurse, lives above a dollmaker's shop, damned if he wasn't
right about that, and sometimes goes down to help with the dolls on his days
off. Parents were divorced when he was fifteen, father was an alcoholic, mother
was abused by the father. Mother collected Victorian dolls, and dressed him up
like them as a young boy." Lestrade arched a brow and looked at the group.
"Well, that explains the obsession with the dolls."
"Says here that she had always wanted a girl, and until he started school,
everyone who knew them thought he was a girl. When school started, they forbid
her dressing him as a girl. At home, though, she continued to sew and dress him
up. When he was about ten, father comes home drunk, thinks he's his wife, beats
and rapes him badly enough to send him to the hospital. Mother claims he was
attacked by a mugger. Repeats again several times until he runs away and gets
taken into the foster system. Mother refuses to leave her husband until he's
fifteen when father dies of an overdose on prescription narcotics, then Jaffrey
returns to live with her. School describes him as gender confused, going
between wearing women's and men's clothes, and seemingly not bothered by what
others consider 'normal' behavior. Goes on to become a nurse, living his life
mostly as a female, until the last couple of years, when he decided to 'give
living as a man' a try. Coincidentally, he is around the same age now that his
father was when he was assaulted," Lestrade said, heaving a heavy sigh.
John nodded. "Yeah, he's totally insane. Only explanation. So he's basically
reenacting what happened to him as a child because it gives him control over
what happened to him. He tried with boys the age he was, but found it not
satisfying, or they were too fragile since he said he 'broke' them, and decided
to find someone who was older and would still submit to him the way he wanted
to when he echoed their childhood trauma…"
Both Anderson and Lestrade looked at him. "What?"
"I think you've been hanging around Sherlock too long, it's rubbing off,"
Lestrade said finally.
John shrugged, "Bound to happen. As long as I don't start insulting everyone,
I'm good."
"Okay, but we still have to find them," Anderson said. "And the longer we wait,
the more likely he is to just get rid of Sally. We're pretty sure that he's not
going to kill Sherlock, especially not if he's as drugged up as we think he
is," he said, pointing to the picture and an evidence bag full of emptied
syringes. "He's been using fentanyl on him, relatively high dosages. Honestly,
if he hadn't been addicted to opiates before, he wouldn't be conscious."
John pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled nosily. "Okay, he's going to be
messed up when we get him out. It's bad enough to be on the lookout for a
relapse without one being forced on him. I'll end up having to detox him."
"I think you should be less worried about the drugs, John," Lestrade said with
a sigh. "If he does what he did to those others…"
"Okay, I missed this entire case, and I barely skimmed the files when you
brought them in. So I don't know what the autopsy reports said, and I haven't
seen the bodies. What did he do to his 'dolls' before he 'broke' them? And what
does that even mean, 'broke' them?"
Lestrade and Anderson exchanged a glance. "Okay, I'll grab the autopsy
reports," Anderson said quietly.
From that glance, John gathered a lot of information. It was bad, whatever it
was, and it was enough that even Anderson wouldn't wish it on Sherlock. After a
minute he returned and John's eyes flicked over them with the scrutiny and
interpretation only a doctor could use. And he tried very hard to distance
himself and take an objective stance.
"He held them for one week," he mused, looking over the information. "Minimal
nutrition during that time, severe malnutrition in all bodies, severe
dehydration as well, but considering that dehydration didn't kill any of them
or get the point of organ damage, they were given enough hydration to survive,
but just barely, same could be said of the food intake. Physical injuries were
extensive and severe, indicating prolonged abuse and possible torture over a
week long period of capture."
John stopped, arching a brow. "Bodies when recovered were clean, wounds dressed
and clothes arranged neatly. Underneath, multiple contusions of various stages
of healing, lacerations also in various stages of healing and scabbing, all
bandaged including salves when appropriate. Two victims had broken wrists, one
had a broken wrist and ankle, and all had severe lacerations around wrists and
ankles, most likely from restraints. Metal fragments indicate handcuffs or
shackles of some sort. Signs of recent severe sexual trauma, leading to
internal hemorrhaging. Indicates that if they had not been poisoned, they would
have bled out eventually, within hours with the youngest victim, within a day
or so with the oldest."
He looked up. "So basically, he 'broke' them, knew they were going to die from
what he'd done to them, so he poisoned them and left them to find another
victim. So what he means that Sherlock won't break…oh God. That's why the first
victim was the youngest, and the last was the oldest. He found out he couldn't
be as rough as he wanted with the younger ones, so he moved up in age, thinking
they'd be stronger and able to handle it. And then Moriarty comes along…I think
I might be sick." John set the files down and turned away, swallowing bile that
started to rise in his throat.
Lestrade himself looked a bit green as he stared at the floor. "So, you see why
I want to find him quickly, because over the course of the week…"
John nodded, tapping the three manila files. "I understand. Even if we find him
today, this bastard has already begun. We might be too late as it is. He
escalates as time goes on. He starts out 'playing nice' but then starts losing
control. That's why it takes a whole week. Then he feels remorse, so he cleans
the bodies, dresses the wounds and redresses them in their clothes he made for
them, leaving them to be found like that, and rather than letting them bleed
out, he poisons them when he realizes that he's 'broken' them. In some weird,
twisted way, he really does care about them."
"What is the thing with that note, being a better daddy? I don't get that, he
doesn't know Sherlock's father. And he's barely ten years older than Sherlock
anyway…" Anderson mused, looking up at John from his seat at the desk.
John closed his eyes and tried to distance himself, tried to forget that it was
Sherlock. "Look, I'm bullocks at what Sherlock does when it comes to distancing
himself," he said. "I wish I knew how he did it, pull himself back and pretend
he's completely clinical and remove all emotion from himself during a case, oh
God how do I wish I knew how to do that."
Anderson fixed him with a frown. "What do you mean by that?"
John swallowed. He wasn't sure how to explain it. "He…does this thing…where he
steps back, leaves everything but his logical mind behind, shuts it down, so he
can go into a crime scene with a clear mind, emotionless, distant. It makes it
easier for him to take in the facts and understand them if there is no
emotional component, so he discards it. It makes him better at what he does,
and for the life of me, I'll never get how he does it…"
Anderson just stared. "You mean he's not always like that?"
John arched a brow at him. "You don't know him outside of crime scenes at
cases, Anderson, you really need to stop acting like you do. You've never seen
him go completely insane on someone that hurt Ms. Hudson. You've never seen
that fierce look in his eyes when he thinks someone he knows is going to get
hurt. You don't know how confused and amazed he is about the world around him.
Bloody brilliant, and bloody annoying at the same time, but he tries. He really
does try. He just has a hard time with emotion, of course, now I understand why
he locks them away…" he said thoughtfully.
John sighed and went for coffee and returned, stirring the awful tasting stuff
with the silly little straw like stirring stick. "Okay," he said. "I'm going to
do what I can. We know where he lived, what did you find there?"
"Definitely got the right guy. Pretty sure he took the rest to his home. Found
a load of different opiates, syringes, antibiotics, all sorts of medical
supplies. Found the clothes belonging to each one of the victims in a box with
numbers one through three written on them. Found this, too," Anderson said as a
woman came in and handed him an evidence box. He pulled out a manila folder and
handed it to John.
Inside was a file on Sherlock. It was printouts from the blog, newspaper
articles, pictures, and there were notes, written by Jaffrey. Bone structure
ideal. Skin color porcelain-like already. Research. Then there was a letter in
the back from Moriarty, labeled as M.
"Moriarty sent him a letter. He kept it in this file. 'Dear Mr. Dalton, I've
seen your work and would like to offer my services as a consulting criminal in
this field. It seems you are on the search in the last couple weeks for the
ideal playmate but keep coming up short. Might I offer a suggesting of finding
someone more durable? I understand you want someone unsoiled, but you simply
must stop going to those that break so easily. I know of someone ideal to your
preferences. Find attached a full file of his history, and I already noticed
you took interest in him. As luck would have it, he is perfectly suited to your
unique needs. Yours, M.' Dammit!" John rubbed his head, feeling another
headache.
Anderson pulled out a couple other files and let the others look them over. All
the evidence in the box had been photocopied and scanned so that it could be
cataloged in the system. John thumbed through similarly put together files for
the other three boys. Again, there were notes scribbled around the pictures,
comments on skin, bone structure, age… He sighed. Lastly, Moriarty handed John
a journal. He knitted his brows, unsure if he wanted to look.
"Have you?" he asked Anderson.
"The pages were scanned in for evidence, but I haven't read them yet," he said.
The first of the pages were somewhat normal. He was obviously confused about
his gender identity, writing at length about his mother and dressing him in
girls' clothes, then the reaction at school. Something seemed to have triggered
the struggle. Ah, there it was, he was attracted to a woman. That was what led
him to start dressing and living as a man again. So what had…
"Oh, now it makes sense…" John said, getting Lestrade and Anderson to look
toward him. "Listen. Dated three and a half weeks ago. 'I think my world has
ended. Really this could not have been more disastrous. Today, I approached
Marietta. I told her I thought she was beautiful, and I would like to take her
out for coffee and get to know her. She looked at me and for a moment I thought
she was going to smile, but she didn't, she laughed. Why did she laugh? I'd
been sincere, and presented myself as a man for the last three months just for
her sake, knowing that she was interested in men. Otherwise I would have
presented myself as a woman, which I am far more comfortable as. But no, she
laughed. Telling me that I was far too old for her, when she is in her mid-
thirties herself. And then she said it. Same words, echoing in my brain. Too
bad you're not a girl. I don't date men, I thought you knew. Her laughter died
off and I realized she was laughing because she thought I knew she was a
lesbian. I CHANGED FOR HER. AND I DIDN'T HAVE TO.' Next entry is a few days
later. 'Oh, I saw him and I looked at my favorite doll, the one with the short
blond bob, and I thought, wouldn't that look nice on him. So tonight, I'll slip
into his bedroom and steal him away from his family. His family doesn't really
love him, not like I can. I can help him, teach him to be the prettiest thing,
just like mom did. And I'll be a good daddy.' A week more. 'I can't be angry,
it was my fault, what is wrong with me? I need someone else, and I've found
him. He's sweet, and he looks just like that lovely red haired doll. He'll look
good in green. This time I'll be more careful.' Again, a week. 'This is so
tedious! I can't believe I broke another one, and I loved him so much more than
those terrible people he lived with. No, no, this time, I have an older toy in
mind. He came in yesterday, and he was crying about being teased, and he told
me everything I needed to know. Tonight, yes, tonight.'" John stopped.
"Okay, there's a last one, 'What is wrong with me? I can't believe it…but I
remembered what M sent me, and I know what to do. Yes, yes, he's right. So
pretty. And won't break easily. No, not easily at all, but I suppose now I
enjoy breaking them, don't I? Yes, I left the body, pretty as he could be, and
now I'll go back and wait. He's always with that other man, the military one. M
says they're friends. I'll take them both. I don't care about the other. But
with one so much older, I need some sort of safety net. I have to make him
behave. And if this friend of his is what I can use, I will do it. I won't tell
him, of course, that he'll never leave alive. I'll use his freedom, and then
he'll be so much more pliable, doing what I ask without a fight, and if he
doesn't fight, I won't have to break him so fast. I've stocked up on blood
though, this time, just in case. I have a whole icebox full of it in O type.
That and fentanyl. M warned me he used opiates, so I'll take the strongest with
me. I can't stay here, I know that. So it will be off to parts unknown. Good
thing I know plenty dark places to hide. M said his brother uses CC cameras in
the city. Can I do what Mum couldn't do? Can I make him into the perfect doll?
I think I might be able to this time. Mum tried, but obviously failed with me.
I couldn't be her little doll forever. Now, now I can try. And be a better
daddy than he had, I've seen how terrible he was. I'll be gentle and loving,
and he'll stay as my doll, and then I'll kill his friend, and he'll have to
stay because it will make him alone. And if he doesn't, I'll kill him and find
another to take his place. But I hope not, he is such a pretty one.'" John
blinked and looked up. Everyone was staring now.
Lestrade broke the silence first. "Okay, if there was any doubt this fucker
wasn't stark raving mad before, I think that just blew it out of the water. And
good deductions there, John, you did figure part of that out before Anderson
brought in the journal. Now, we have a consulting detective to find…"
Lestrade strode out into the front, clapping his hands to get attention.
"Alright, I want everyone not otherwise occupied on priority work to listen up.
You're all familiar with Sherlock Holmes. Sergeant Donovan and Sherlock have
been kidnapped by what we can only describe as a madman. His target was
Sherlock, and he's probably using Sally as leverage on him to keep him from
fighting back against him. His name is Jaffrey Dalton, and he's a nurse for a
local school. He has raped, beaten and murdered three boys in three weeks. We
need to locate Sally and Sherlock as soon as possible. He is highly unstable,
and it is unknown how long he will allow them to live. He is to be considered
armed and dangerous.
"Our first priority is to get Sherlock and Sally back alive, no matter how. He
is avoiding cameras as we have access to security and traffic cams. His last
known location was outside London proper. Given the timeframe between contact
with the sergeant and now, we are looking at a time of three hours. Confine
searches to abandoned buildings within three hours travel of their location.
Stay in radio contact at all times. Do not engage unless you have a clear shot.
I'm authorizing arms on this mission," Lestrade said. "Any questions? No, then
go!"
***** Daddy *****
Chapter by phoenixreal
Sally was sure there was a rave going on inside her skull. Really, flashing
lights, thumping beats, all of it. Then she remembered. Oh shit. She had gotten
the call to connect to Lestrade, so why was she sitting up instead of in a nice
hospital bed? She swallowed and opened her eyes slowly, wincing as light
entered her blinding. Damn, damn, damn, she thought as her eyes slowly adjusted
to the influx of light. Finally, she managed to get them open and pulled an
aching head up. First, where was she?
It was an open room, with high windows. Some sort of warehouse, then, she
thought. She was secured to some sort of metal chair. She jangled and there was
a cuff on each hand and one on each ankle. Okay, so no picking the locks this
time, and no breaking the chair since it was metal. The cuffs were above
crossbars, so no tipping the chair and slipping them off. Shit, this asshole
thought of everything. She sighed and looked around to see if she could find
Sherlock, but from what she could tell, she was alone. Not good. Sherlock was
the only think keeping this bastard from killing her.
There was a crash nearby and she watched as the pudgy bastard was dragging a
table into the room. She opted to stay quiet. Maybe he wouldn't realize she was
awake. She watched with interest as he proceeded to dress the area, eerily
similar to the way he'd dressed the other scenes. She knew it was too soon for
him to kill, it took him a week of abuse before he got to that point, so that
meant he played out these things with the victims multiple times? Before long,
there sat a table with chairs, the table and chairs covered with lacy cloths.
The table was dressed with a fine tea set and china plates. A platter with
small cakes and biscuits sat in the center. He had a hotplate that he connected
to some sort of portable generator that he was heating the teapot on. He had
also, while she was out, pulled in a large recliner or rocker that had seen
better days. He covered it with a sheet and dropped a crochet throw on it. All
the time he set up, he hummed to himself.
He left and returned with a couple of the dolls and she watched as he arranged
them in two of the seats. There was something eerie about the faceless dolls.
He left again and this time she heard more noise, muffled yelling that she
recognized as Sherlock's voice. The drugs must be wearing off again. She
certainly hadn't been given anything, she thought morosely. If she had, her
head wouldn't be splitting.
She looked up as the man brought a stumbling Sherlock into the room. His hands
were secured behind his back, and the guy was dragging him by his upper arms.
He was gagged this time, eyes wide and wild as he looked around him. He still
wore the ridiculous outfit the guy had put him in before she left, but he
appeared to have lost the shoes, his feet clad in ripped black socks. He was
struggling against the man that held him, but his moves were still weak, so
obviously, he was still drugged somewhat.
"Now, now, Doll, come now, I wish you wouldn't struggle so, I don't want you to
get hurt," he said softly, but there was an edge to his voice. Something
dangerous.
Before Sally could stop herself she yelled, "Sherlock, calm down before…"
Just then, the psycho bastard struck out with a booted foot and there was a
loud crack that resounded, and Sherlock's eyes went wide, breath stuttering.
She couldn't see exactly what he'd done, but she knew breaking bone when she
heard it.
"Now, look what you made me do, lovely. Tsk, now," he said, sorrowful tinge to
his voice as he dropped Sherlock into one of the dressed chairs.
He quickly wrapped rope around his lap, weaving it intricately around his legs,
lap, waist and back, securing him to the chair. She could see him now, and his
ankle was at an odd angle. Shit. That made escape attempts pretty much
impossible. He reached up and removed the gag and Sally watched as he struggled
with his breathing, glaring daggers at the guy.
"Daddy doesn't like to punish you, but you know I have to when you misbehave,
Dolly," he said, looking at Sherlock with misty eyes. "It hurts me so much more
than it hurts you!"
"Now, let's have some tea," he said suddenly with a grin and poured tea into
the delicate cups.
Sally realized how thirsty she was, and could imagine with as much drugging
Sherlock had taken he too would be dehydrated. She would give anything to have
a cup of tea at that moment.
"Her," Sherlock croaked, his voice rough.
"Lovely, what do you mean?" he asked, frowning at Sherlock.
"Give her tea. M'b ehave." He kept his eyes on the table in front of him.
"Oh, you'll behave if I give her something to drink?" he said, grin spreading.
Sherlock nodded.
He fixed a cup and brought it to Sally. It was warm, but not too hot to drink.
He held it to her lips and Sally was not about to pass up any chance at
hydration, so she drank it. He was surprisingly capable of feeding her the
drink. She was grateful to Sherlock, but her gut clenched at the thought of
what he'd have to do to "behave" for this guy.
"There now, I gave her a cuppa. Now, you'll drink your cuppa like a good doll?"
he asked, getting a nod from Sherlock.
He approached and let him sip the drink, carefully avoiding spilling it.
Sherlock swallowed, but his eyes darted about the room as he did so. Despite
how much he hated the idea of doing what he said, Sally already had a
concussion from the bastard, and he didn't want to see her die from dehydration
before his eyes. He knew Mycroft had to be looking, but this bastard was
careful. His stomach flipped though as he thought of the bodies of the three
children. He was a sadist; it was obvious from the bodies. And the first day
and he already had a broken ankle.
"Oh, you are such a dear. You know, I found the fact that your real daddy was
so mean to you so sad, you know," he said, sipping his tea, holding a manila
folder. Sherlock frowned and shook his head. It still had a large quantity of
cotton in it.
"Dunno whatcha mean," he muttered.
"Oh, this, M gave me," he said, holding up the folder. "Ten years old, huh?"
Sherlock's head jerked up then. Sally could see the instant reaction, the
tension shooting through his body, the spasms wracking his hands that were tied
to his sides. "Where…did that come…" he stuttered, but Sally could tell it was
more than just the after effects of the drug he'd been under.
"Tsk, I wouldn't have been so rough with you. Really. Not the first time,
you'll see later. I'll be gentle and loving, and if you're good, you won't get
hurt, I promise. But this, goodness me, what a mess you were. Two broken ribs,
shattered orbital bone, see I wouldn't hurt your pretty face, lovely. Let's
see. Surgery, too, he broke you but they fixed you. See I broke my other dolls,
too. That's what happens when they're too young, that's what M said. That's why
he told me to find you instead. You won't break…well, at least I hope not. But
I'm ready this time. I kept a suture kit and ten blood bags, so if you break,
I'll try to fix you. I'm not a doctor though, so might not work…" he seemed to
be talking to himself.
He smiled and flipped pages again. "Oh, goodness, spent a week in the hospital,
did you? Surgery is so hard on a child, especially that kind. How long were you
off regular food?"
Sherlock glared at him but didn't say anything. "Now, Doll, you know what
happens if you don't cooperate," he said, looking over at Sally. "And you said
you'd behave. Now don't make me punish you for lying to me. You really don't
want that."
"Three weeks," he said softly.
"There, Doll, was that so hard to tell Daddy?" he asked, leaning forward to
give him another drink of tea. As embarrassing as it was, he took whatever he
offered him.
"Now, what else…oh, your mom didn't leave your dad? How did that work? They let
you go back to her too…" he mused. "Why's that?"
Sherlock's throat worked. These memories were supposed to be locked away, and
now that his head was clearing up somewhat he really didn't want to talk.
"M'brother moved us to a flat in London," he said quietly. "Money stopped it."
"Ah, so your daddy paid off everyone involved, did he? That's why M said this
was so hard to get ahold of. No one knew what happened, did they?" he said,
grinning at him. "Nothing public."
Sherlock nodded, and had a biscuit shoved into his mouth roughly. He nearly
spit it back out but thought better of it. Better to play along and get what
food he could. Before this, he'd already gone three days without eating because
of the case.
"So tell me, lovely, what did that real daddy do to you?" he asked, leaning
forward and placing elbows on the table. Sherlock's head snapped up and he
shook his head.
"Please, I don wanna do this," he begged. "Don wanna, please," he almost moaned
the words.
The man stood up and walked around to Sherlock to stand behind him. "You said
you'd behave, and you aren't. That means I have to punish you for lying. I
warned you once already, Doll."
Sherlock shook his head violently as he tied a gag back on him and walked away.
There was a few tense moments and he came back with what Sally realized was a
riding crop. Oh this wouldn't be good. Sherlock's eyes widened at the sight,
more than a little aware of the damage a riding crop did. He had a syringe in
the other hand and deftly injected Sherlock in the arm through the fabric of
his dress. He blinked as his head started to fuzz but it wasn't as strong as
whatever else he'd been using.
"Just a little hydrocodone, love, don't want you passing out during your
punishment, but don't want you struggling too much. Now, this hurts me far more
than you, but I have to be a good daddy, and take care of you, my lovely," he
said and untied the ropes. Sherlock was free but his arms lacked the strength
to move much.
He yanked him up from the chair and threw him down again on it, laying him over
the seat. He pulled his hands, wrapping the rope around them and tying them to
the chairs as his arms hung over, the chair seat digging painfully into his
ribcage. He frowned, not sure how he ended up into this position. He looked up
and saw Sally staring at him. He blinked several times, chewing against the gag
for a minute until he felt the layered skirts and petticoats lifted and pinned
to the back of the dress. When did that happen? He thought dully. He gasped as
the bloomers were pulled off him roughly, cold air assaulting his legs and
backside. That couldn't be good, he thought sluggishly. His mind was having
trouble processing that when the first smack hit the back of his thigh.
Sally watched as he threw him down across the chair and secured him. She was
positioned where he was now looking straight at her. She saw the confusion on
his face as though he wasn't entirely sure what was going on as the man pulled
off the black bloomers and tossed them to the side and pulled back with the
crop, landing with a really loud, echoing smack, making Sherlock yelp and jerk
against the robes holding him down. The sound was muffled by the gag. Again and
again, and she had to look away. She counted at least twenty hits with the
thing, all hard and loud in the open room. Then she heard a choked sound and
turned back..
Sherlock's mind was a spinning world of stinging pain. He'd never realized
exactly how much those damn things hurt. The pain had cleared out a lot of the
cotton, and despite the dose of hydrocodone he'd given him, it still hurt. But
perhaps that was just his resistance to drugs that did that. Finally, he
stopped, and he felt like fire was burning across his buttocks and thighs. He
felt the drip of blood down the back of his legs and knew the skin had been
split with the violence of the attack. Aside from the initial yelp of surprise,
though he'd managed to avoid giving him the pleasure of hearing him scream. He
refused. He would not…then he choked thickly as he felt hands running across
the searing flesh.
He wanted to ask what the hell he was doing now, but he didn't have to ask
because at some base level he knew, he knew because this was so familiar, too
familiar. Again, the choked sound escaped him through the gag as hands kneaded
the bleeding flesh on his thighs. He shook his head then and tried to tell him
to stop, but the hands didn't stop.
"Shh, I'll be gentle with you, I won't break you, I promise, I promise," he
said, and he was leaning over him, breath heavy in his ear now. "I'm so sorry,
I was going to wait, I really was, but I just can't, not with you so
beautifully laid out…no, definitely can't wait…" he murmured, hands traveling
up and down his back under the satiny dress and camisole.
He tried to escape to his mind palace, desperately, that place he'd crafted so
he could run from sensation, from the world, but the doors were locked, and he
knew it was either the drugs or the fear, but either way, the result was the
same. He couldn't escape.
"Now, I want to hear you, Dolly, no one else can, and I told them I thought
you'd scream, will you?" he muttered in his ear again, untying the cloth to
fall out of his mouth. "Daddy will be so gentle, I'll even prepare you, I bet
your other daddy didn't do that, did he? No, because he broke you. I can't let
that happen," he said, and Sherlock choked back a cry when he was invaded by
questing fingers, pushing and stretching, sending a burning sensation
throughout his body that was somehow worse than the searing flesh on his thighs
and buttocks.
"S-stop, please, n-no…" he begged, shaking his head. The position was awful; he
had no support except under his ribcage, his head and shoulders dangled over
the side, arms pulled down so his wrists were secured to the chair legs.
"Shh, I told you, I'll be gentle, see, I'm helping make it easier, aren't I?"
he said softly. When there was no reply from Sherlock he scowled and jammed his
fingers hard into him getting a yelp.
"I said, I'm making it easier, aren't I? Answer when I talk to you, Dolly, or
Daddy will get very angry…" he said into his ear again.
"Yes!" he said quickly this time, tears finding their way from his watering
eyes now.
"Now, look at that," he said, holding his hand in front of Sherlock's eyes now
to see it was bloody. "You made me make you bleed already. Now that's not good,
I promised to be gentle, and look…what…you…made…me…do."
Sherlock swallowed, half happy his hand was out of his body, half distressed at
the edge to his voice. He couldn't predict him. Not at all. Even with full
faculties, he was sure that this man was simply too insane for him to predict.
"M'sorry, please, m'sorry!" he said finally, hoping to ease his sudden anger at
him.
Sally was wide eyed. This guy was nuts. Completely and totally nuts. At
Sherlock's apology his scowl faded and he smiled, running hands through
Sherlock's hair, sending a shiver down her spine as the blood on his hand was
spread through his hair.
"Good Dolly, good," he said softly, then there was movement and rustling, and
Sherlock felt hands on his hips now, rubbing big circles on them slowly.
At first he wondered what he was doing, then he cried out, eyes rolling up at
the sudden intrusion as he slammed into him, back arching as pain shot up his
back and down into the very arches of his feet. He kept still, then, leaning
over, fully seated into his body, rubbing his hands over Sherlock's satin
covered back. He slumped down and whimpered, unable to control the sounds
coming from him. The drugs had lowered his resistance, and while they dulled
the intense pain, nowhere near enough. He shook his head as he began rocking
against him, slow and his passage only eased by blood from the dry entry.
Sherlock knew that it hadn't done much when he "prepared" him. That was a
laugh. Sherlock knew the mechanics of this, even if he'd never actually
participated in such things.
Desperately, he tried to keep his mind on those thoughts, thinking, but the
pain, it just wouldn't leave his brain alone, and the memories were surging.
Memories of someone else over him, pressed into a desk, wood biting into his
stomach, legs too short to reach the floor, breath on his neck, just like this,
but with the smell of stale bourbon. The same sensation, blood running down his
legs, dripping, sending his head reeling with dizziness. There had been no
drugs then, no and that was the day his mind palace was built, the first time,
then more of a cellar, a place to lock himself, and now, here, the drugs denied
him his escape. He wondered vaguely who was sobbing…then to his own horror he
realized it was him.
Stinging and burning release came and he gagged violently, stomach recoiling at
both current and remembered sensation. He felt awful as his body rejected the
tea and biscuit he'd just eaten, eyes burning with hot tears. Before he knew
it, his hands were free and he was being lifted upward. He felt the skirts
falling back down over his bare backside and legs. Pain shot from his ankle as
he tried to walk, but he was really being dragged toward a large chair closer
to where Sally was tied. Oh, Sally, he'd forgotten about her. And he couldn't
at the moment care, though. He was in too much pain.
"You are so light for your size, lovely, really," he said, dropping him
painfully into the seat. Already, blood was soaking through the back of the red
dress, and he knew why he had chosen red.
Sally was having trouble breathing at the moment. She watched as he dropped him
into the chair and then left, and she wanted to scream at him to get up, try to
get out, but it didn't matter. His eyes were wide, and utterly vacant. With a
broken ankle, there was no way, even without being brutally raped and drugged
like he was, he wouldn't have been able to make it out of the place before he
got back. She swallowed hard again, and he was back already, this time with a
rolling table with a bowl on top. He pushed it over, and then took a cloth and
began cleaning Sherlock's calves which were now stained heavily with blood. He
shoved him over onto his side and Sally was staring into his eyes now.
He barely moved when he lifted the skirts and began cleaning the blood from
underneath them, and she realized he had to be in shock, because his face was
pale, even more than normal. At least he wasn't bleeding too much from what she
could tell. He finished, and pushed the table away, and returned, syringe in
hand. He lifted the skirts and injected him somewhere under them, then
disappeared again, and the tension seemed to drain out of Sherlock's body as
whatever drug it was took effect.
He came back and slid into the chair, grabbing Sherlock and pulling him into
his lap, laying his head into the crook of his shoulder like he was some sort
of child in need of comforting. Sherlock's eyes were wide and pupils completely
dilated. She wondered if he was even aware of his surroundings anymore.
"There, now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" he whispered, petting his hair with
disgusting gentleness. "Next time, you'll tell me what I ask, won't you?
Because I can't resist you like that. I'm afraid punishment will mean I'll have
to have you again, do you understand? Though I was rougher than I should have
been, and for that I'm sorry. I'd planned to have you more ready before I did
that, but you brought it on yourself, lovely. Yes, all your fault for being a
bad dolly. You'll remember next time, yes, won't you?"
Sally caught the shudder that shook his body and she hoped that Lestrade and
the others were close to finding them. She wasn't sure how much she could take
before she broke, let alone what he was going through. Eventually, it seemed
Sherlock fell asleep. He stood up and came back with a set of shackles,
attaching them to his wrists and ankles, and then clipping them to something on
the other side of the chair. He leaned the chair back, and let Sherlock
somewhat lie down, and then lay a blanket over him with the gentleness of a
parent. It was quite sick, actually, and she felt her own stomach recoil. He
moved around, cleaning the area of where Sherlock had vomited and where blood
had dripped onto the concrete.
She found herself, splitting headache and all, nodding off at some point. The
exhaustion was too much. She awoke sometime after full dark, the only light
from dim moon and starlight coming in through he too high windows. She blinked
wearily wondering what had woken her but then she heard it. It was Sherlock's
voice, in his sleep, caught in some sort of nightmare. Her heart clenched at
the pitifully small noises he was making.
"No…don't…m'sorry Father…no…hurts. Mummy, hurts…can't…don't touch me!" he
shouted the last and jolted awake, eyes blinking hazily in the room. She kept
quiet, though as he came to full wakefulness.
He tried to sit and hissed in obvious pain. He pulled at the shackles and made
another pained noise as he pulled on his foot. He groaned and flopped back into
the cushions for a moment before he started to panic, jerking on the shackles
suddenly, breath speeding up.
"Sherlock!" she called, but he seemed to be lost in whatever was in his head.
"Sherlock, calm down, you're panicking, and you're going to hurt yourself
worse! Breathe, in and out, slowly!" she said.
He seemed to somehow hear her and he forced his body to stop the reaction. He
laid there a long moment breathing heavily, fighting back the demons in his
mind.
"You okay, Sally?" he said finally. "He…he hasn't hurt you?"
Sally swallowed hard. "No, I'm fine, Sherlock, just a bit of a headache, you
know. But I'm okay."
He sighed deeply, yanking uselessly on the shackle again. "Good. Good for
sumthin," he muttered, blinking slowly. "Mah head fulla cotton, can't think,"
he muttered. "Why'd I do this by choice before? I dunno what to do…dammit…I
never…I can't…John," he moaned the last word.
Sally could see he was slipping. "Hey, Sherlock, tell me about John, then,
okay? I shouldn't sleep with the concussion I have, right? So you gotta help me
out."
His face seemed to clear of the intense pain. "John…saved me. No one else knows
that," he said softly. "Not even John, I can't tell him that. He…he makes me
feel when no one else can. How does he do that? My only friend…best friend…" He
smiled softly, his eyes looking far away, but at least not as vacant as they
were. "Think I love him, but don wanna mess it up, mess ever'thing up anyway.
Push him 'way so don get messed up too. So toxic, like my spearments. Such a
mess…all over the flat, but he stays, why does he stay? Gotta skull sitting
there and John stays anyway…shoot the wall, and John stays…oh John…" he was
about to slip in a sleep again then his eyes snapped open. "John, no, all
chance, no one wants me after this…I'm used up again, so much…he'll be
disgusted with me. I shoulda seen it, shoulda known, but I missedit. How could
I miss it so bad. Just a fraud, like they say, all a fraud, I'm nothin',
nothin', it's all an act…useless like he said…useless and broken…"
Sally sighed as he whispered the last, his body finally giving in to the mix of
exhaustion, shock, and drugs. She blinked back her own tears. Good God, this is
the person she just assumed was some sort of automaton. She didn't even
consider that he had feelings of any sort. He was in love with John Watson, and
couldn't even admit it to himself. She huffed a sigh and leaned her head back,
stomach loudly protesting the lack of food. As she faded into sleep, she
couldn't get Sherlock's eyes out of her mind, and through a fitful sleep,
everything replayed again and again.
She awoke with a start as there was a loud noise somewhere nearby. Her muddled
mind couldn't place it for a moment, and then she realized it was a shriek. She
blinked her eyes blearily and closed them again. She didn't want to watch this.
Not again.
He'd been asleep, fitfully, but asleep nonetheless. The drugs had worn off
sometime during the night, and he was left with a dull ache all throughout his
body. He recognized the feelings all too well, coming down off opiates like
that. And his body was already screaming at him for more. He groaned and his
eyes fluttered open only to be met with the dark beady eyes of his captor. He
was kneeling beside the chair he was laid out on staring at him.
"Morning, my sweet Dolly. Did you sleep well?" he said with a soft smile, as
though it was perfectly normal to hold someone captive in shackles.
"No," he answered truthfully, brows knitting together.
"He warned me that you were quite unpleasant when you weren't drugged," he
said, still pleasantly.
"I want to be let go. My brother will find you and he'll make you disappear,"
Sherlock said quietly, and realized, he'd never in his entire life wanted
Mycroft to do something so badly before. He never threatened people with
Mycroft. He never asked anything of Mycroft. But right now, if he could, he'd
turn away while Mycroft dealt with him. And he would hope he would do so in the
most painful way possible.
"Yes, that brother of yours. Well don't worry. I've been assured he's off on
wild goose chases arranged by our friendly consulting criminal," he said
lightly.
Sherlock couldn't help the tears that started to form, but he fought them back.
He did not cry. He would gladly disregard the embarrassing episode the day
before as being the drugs. He did not sob like a broken child. Never.
"Yes, he's quite helpful. And all he wants is the videos," he grinned and
Sherlock paled.
"What?" he said softly.
"Oh yes, Dolly, I forgot to tell you. For his help, he asked to have copies of
the videos sent to him. I just sent him yesterday's recording. I hope he likes
it. Oh! I sent it to your John too. I thought he might like to see you, since
he's all you mutter about in your sleep," he said, patting his head.
Sherlock's stomach threatened to rebel again. If it was bad enough that he be
seen like this by Sally…but…no. He looked around frantically and to his horror,
attached to a generator up in the wall nearby was a camera, the red light
indicating it was indeed recording. He followed the cord to a laptop that sat
on a cart beside it, and his stomach dropped.
"No," he moaned. "No, don't…damn you!" he snarled, scowling at the man.
Then, he watched as that change happened again. His face went from perfectly
pleasant to pinched in fury. His hand was moving before Sherlock knew it and
backhanded him hard enough that he tasted blood filling his mouth.
"What a dirty mouth! I will not put up with such language, Dolly. Not at all.
Now I have to punish you again. You are turning out to need more discipline
than I thought. You know what that means, don't you?" he said, standing.
He turned and left Sherlock shaking violently. Was he going to use the crop on
him again? He hoped not, his skin had barely scabbed over from the night
before. He hated this. He couldn't predict anything about him! He was
completely random, and it seemed different things triggered him at different
points. Instead of the crop, though, he came back pushing one of those small
steel tables. Sherlock frowned and saw there was something on top of it, and it
smelled…hot.
"Now, now, for such a mouth, we just have to make sure you can't use it like
that again," he said, holding up a metal spatula from what looked to be a
hotplate.
Sherlock was confused until he reached out and wrenched his jaw open. His eyes
went wide as he shoved the hot metal into his mouth and slammed it shut on top
of it. Sherlock had never shrieked in his life. He did then as the metal seared
into his tongue, cheeks and the roof of his mouth. Even with his mouth closed,
it was loud, and he saw from the corner of his eye that Sally had jerked awake
and was staring wide eyed at him as he struggled against the hands that were
holding his mouth shut around the implement. He felt the metal sides biting
into the flesh of his cheeks and he was sure that he'd never be able to feel
his tongue again. Then he let go and yanked it roughly out of his mouth,
leaving the fire behind.
He whimpered, he couldn't' help it. It felt like his tongue was still on fire
as he let his mouth hang open, trying to suck cooling air over the burning
flesh in his mouth. Tears were now pouring freely from his eyes as blood and
saliva dripped from his mouth.
"Now, now, that was a naughty Dolly, wasn't it? Now, are you going to say such
things again?" he said. Sherlock stared at him with watering eyes. How did he
expect him to answer? He shook his head, but was met with another backhanded
slap. "Speak when I ask you something!" he screamed.
"No…" he managed with some difficulty because his tongue was starting to swell.
"No."
He leaned forward, his face a mask of fury. "No what?"
Sherlock's brain had short circuited and he had no idea what he wanted, so he
just stared at him for a moment until he felt his hand yanked up hard against
the shackles. He had turned at some point and grabbed the hotplate, and while
it was unplugged from the generator (seriously, how many generators did this
psycho bastard have? That was at least three so far.), he could still see the
element was red. His eyes went wide.
"No, what?" he asked again, and Sherlock felt his brain scrambling for the
answer.
"Dunt know!" he cried around his swollen tongue.
He shoved the plate under his left hand and pressed it to the hot metal and
Sherlock did screech then, eyes wide and thrashing against him. "No, Daddy," he
said softly, the fury fading and the loving mask slipping back. "No, Daddy, and
I'll stop your punishment, Dolly."
"No, D-duh-duh!" he practically screamed around his tongue, barely able to make
the words come out.
His hand was pulled up, and he swore there was skin left behind, and the plate
sat down with a clang. Sherlock's breathing was rapid and he was on verge of
hyperventilating. "Now, see that? Look what you made me do, you naughty thing,
you!" he screamed, slapping him hard across the face again. "I was trying to be
nice, and look what you made me do!"
Sherlock was trying to become as small as possible, pulling back into the chair
as far as he could, away from the rage roiling off his captor. "You did this!"
he yelled as he pulled his head up by the hair as far as the shackles would
allow. "YOU did this, not me, do you understand? Answer me!" he screamed in his
face, spittle flying as he yelled.
"Yeth! Yeth, Duhday!" he said, eyes pouring more tears despite his mental
protest against it. They just wouldn't stop. His hand felt like it was going to
start burning and set the rest of him on fire, and he thought he could handle
pain. He could feel the slotted patter on his tongue where the spatula had left
its mark, the sides of his cheeks feeling like knives had cut through them. He
was heaving breaths now, but it didn't seem enough air was getting there.
He dropped him suddenly and smiled gently. "There, that's a good Dolly. Now,
I'll go get you some medicine to make you feel better, then I'll show you how
much I still love you, even though you've been such a naughty thing this
morning already."
Sherlock rolled his eyes wearily to see Sally staring at him. His mouth was
still open, tongue swollen thickly between his lips and he still felt something
dripping down from his mouth, whether blood or saliva, he didn't know, and at
the moment he didn't care. He jerked when he felt the shirts pulled up and the
pinch of a needle entering the flesh of his buttocks. The cooling relief washed
over him, but it wasn't the mind numbing one. No, this was the milder one he
used.
Then hands again. His eyes went wide as he felt him slide behind him in the
chair. He was laying on his side still, hands pulled tight with the shackles
and chains over the side. He shook his head as he wrapped his hands around his
chest and hugged him, almost lovingly. But then a hand was sliding up and down
on his hip again and he tried to jerk away, eyes wide.
"Easy, lovely. I told you I'll show you how much I love you, even when you're
so naughty that I have to punish you…" he breathed into his ear and he saw
Sally close her eyes and look away. He silently thanked her for that.
"Puhls," he said. "Nah, nah mah," he begged, but it didn't matter, he was
biting now at the lace on his throat, and then it was being ripped open, and
there were teeth biting into the tendons there, leaving bloody marks.
He nearly choked on his tongue as he felt him probing his body again, pulling
away, fighting when there was nowhere to go. The hands froze, fingers buried
inside him still and there was hot breath on his ear.
"Dolly, if punishing you for being naughty doesn't work, I'll punish her. Do
you understand? Do you want me to make you watch me punish her like this?" he
said, roughly forcing four fingers into him well past the third knuckle, making
him arch away from him with a sharp whine. He shook his head, his voice
completely absent now.
He stayed still as he moved upward and moved his leg upward and slid into him,
and all Sherlock could do was close his eyes, and again, found his mind palace
blocked to him. He wept then, he couldn't do anything else. And again, he found
himself retching over the side of the chair when he was done and as he cleaned
him up with the water again. He stared ahead, eyes open and vacant.
"You look pale, lovely. I think I should give you a little blood, so I'll set
it up," he said, gently petting Sherlock's head, ignoring the flinching as he
touched him. "I'm sorry, I've broken you a little, it seems. Sorry, I just…I
just can't control myself, you know…I'm sorry, so sorry. But I'm ready this
time. I have enough blood for this."
Sally watched with horror as he hooked up an IV and put a blood bag onto it to
transfuse him. Her stomach roiled. He expected this. He expected to make him
bleed so much he had to actually give him blood. She frowned and realized
exactly how wet looking the chair Sherlock laid on was, and wondered if that
was all blood, or if it was wet from the water when he cleaned him.
"You're going to kill him like that," she said suddenly. "You can't keep this
up…he's going to die."
He turned toward her and smiled. "You should hope he doesn't, because the
moment he does, I plan on shooting you."
He turned and left, leaving Sally with her thoughts. She turned and looked at
the camera. It had a view of everything in the room, and her stomach roiled
again because she could do nothing.
***** Rescue *****
Chapter by phoenixreal
When the elevator opened, Lestrade knew something was wrong. John was
positively glowering. His color was bad and he looked like he'd gotten little
sleep the night before. But it was more than that. No, there was something much
more. There was a set to his jaw, where the tension seemed to make it vibrate
it was strung so tight. It was midafternoon, and Lestrade had everyone he knew
on the case. It was Thursday. Sherlock had gone missing on Monday night. They'd
raided the empty house Wednesday. Today was Thursday, and the clock was
ticking. The pattern was the body would be found on Monday, along with another
missing person. So the fact that John was upset was certain, but no, as he got
closer, he realized his eyes were red. Very red, and very puffy.
"I've already forwarded this to Mycroft. He's doubled the agents dedicated to
it. I thought you should see it," John said as he slapped a disk into his hand.
"It came in my email just after noon today."
Lestrade stared at it and back at John. "Okay, come on," he said, and summoned
Anderson as he passed by the desk. As soon as they entered the office, John
turned the blinds on the windows and sunk into the chair as Lestrade put the
disk into the computer. Lestrade looked up questioningly.
"I can't watch it again. There's no sound, but there doesn't need to be," he
said, looking out the window into the afternoon light.
Lestrade ran the disk. A message floated across the video first. "Hello John! I
know you miss your dear, sweet boyfriend, Sherlock. So I thought I'd give you a
look at how he's doing in Jaffrey's hands! Yours, JM." Anderson and Lestrade
exchanged glances as it came to life.
The first image was black and shaky as a lens cap was taken off, and they were
looking directly into the pudgy face of the man they were looking for. He
grinned and wiped the lens with a cloth, then moved it to affix it to the wall,
it seemed. He adjusted it and they saw Sally slumped in a chair. "She's alive,"
Anderson said after she moved a bit. Then he began arranging the room. A table,
chairs, tea, a recliner. He seemed to enjoy the set up. During that time, Sally
lifted her head, and it seemed she didn't note the camera. Then she was yelling
something outside the range of the camera and she flinched, looking away.
Jaffrey appeared, dragging a stumbling Sherlock in the dress he'd been in the
picture in. The camera was good quality, full color, but no sound. They watched
as he insisted on Sally getting something, and Anderson frowned at the gesture.
"He told him to give her some," he said softly. "But she doesn't look happy,
whatever he said."
After a bit, they watched as he pulled a folder from a table and they
recognized it. He started questioning Sherlock, and he resisted. And then it
was like another man took over the mild looking man, the sudden violence and
viciousness of the beating he gave Sherlock for some reason and the attack
thereafter left both detectives wide eyed and wanting to look away.
"Don't worry," John said softly. "It gets worse."
Lestrade frowned and glanced at Anderson. The rest of the scene placed out,
where he took Sherlock and cradled him, petting him and treating him like an
errant child. Sally was biting her lip and they could see the blood running
down her wrists in the video from her own struggle.
Just then, Lestrade's phone chirped and he had a message. Check your mail. Just
a thought.- JM
Lestrade paused the video and pulled up his mail. A video in an email. He
opened it. It appeared to be the same video John had, but when he opened it a
blast of sound came from the speakers. "Greg, m'boy," came a slightly Irish
lilt. "Thought you might want to hear things. So here you go. Give Jawn mah
regards!" Then the video began anew, this time with full sound. Now John did
get up and come around, matching the images with the sounds. By the time they
had got through the first scene a second time, all three were slightly green.
John was incredibly amazed at his friend's ability to avoid screaming as long
as he did. Then the video sped forward, obviously nothing but sleeping. Then it
slowed to the conversation between Sally and Sherlock during the night, which
made John's face burn, but neither of the other two in the room acknowledged
it. Other than, of course, a small grin shared that John didn't see at all.
"I don't know if I can watch this, again," John said as the next morning began.
Sally slept as Jaffrey woke Sherlock, who was obviously out of the influence of
the drugs now. But even then, he didn't attack him with a typical level of
snark. It was obvious the assault the day before had taken a toll on the
detective. A great toll, by the posture and the pained look on his face. Until
he was pointed out the fact there was a camera. And then Sherlock cussed,
albeit mildly, and it completely set off the man again.
"This guy is highly unstable…Sherlock said worse things before and he ignored
them…" Lestrade said, frowning as Sherlock's eyes followed the man out. It was
obvious he was scared of what he would do. He was actually trembling, John
noticed. Sally was still sleeping, the conversation between Sherlock and
Jaffrey had been quiet, almost too quiet to be heard clearly.
"I image that Sherlock's at a complete loss. He normally can handle anyone, but
this guy, there's no way to predict how he'll act or react," John said,
swallowing hard as they watched him return with a cart.
Neither Anderson nor Lestrade could hide the horror as they watched him use a
heated spatula on his mouth, and the shriek of pain that brought Sally awake
made them all gasp. Then the hotplate, and very berating were no better,
forcing him to say things, to call him that, and it was easy to tell from the
blood running and the swelling of Sherlock's tongue that it was painful to even
talk. Then, they cringed and were entrapped by the second assault, and petting
him, telling him how much he loved him. They flinched at his words to Sally,
that she should hope Sherlock didn't die, because she'd be shot the second he
did.
"Forward the one with sound to Mycroft," John said softly, turning away. "He
needs to hear what he's said; maybe it will give him some clues. Can we get a
still frame of the building that we can zoom in on?"
John's phone buzzed. Did you like the video, John? Doesn't he scream pretty?
After I sent you the soundless one I felt that perhaps his screams should be
shared. -JM
John was sick and shoved the phone back in his pocket. They had to find him.
Soon.
-Elsewhere-
Sally woke with a start, but luckily not to Sherlock shrieking in pain. She
wasn't sure what woke her, but from the high windows, it was late afternoon
now. She was really feeling the effects of no food or water, though. She looked
over to find the blood back on the IV had been replaced by saline. Sherlock
hadn't moved, and his mouth was even more swollen. His breaths were ragged and
she wondered if the swelling was going to block his airway soon.
She looked up to see he was coming back. He smiled at her, then went to
Sherlock's side, shaking his shoulder. Sherlock mumbled thickly around his
swollen tongue.
"Doll, wake up for Daddy," he said, shaking him harshly again. Sherlock still
didn't respond. There was a snort from the man.
"Wake up, Dolly, or Daddy is going to be mad…" he said again, and Sally
recognized that dangerous edge to his voice. He would flip out again, and this
time who knew what he'd do…
He turned and left suddenly, and Sally let out a deep sigh. Okay, maybe he
would just come back later. It was quite obvious he was unconscious from the
shock and trauma; it wasn't like he could help it. That bastard was the one
who'd done it to him. The burns alone were enough. She glanced up and realized
he was coming back, and in the dim light, she saw the furious mask on his face.
Oh no, she thought. He couldn't…
He kneeled in front of his face again. "Doll," he said with a forceful tone.
"Either wake up, or I'm going to do something not nice to make you wake up."
"Hey!" Sally yelled. "Stop it! He can't…"
He stared at her, those beady eyes bright. "Keep talking, and I'll shoot him
right in front of you, then shoot you."
She swallowed and watched as he reached out to the hand he hadn't burned and
grasped his index finger and yanked it sharply. Sherlock moaned and tried to
pull away. He repeated it with his next finger. But still, it didn't wake him.
He was shaking with anger now, such anger, and Sally didn't understand why or
what was happening. He then took his whole hand, and gripped his forearm to lay
it on the arm of the chair, and with all his strength, slammed down on his
hand. That woke Sherlock with an agonized scream, and Sally flinched to hear
the crunch of bones.
Sherlock stared at his arm, now twisted, bone jutting from the skin and back at
the man. His face had returned to the pleasant calm. His jaw worked around the
swollen burning mess that was his tongue but he couldn't get anything out past
the white blinding pain radiating from the compound fracture of his forearm.
"I'm sorry, lovely, but you wouldn't wake up and I got angry. Here, I'll
bandage you up. But remember, it is entirely your fault for refusing to wake up
when I called you," he said, and set the bone roughly, getting another scream
out of Sherlock, muffled as it was by his swollen mouth.
"Wha dith I do?" he asked, looking at Sally with teary eyes as he walked away
to get bandages, she presumed.
"You didn't do anything, Sherlock. He's crazy. You were unconscious," Sally
assured, watching for his return. Sherlock stared at the bleeding wound, the
bone now back in place, eyes hazed with pain and fear. Blood ran and dripped
onto the floor as the skin around it started to turn vivid purpleish black.
"I didth do unythig," he muttered. "Nuffin'."
He came back, and wrapped the wound. Sherlock looked up to see the IV fluids.
He smiled, patting the lock in the crook of his burned arm. "Sorry, Doll, you
can't eat or drink after you made me hurt your mouth, so I had to do this.
Maybe next time you'll remember your mouth. And when I call for you to wake you
need to wake up. Understand?"
Sherlock nodded, but realized too late that wasn't enough as his head was
snapped to the side several times as he backhanded him repeatedly. The mask of
fury was back and Sherlock found himself whimpering at the sight. "Yeth, yeth,
du-dah," he said quickly as soon as he stopped hitting him. Tears collected in
his eyes and spilled out despite willing them not to. He couldn't deduce a
bloody thing about this man!
"Good Doll, good. Now, let me show you how much I love you," he said, ripping
the dress's neckline open further.
0000000000000000 Noncon scene 000000000000
Sherlock's breath quickened and he shook his head. He couldn't take this again,
not now. His body was wracked with pain and his head was spinning and he was
kissing his neck like he was some sort of lover. A strangled sob escaped his
lips as he moved one of the shackles and he was put on his back, and somehow,
this was worse. He could see him now, every detail of his face. No, he'd rather
be on his stomach or side, so he didn't have to see him, then he could
distance, forget.
"Pleth, hurth…" he muttered, trying to look away, only to have his head
wrenched violently toward him.
"Doll, it is your fault you're hurt. I told you at the outset that I would be
gentle and love you, but you've made me do these things, just like the others!
I thought you were better, but youstill misbehave! So I have to punish you, and
sometimes, I get carried away, so I have to love you! Just to make up for my
actions…" he said, biting into Sherlock's collarbone harshly.
His hands were under the dress already, lifting his legs up and putting himself
between them, rolling the skirts expertly until they rested on his pelvis in a
neat fold. It was disturbing that he knew how to handle the dresses like this
so well. Then, again, the fingers, and the sting as the already present tears
reopened. He blinked back the water that stung his eyes as he felt his hips
lifted and the merciless movements under him.
"See, so much better when you get used to it, right?" he said as he snapped his
hips forward, and watched as Sherlock keened loudly in the back of his throat,
choking on spit and blood from his mouth as his back arched.
He hurt everywhere and he wasn't sure what hurt the worst, but he knew that he
nearly blacked out before he was done, and was barely coherent when he
finished, which was good because there was nothing in his stomach for him to
throw up anyway. He felt the kisses along his jaw and he jerked away from him
as the dress was unfolded again. A shiver shot through him as his hand rested
on the inside of his thigh for a long moment under the skirt. The top of the
dress was torn now, his chest half bare, and one sleeve missing.
00000000000 End Noncon Scene 000000000000
Sally closed her eyes and ignored the sounds. How many times was this bastard
going to do this to him? When he was done this time, he stood and she looked to
find see him inject Sherlock's bare arm and pat him. "There, now, sleep away
until morning, Dolly. You'll wake when I call this time, I know you will, such
a quick study," he murmured into Sherlock's ear.
Sally was sick to her stomach as he left again, looking back to see he'd been
left in a different position, this time laid out on his back, one shackle over
each side of the chair, keeping his arms open and apart. He blearily blinked
and turned toward her.
"M'sowwy, S-sally…" he muttered.
"What for? You're the victim here…"
"Hmm, drug ya in wit mah. Sowwy. And can't get ya out b'fer too late…" he said
with a sigh.
Sally swallowed. "I guess you're right about that. But then you always are
right, aren't you? One cuppa over four days doesn't look too good for the
organs, huh?"
"Nah," he muttered and faded into a heavy sleep. "Die first, shoot ya."
She was too exhausted to fight the sleep that crawled into her vision. No, she
was not able to fight it.
-The Yard-
It was almost dark when they got the next one. All they could do was stare in
disbelief. There was no way to predict the guy.
"He just broke his arm because he was too unconscious to wake up?" Anderson
said, frowning, actually looking ill.
Suddenly John held up a hand. "Stop! Pause it!"
He leaned forward. The camera seemed to have shifted somewhat, giving a better
view of the high windows. "Zoom there," he said, pointing to the windows. The
tech that was with them did that. "Son of a bitch," John muttered, pulling out
his phone and running toward the door. "I know where he is!" Anderson and
Lestrade were hot on his trail.
It was an hour drive to get there, but as they pulled up in the darkness, they
could see faint light illuminating one of the abandoned warehouse's windows.
"Has to be it."
Lestrade shook his head. "How did you figure this out?"
He smiled at him. "The windows. We had a case out here once, and I remember
Sherlock commenting on the way the windows were made. In fact…" John's eyes
went wide. "Oh, my God…no wonder. This was where we busted one of Moriarty's
crew for something he'd arranged. This is all about revenge… Come on. We can't
wait for Mycroft's people. We have no idea what he has planned, or how long
Sherlock can last with the injuries he has."
They took off toward the building. Before long, they were inside, quietly
sneaking. They heard the sounds of someone snoring. They followed them. If
Lestrade and Anderson decided to leave to go the other way when John opened the
door on the sleeping Jaffrey Dalton, no one spoke of it. And if the two men
decided to ignore the muffled screams coming from behind them, no one spoke of
it either. They most certainly never spoke of the fact that John emerged with
his weapon in hand, and his front soaked with blood. In fact, no one ever saw
the body after Mycroft came in and made the whole situation disappear with his
typical efficiency.
John shucked his bloody jumper and they abandoned their need to sneak because
the threat was gone. Jaffrey was no longer a threat. They came into the large
room they recognized from the videos, John making a beeline for the chair where
Sherlock was slumped, and Anderson running for where Sally sat.
"Sally!" he said. Her head popped up and her eyes were wide.
"Mike?" she asked, looking around at the torchlights. "Is that you?"
"Yeah, we found you," he said, standing up.
"Sherlock…get him help, he's hurt…" she said, looking over.
Anderson nodded. "We know. They…sent us videos from that camera over there," he
said, gesturing with the torch to the wall.
She blinked. "Oh God, so you saw what he did…oh God. He…I couldn't do anything!
I've never felt so useless! And he…Mike, he did everything he could to make
sure he didn't hurt me…I didn't…"
Mike nodded. "I saw, I saw…"
"Even at the first place, Mike, he…the things he said and did…I…" she said. "I
have to see him, get these off me," she said, jangling her hands.
John was at a loss. He stood and stared, and there wasn't near enough light. He
didn't want to move him. After a minute Sally and Anderson came up beside him
and look. She was clinging to him, obviously suffering the effects of
dehydration.
"He looks worse up close…" she said softly, reaching out and touching the damp
curls on his head in a gesture that was far too loving for Sally Donavan toward
Sherlock Holms.
Just then, the room was flooded as the lights were switched on and a pair of
paramedics came rushing into the room. John didn't ask, he just set to work
getting the shackles off his friend and telling the paramedics where the
injuries he knew of were. He suggested they intubate him immediately due to the
mouth injury and the high dosage of opiates in his system. John could tell his
breathing was labored, and he was glad they found him. He wasn't sure how much
longer he could have lasted on the strong dosage of drugs he was receiving with
his airway somewhat blocked.
He leaped onto the truck with the paramedics, carefully watching their every
move. He tried hard to hold his tongue until he had to yell at one for trying
to move the compound fracture without thinking. His army voice certainly got
things done when necessary. Before long, they were at St. Barts and in a
private ICU. John, no matter how much he wanted, was sent to the waiting room.
Anderson and Lestrade were both waiting there already when he came back.
"How's Sally?" he asked, looking up.
"She's going to be fine; they put her on a saline for the dehydration. They're
going to keep her overnight to keep an eye on her kidney function," Lestrade
said with a deep sigh.
John nodded, ignoring the unspoken question. Lestrade finally couldn't wait the
silence any longer. "And Sherlock?"
John swallowed. "He's in surgery. They're going to have to put his arm back
together with pins. The ankle the said should heal on its own. We'll see about
his hand and his mouth. They've intubated him, of course, and he's on all sorts
of tubes. He's in a drug induced coma until they're sure he can breathe on his
own. They're worried about the swelling...it had progressed down into his
throat by the time we got him in the truck. Now, we wait."
Anderson slumped into one of the two clean plastic chairs with a deep scowl on
his face. "I don't understand it, not at all."
John sighed and slumped beside him, running his hand through his own blond
hair. "The guy was completely psychotic. No pattern, nothing. Moriarty used him
because he was exceedingly easy to manipulate. He's that good. He managed to
convince a pedophile to switch MO and kidnap an adult."
Lestrade shook his head and stared at the floor for a long moment. "I'd never
believe it if I hadn't seen it."
So they waited. Finally, a nurse came to tell them that Donavan was able to
receive visitors. John left the nurse with instructions to come get him from
Sally's room if anything changed with Sherlock, and they headed off together.
"Sally," Lestrade said, smiling softly. "How do you feel?"
She smiled. "Loads better after they got me hooked up. How's Sherlock?"
John shifted and shook his head. "Not really sure yet, they're putting his arm
back together right now. They've already done what they could for his other
hand, and the ankle, and the stitches he needed. But they're worried about his
mouth, so he's in a drug induced coma for now."
Sally nodded. "I couldn't believe what he did to him, John. I just…my God. How
can someone do that to someone? I mean, he made him say things, and kept
holding me over him, threatening to cut me or shoot me, and swearing that he'd
let me go if he did what he asked, but he never meant to do it."
John sighed. "He had planned to kidnap me with Sherlock," John said softly. But
I was away at the damn conference, so he went for nearest person. I'm sorry, if
I'd been there…"
"Nothing would have changed, John. It would have been me looking for you
instead of the other way 'round," she said. "I just…I never understood before.
I just thought…I assumed…he had no feelings for the victims. But I saw
differently. I don't know…but he loves you, John. I don't know that he
understands it, but he loves you."
John nodded. "Yeah, I know."
"No, John, I think he loves you," she said, cutting her eyes at him. "I mean, I
know we're always joking about you two shagging, but no…there's more to it. I
know he was drugged. But there was something there…"
John swallowed hard and blinked. "Oh…" he said softly, and then wandered down
to find the coffee again.
He stood before the coffee stand staring at the white Styrofoam cup with the
swirling black liquid inside it. What did this mean, really? John had felt so
lost while they were looking for Sherlock, like he could hardly breathe until
he knew that he was alive. And now he was alive, and here, and safe. But what
if he wasn't the same? The same stroppy, brilliant, sarcastic bastard that
somehow manages to make the smallest smile mean so much more than anyone else.
He scrubbed his hands across his face for the millionth time.
"Mr. Watson?" a voice said.
"Doctor," John corrected, turning to face a nurse.
"Oh, sorry, Dr. Watson, the doctor would like to speak with you. You're the one
who will be taking care of him after discharge?" she said with the soft
clinical manner.
"I will," he said, following the nurse into Sherlock's room where a tall doctor
with blond hair stood looking over the chart. Again, John felt his stomach
flip. Once they'd gotten him into the light, it looked so much worse than they
thought inside the dim building. His face was covered with bruises, his lip had
needed stitches. But what of the rest? He was laying on his right side, his
hand with the burn secured with a restraint above his head.
"Dr. Watson, I presume?" he said, looking up.
"That's me, so, what do I need to know?" he asked quietly, realizing his voice
was strained.
The doctor nodded. "Considering you're a doctor, surgeon I was told?" John
nodded. "Well, you know how some of this works post surgery. His arm was
shattered, I'm not really sure how it got broken that way…"
"The guy laid his arm across a chair arm and forced down the hand and wrist
until it snapped through the skin," he said distantly, running a hand over the
hard cast. He didn't miss the flinch from the doctor.
"Ah, yes, and the ankle is broken, but it was easy enough to cast and should
heal normally. His right hand has a second to third degree burn over the
palm…almost…" he started.
"Hot plate. He held his hand on a hot plate while the element was red."
He noticed the twitch in the doctor's jaw at the admission. "Yes, well, it may
require a skin graft. I'm not sure yet. I'm most worried about the injuries to
his mouth and tongue. I hate to ask, but do you know how that happened? I was
told, of course, that the situation was kidnapping and torture, but not the
details. I am having trouble understanding the injuries to his mouth."
John nodded. "He heated a spatula on the hot plate and forced it into his mouth
and held it closed, I'm assuming long enough for the metal to cool."
The doctor just blinked. "That explains the cuts on the inside of his cheeks
and the severe burn to the tongue and the roof of the mouth. He was lucky, the
swelling from that alone could have killed him within the next twenty four
hours. Either that or the massive amounts of opiates we found in his
bloodstream. I was told he used to be an addict? You may have trouble over the
next two weeks."
John nodded. "I think the drugs will be the least of the problem. How severe
was the rest of the trauma from the sexual assaults?"
The doctor swallowed. "Stitching, quite a bit. You said assaults?"
"I think at least three times, though the first was by far the most violent
from what we could tell," John said, and caught he look on the doctor's face.
"The perpetrator sent videos of the torture to us."
The doctor nodded. "Wow, that's…I'm sorry. Just the injuries alone are bad…"
"He was a serial. Sherlock was the only one we saved. Three others died before
this. But he won't hurt anyone again. Not ever," John said with a deep sigh,
sweeping hands over the dark curls again. "For once I can't get onto him for
putting himself in danger, it came for him. And I couldn't stop it this time."
The next week passed quietly, the sound of the machines was only briefly
punctuated by the snores and soft sounds of John shuffling around the room. Of
course, he'd been given a private room with a pull out couch. Mycroft had been
by, but nothing had changed. The swelling had gone down, but infection was
starting to set in, so he was on high doses of antibiotics as well. At the end
of the first week, he was taken off the breathing tube finally, doctors having
decided that he was okay to breathe on his own. The swelling had gone down
enough that Sherlock's mouth was able to stay closed, which was a huge
improvement.
Over that time, John came to a lot of realizations. He was a perfectly rational
man. He was a doctor, and an army man, and he could be logical, though nowhere
near as logical as Sherlock. He thought back to the fact that Sherlock
corrected everyone if they were wrong about something. But the one thing
Sherlock never corrected was when people assumed they were a couple. Not one
time. And Sherlock corrected everyone all the time. Even if they got the
slightest detail right. Right down to correcting them about him being a
sociopath and not a psychopath. But not when people thought they were together.
He sighed. What exactly did that mean?
He thought of the things that Sherlock did for him that he did for no one else.
He would apologize. He would think of him. He'd ask him if he'd done something
"a bit not good" even. And he'd correct himself. He got grumpy and yelled and
insulted, but he never seemed to insult John to the level he did so with
others. No, there was something different about the way he acted with John.
"Hey, John," came Lestrade's voice from the doorway. John looked up with weary
eyes.
"Oh, Greg. On your way home?" he asked.
"Yeah, Sally came back today. She's helping sort out things for the other three
boys on this case. We…didn't think it would be fair to have Sherlock do
anything with it, but Sally thought she should do something. Questions came up,
but they were dealt with," Lestrade said, looking uncomfortable in the doorway.
"Come, sit down if you have time," John said, glancing at the comatose man
beside him.
Lestrade nodded and came to sit beside him in a small chair. "Anything yet?"
John shook his head. "They took the tube out today, and so far he's doing fine
on a mask. They're weaning him off the sedation, but they don't expect him to
wake for another day or so. And then, we don't know exactly what shape his mind
will be in."
"Do they think the drugs will leave any lasting effect?" he asked.
"They think that he should be detoxed of them and past withdrawal by the time
he wakes up this time. But we'll have to watch him," he said with a sigh. "The
emotional trauma…we don't know. He could wake up and be perfectly fine, and all
Sherlock like, or he could be catatonic. Or somewhere in between," John ran a
hand through the dark curls as he spoke.
Lestrade nodded. "You know, when he told Sally you saved him, he wasn't
kidding. Before you came along…it wasn't pretty, to be honest, John. He changed
after you came into his life. He changed a lot in a lot of good ways."
John nodded. "So they really hedge bets on whether we shag in our spare time,
huh?"
Lestrade snickered. "Oh yes, there's a pool."
"You've got to be kidding me…" John said, turning eyes on him with a glint to
them that had been missing the last two weeks.
"Oh yes, indeed. Everything from secret lovers to shagging in the Yard cloak
closest on cases."
"They know I'm not…you know…like that?" he asked, arching a brow at him.
Lestrade smiled gently. "Yeah, and Sherlock doesn't have feelings, mate. He's
beautiful, you may as well admit it if your smitten with the bloke. Get it over
with."
With that, Lestrade stood with a cracking pop to his back and stood and walked
away, leaving John more confused than ever. It wasn't like the thought of being
gay bothered him, he was completely fine with Harry and listened at length. And
he'd never looked at another man with any sort of attraction whatsoever. But,
then, as he looked at the lax face and bouncy dark curls of hair that were far
more limp than they should be, he wondered. Was it possible to love someone
without considering their transport? He smiled at the thought. Sherlock would
be so upset at his transport. But then, it was a lovely transport, if John
admitted it to himself.
He fell asleep slumped in the chair, head cradled in his arms as he leaned onto
Sherlock's bedside. It was strange, but he felt a crawling sensation on his
head. He blinked blearily and realized someone was touching his head. He sat
bolt upright, realizing that it was Sherlock's fingertips running in his hair.
He looked up and aside from the slight finger movements; there was no other
indication of consciousness.
"Sherlock?" he called out. Eyes fluttered under the lids. "Sherlock, it's John,
can you wake up for me?" he asked, voice cracking toward the end.
Green-gray eyes fluttered open and were completely unfocused, but open. John
smiled, standing and looking down into his face. "Sherlock, hey," he said
softly.
"J-John?" he croaked hoarsely. John pulled the nurse call and demanded some ice
chips and a cup of water immediately.
Before long he was spooning ice chips into his mouth, a few at a time, both his
arms strapped down, wrapped in bandages still. His eyes were still hazy and
there was a feeding tube running down his nose behind the oxygen mask. He
settled the nasal tube on, and put the mask aside, keeping an eye on the oxygen
stats as he did so as he had waited on the nurse to come back.
"There, does that feel better?" John asked, sitting.
"Hurts…tong…" he said, and he could tell he was moving his tongue around
awkwardly.
"You remember what happened, Sherlock?" he asked gently, and when the pained
expression passed over his normally impassive face he knew he clearly
remembered. John then groaned inwardly. He had photographic memory. He would
remember every single painful detail with vivid clarity. Part of him
desperately hoped that he would have forgotten, that the trauma would have
triggered a bout of amnesia. But we were talking about Sherlock.
"Sally?" he ask, his eyes drooping already.
"She's fine, Sherlock. You did a good job. She was in and out of here in no
time. Dehydrated, starving, but other than that, she was fine. She's already
back at work. You've been here a week now. They were afraid of your breathing
because of what he did to your mouth. They had to tube you and put you in a
coma," John explained, knowing that he would find these details essential.
He let out a sigh. "Didn't mess that up, guess," he muttered before he fell
into a fitful sleep.
John's heart nearly broke at the words. He remembered the things he'd told
Sally, about messing things up all the time. And he wondered how often someone
had told him things were his fault that were out of his control. He sighed.
Later that day, Donavan and Anderson turned up, surprisingly. She had brought a
bouquet of wildflowers and sat them on the table, startling John awake from a
light doze.
"Oi!" he exclaimed, sitting up, startling both the newcomers. "Oh, sorry,
startled me."
Sally looked nervous, and Anderson stayed toward the doorway. "Yah, just wanted
to see how he was, Lestrade said you texted to say he woke up a little this
morning."
"Yeah, let's see if we can't get a repeat performance, he was asking after
you."
Despite what she'd endured by the consulting detective's side, she felt her
stomach clench at the thought he was still worried about what happened to her.
John leaned over and gently shook Sherlock's shoulder.
"Sherlock?" he queried close to his ear. "Wake up, Sally and Mike came to see
you, should at least say hi, okay Sherlock?"
His eyes immediately began to flutter at John's voice and then blearily blinked
open. He looked around and saw John above him.
"J-john…go home…sleep, m'fine," he said, his voice still rough.
"Nope, come on, I have more ice chips for your throat," he said, carefully
shoveling a few into his mouth.
"Hey, Sherlock," Sally said from the side of the bed, bringing his eyes to
focus hazily on her.
"Sal-ly…" he said, giving her a soft grin. "John said yer better. Good."
She swallowed, looking back at Anderson. "Sherlock, I…can you tell me why?"
Sherlock looked completely confused. "Why?" he asked finally after a long
moment.
"Look, after all the crap we," she indicated her and Anderson, "have put you
through, the insults, put downs, everything…I mean I've practically called you
a murderer in training and worse…and you did everything you could to protect me
from getting hurt. Surely there was some reason behind it that I'm missing,
Sherlock. I just…I don't understand. There had to be some deduction or thing
you figured out to make you act that way."
Sherlock still looked confused. "Why…" he said quietly, looking away. His voice
still had a muzzy and fuzzy edge to it from the pain killers and the sedation
that was wearing off completely now. "I…it's all I have." He said at length.
"Selfish, to keep people safe, for me," he said quietly. "Nothing I could have
done was gonna save us. He was going to kill us both, figured that the first
day. It didn't matter, in the end, except to…to prolong it. Wh-when he broke my
arm, I knew I w-would die from it, and…I thought at least you'd die fast…a
bullet was better than dehydration, it wouldn't have been long. Didn't want you
to go through that…but I couldn't let him kill you…I didn't…didn't wanna see
it…I…" His eyes were starting to flutter again.
"Sherlock?" John asked. "You okay?"
He swallowed. "Ice?" he asked. John picked up the cup and fed him more ice
chips as the other two occupants just stared at each other.
Sherlock laid there for a while. "Thanks, John," he said with a sigh and
everyone couldn't believe their ears. Sherlock. Thanking. "Thanks for it all…"
***** John *****
Chapter by phoenixreal
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Consciousness was seemingly elusive to Sherlock. It was coming in snatches and
bits and pieces, but he couldn't hold onto it. Now, instead of having his mind
palace blocked from him, he was trapped inside it, trapped with the memories
that he couldn't file away and delete. To put it mildly, it was frustration
incarnate. He was going to go out of his mind if he didn't come to
consciousness soon. Logically, he knew what the problem was. He was in a drug
induced coma. Of course he was, because if he were still with that…man…he
wouldn't be unconscious for this long. The break in his arm proved that. No,
despite unconsciousness, Sherlock felt the passage of time. Of course he would.
No one else did, but he felt it. And it was more than anything frankly
frightening. Part of him wanted to question if the state was permanent. But he
tried to reason out of that. The swelling he'd felt in his mouth was enough to
keep him from being awake. Still, there was a fear that he'd never wake up and
he'd never see his John again.
Of course, the first things he heard were John's words. He couldn't tell if
they were real or memories, though. Then, he woke to see John's face and he
felt the world crashing down for several reasons. John knew. How could he be
sitting here knowing what had happened to him in that room? How could he ever
look at him again without disgust? Sherlock felt the constriction when he asked
if he remembered what happened. Oh he wanted to go back to sleep, slip away
into the inner world so he didn't have to think. But that was a fallacy because
Sherlock Holms never went without thinking. So it was inner turmoil once more.
Sally Donavan and Mike Anderson visiting was a surprise all on its own, but
John waking him in his still drugged up state to have them ask him the dumbest
questions was more of a surprise. Didn't John know these things already? He
talked, but after he did he didn't remember much. Whatever they were giving him
for pain was quite good at blurring his head right now. Everything while he was
with him was clear as a bell, but since his eyes opened here, things were
fuzzy. He knew they wouldn't be narcotics, so he imagined it was Stadol or
something similar. He'd honestly had enough opiates to last a lifetime
officially.
So it was that the first thing that made John realize that Sherlock was
decidedly not alright was the fact he didn't ask to go home. In fact, he barely
spoke unless spoken to. He didn't berate the nurses, he didn't deduce anyone
into annoyance so they'd let him leave, and when Mycroft came he ignored him
(which was normal). He lay there, looking far too small for a man of his size,
as the nurses fretted over him, and then John slowly noticed the beginnings of
what he'd feared. It was somewhat refreshing to know that Sherlock was just as
human as the rest of the world, but it made him ache to see the signs of PTSD
starting to show on his friend. John dealt with it, but Sherlock, he shouldn't
be dealing with PTSD, and most certainly should not be dealing specifically
with rape trauma syndrome (RTS). No, he should not at all be dealing with these
things.
"He will be going home this week," the psychiatrist, a very nice woman named
Dr. Naomi Sellers, said to John as they stood outside the room. "I understand
you suffer from PTSD from your time in Afghanistan. So you are aware of a lot
of what may happen over the next few weeks. He's still acute, so be prepared.
He appears to be in a controlled state, but I'm going to give you some anti-
anxiety medication in case he has begins to suffer flashbacks or the other
anxiety based symptoms. One thing I should warn you about, men who have
suffered this kind of assault typically become aggressive. So be prepared. I've
included some sedatives in his medications, of course; only use them if you
need to because of his past chemical dependence. I understand that he is highly
intelligent?"
John snorted. "That's an understatement. I'm surprised that he isn't making the
nursing staff's life miserable right now by telling them all how their life is
and whose partner is cheating on them."
"This will be harder on him, in that case, Dr. Watson. My patients with the
most difficulty adjusting are those with higher intelligences. They tend to
overanalyze things. And considering his past history of self-harm, you need to
be hyperaware of what he does. You do realize he had recent evidence of
cutting?" she asked.
"I knew about his past, with his arms, but I believe when I discovered it, he
moved location. I should have noticed it sooner, but he is quite good at
deception. The current case involved young boys being raped, and I think it
triggered his past history of sexual assault at a similar age. In the end, he
was kidnapped by the same person he was tracking…" John scrubbed his hands over
his face.
Dr. Sellers nodded. "Were you aware of his past experience?"
John shook his head. "He'd locked it away, and the only sign was he has been
completely asexual in the time I've known him. He's used his appearance to get
information from both men and women, but he's never indicated actual interest."
"Was he ever put into therapy after the childhood trauma?" she asked, looking
at her notes.
"No, he refused, and as an adult he's never felt the need."
She nodded. "Expect changes. He may continue to pull away from sexual contact,
or he may change completely and seek it to the point of having dangerous
relations with others. Sexual orientation confusion is especially common with
male assault victims."
John nodded, knowing that the next few weeks would be extremely hard, on both
of them. But the idea of Sherlock of all people, going out and seeking sex from
strangers was so foreign that he couldn't really even quantify the idea. He bit
the doctor farewell and went back in where Sherlock was, surprisingly, awake.
He wasn't under sedation or enough drugs to make him that sleepy, but he was
sleeping at least eighteen hours of the day. For a man that practically never
slept, that was also a telling symptom. But by far scariest was the fact that
he hadn't deduced anything, even for John.
"Hey, Sherlock, how are you feeling?" he asked with a completely fake smile
that should not have fooled Sherlock for a moment.
He shrugged, picking at the cast on his arm gingerly with the bandaged hand on
his other arm. John sighed. "They say you can go home day after tomorrow. Mrs.
Hudson will be glad to see you home instead of having to come by here."
He nodded, absently, laying back and closing his eyes again. "So, when we get
home, how long before you get bored?" John asked, hoping for anything at all.
Again, he got a shrug. "M'tired, John. Talk later," he said to him and John
sighed, nodding.
"Okay, Sherlock, you sleep. You'll get better sooner. While you sleep I'll go
get a coffee in the cafeteria. I'll be back though."
Nothing, so John got up and left to go to the cafeteria. On the way, he ran
into Lestrade. "Hey, Greg, was going down for coffee, he's sleeping again, so
you want to come with me?" John asked hopefully. He really needed to interact
with another human being.
They sat in silence for a while. "So, how's he doing?" Greg finally asked.
"I don't know, Greg. He's distant, doesn't talk, hell he hasn't deduced
anything since he came out of the coma. Something's going on, and he's escaping
from it. He obviously doesn't want to deal with anything, but he's going to
have to," John said, staring at the wannabe cappuccino.
Greg nodded, staring at his own black coffee. "Anything we can do?"
"I don't know, but I'm scared that the man we knew was left in that warehouse.
I've seen it happen, not exactly the same I know, but so many came back from
the Middle East and never recovered some part of themselves. I don't want to
see that happen to Sherlock. He's too…too…important to me," John said with a
heavy sigh.
"I know, but have you told him that?" Greg asked slowly.
"Would it matter right now? I mean, I don't want him to think I expect anything
from him, you know, not after this, he might not ever recover from it…to even
have a relationship with another person," John said, looking around at the
bustling of the people around him.
"I think it matters. Especially since you don't expect anything from him. You
need to prove to him that what that bastard did wasn't right, what he said
wasn't true. You heard how he degraded him…John, he's not immune to the things
he did. In fact, he may be more affected because of how smart he is. I mean,
damn, John, can you imagine…" Lestrade's eyes looked far away for a minute
before he came back. "I can't. I mean, to be put in that position. It's beyond
anything I can comprehend."
John nodded. "I know. It…it insults everything he is at the core. Add to that
the fact that no one, not even Sherlock, could predict his behavior. You saw
the shock in his face every time he flipped and did something different. That
was enough."
"Remember, he's dealing with the childhood trauma too, something he never did,"
Lestrade said with a sigh. "He's not dealing with this, but he might have some
problems distinguishing his own father and this guy because he tried to imitate
a father figure."
John nodded. "God, I don't know how I'm going to deal with this. I have a
vacation I took for the next two weeks. I just hope he gets through the first
part of this by then…"
"If not, my brother does have a trust fund I can assign to you for the time
being," came Mycroft's voice entirely too close.
"Shit, Mycroft!" John exclaimed. "Warn a bloke!"
"Sorry, you were just into your conversation and I did not wish to interrupt.
The offer is genuine. I know my brother will be…difficult. But I do not wish
for you to get behind in your bills. The best place for him to recover is with
you in Baker Street, though part of me wishes he would let me help," Mycroft
said, fiddling with his umbrella handle and looking decidedly away.
John nodded. "Maybe he will, Mycroft. Just give him some time. You saw what
he's been through."
"That's what has me worried, John. Just…take care of him."
Before John blinked, it seemed he was signing the paperwork to check Sherlock
out and take him home. He didn't even complain about the wheelchair, which was
a good thing, because with his ankle still in plaster and his only good hand
being one with a broken forearm, he wasn't capable of much movement on his own.
The black cab deposited them outside Baker St and John asked him to wait a
moment so he could get Sherlock situated and come back for the chair and
crutches he would be able to use eventually.
Getting up the stairs to the couch was interesting, but they managed. John
expected at least one insult along the way, instead he got nothing, only
silence. And that was perhaps so much worse. He went down and got the chair and
bags from the cabbie, paying him and sending him on his way. He gave a knock to
Ms. Hudson's door and then raced up the stairs to make sure Sherlock was okay.
He sat staring out the window as snow began to fall outside. Typical London
winter, John thought.
"All set, Sherlock. Need anything?" John asked softly.
Sherlock's eyes were still locked on the window as he shook his head. "Right,
then, I'll get myself a cuppa, certainly need it after all that awful coffee at
the hospital."
A few minutes later, Ms. Hudson came up and fussed over Sherlock, which he
allowed, but didn't respond to in the least. A nod here, a shake there, but
nothing else. John brought him a mug of tea, which he stared at for a long time
before he accepted it. John was well aware that giving Sherlock a cup that
looked anything like those he'd been forced to drink out of for that man would
end in disaster, so he'd opted for a mug with the London Underground on it.
Ms. Hudson grabbed John's arm as she left. "He's not alright, is he?"
John swallowed and shook his head. "Not at all." She merely nodded and left.
And so John was left with a strangely silent Sherlock, and after another couple
days, the doctor was at his wit's end. He asked Ms. Hudson to come sit with him
for a while so he could run to the pub. She was agreeable and he did just that.
Until a text came through on his phone during his second beer.
Alone so soon. Do you think that's safe, Jawn? –JM
John paid the tab and headed back immediately, grumbling in anger at Moriarty
and his mind games. He went upstairs to find things just as he left them,
Sherlock plucking absently on his violin staring into space and Ms. Hudson
having tea at the living room. He swallowed and smiled them as he went up to
his room for a bit.
Message from M when I stepped out for a bit. He's watching the flat.-JW he shot
off in text message to Mycroft. He hated to do it but he wanted all the help he
could get. If something happened to Sherlock now, before he'd even begun to
heal, the damage would possibly be permanent.
Understood. – MH came the quick reply.
John headed down and let Ms. Hudson head back to her own flat. He then had
enough and went to sit across from Sherlock.
"Okay, this may be wrong, but I've had it," John said, crossing his arms and
staring at the detective as strongly as he dared.
Sherlock turned his head and a frown creased his brow briefly.
"Okay, this is exactly it. This is more than a bit not good, Sherlock. You are
Sherlock Holms and you most certainly do not refrain from insulting the idiocy
you are surrounded with on a daily basis, because face it, everyone is an idiot
compared to you. I've thought up loads of insults in my head for the gits at
hospital and you've ignored them. And I'm really missing my Sherlock," John
said the last with a sigh, hoping beyond hope he wasn't overstepping his
bounds.
He got a look, a real look, from Sherlock at that. Well, that was something, a
reaction, at least. "Now, you've been sleeping a lot but not dreaming that I've
seen. You sit and stare at the window all day, and you haven't looked at the
files Lestrade brought by. I don't like this. You are still you, Sherlock.
Every bit of you, even if you don't know it right now. And I want you back, I
can't help it, because I'm being fucking selfish about it. I miss you."
Sherlock honestly didn't understand. For once in his life, Sherlock was
confused so badly that he didn't know what to say. He was at an utter and
complete loss for words. And he felt on the edge of crying. And that, he most
definitely didn't do. Not since he was a child. Not since that night. That
night, seared into his memory forever. And he couldn't delete it, instead he'd
filed it away in the deepest recesses of his mind palace and never went there
again but no it was there, right in front of him, the face of that…man…blending
and mixing with his father's face.
"I'm sorry, John," he said finally. "I…I'm lost."
John blinked in surprise then went to sit beside him, not daring to touch him.
He'd become very haptaphobic in the hospital toward the end, only allowing the
female nurses anywhere near touching him. The few times a male nurse had come
in, John had to gently tell him that he needed to send in a female. The
reaction wasn't startling, mostly because John was there, but the signs of a
panic attack would begin the second a man touched his skin.
"Then, Sherlock, let me help you. I want to help you. Will you let me?" John
asked, softly now.
Sherlock swallowed and looked upward, and John caught the glistening of tears
in his lovely silvery eyes. "It was too much. The drugs…they messed with me so
much, John, I couldn't think and I knew beyond a doubt…if I could think I could
get us out. I…I couldn't even predict what he was going to do…"
"Sherlock, even you, without the drugs, couldn't have predicted him. He was
completely insane," John assured.
Sherlock nodded, staring at the violin in his lap. "But…but if anyone could
have, it was me…but then he…he made those demands. And wanted to know about the
Incident. And that was too much, I had the Incident filed away, and he opened
it up and I couldn't see him, I saw someone else…"
"The Incident?" asked John. "When your father hurt you. Why don't you tell me
what happened then? Maybe it will help."
Sherlock nodded, and looked at John. "I didn't tell him. I couldn't, not
really, and it made him angry. I think…I think he enjoyed hearing what the
other victim's fathers had done, that was part of the game, I think, and he was
angry I didn't play that part…" Sherlock's voice was low as he plucked strings
as he spoke.
"Then, tell me, and then you'll have given up the thing he wanted to me
instead," John said, hand reaching out, wondering if he could touch him.
Sherlock reached out without looking and took John's hand in his own, relishing
the warmth from the contact. His arm still ached, but the light plaster was
above his wrist now. "You…you won't think…differently? Of me?" he asked, and
John's heart nearly broke at the positively broken sound in his voice that
didn't belong in this man's voice, ever.
"Sherlock, no, never."
He nodded. "I remember he hit Mycroft once, and Mummy was so angry and it was
just after that he went off to school. He was like me, at Uni early. But then,
he would get mad at me more when Mycroft was gone. I used to hide a lot. And
even then, I couldn't keep my mouth shut. And that night, I was ten, and he'd
been drinking bourbon in the study. I didn't know what was wrong, but there was
something…"
The smell of rain was heavy as the young Sherlock fiddled with a petri dish in
his room. He smiled, seeing that the experiment was going well. He heard
footsteps and hid it in his closet quickly. He didn't need his father to catch
him again. Mummy was gone to the city with Mycroft for the weekend. Sherlock
hadn't gone, claiming it was dreadfully boring to be cooped up in a dorm room
with his brother and his stuffy friends. But really, he was staying to complete
the experiment he'd been working on. By Sunday morning, it would be finished
and if he didn't record the results, he'd have to repeat the whole thing. It
was hard enough to do the first time without being caught, he didn't want to
take the chance again.
"Sherlock?" came the alcohol roughened voice of his father. He ran out and
looked in the hall to see him clutching a bottle of expensive bourbon.
"Yes, Father?" he said, trying to be polite. His father got violent when he was
drinking.
"Comere," he slurred and went toward the study. Sherlock didn't want to do it
because he knew he was going to regret it, but his tone left no room for him to
disobey.
He entered the study where his father had sat at the desk, feet up on top of
it, drinking straight from the bottle of bourbon.
"What do you need, Father?" Sherlock asked, his stomach tight. He hated dealing
with drunks more than anything else. Unpredictable. That was why he hated it.
His father wasn't the easiest to read at the best of times, and when drunk, his
masks and shields were gone completely. Sherlock was fascinated by the way
alcohol often revealed hidden desires and wants.
"Comere, boy," he said roughly, dropping feet down, and slamming the bottle
onto the table.
Sherlock swallowed and went over toward him. He stared for a long time before
he reached out and ran a hand tenderly through his hair. A chill shot through
the boy's spine. A sign of affection? From his father? Maybe this wasn't a bad
thing. He was a child, and approval and love from his father would be welcome.
"Ya know, boy, I love ya, and yer brother. Never say it, but I do," and
Sherlock smiled at him. He really did, because hearing those words was a
miracle.
Then, of course, the moment was broken when the hand on his head gripped
tightly and yanked him harshly forward until he stumbled into his father's lap.
He gasped as he was sat on his lap, eyes wide. He'd never sat on his father's
lap, and it felt strange to do so now.
"F-father?" he asked, and there was another harsh tug to his hair that he
responded with a yelp. "F-father, that hurts!"
"Oh, does it?" he asked, yanking harder, this time bringing tears to the boy's
eyes.
"Stop, please, Father," he begged but then he was shoved off the lap he was
sitting on to land in a heap on the floor.
He caught his breath, mostly shocked until he felt his father's foot connect
with his side. He screamed then, feeling the bone crunch under the power of the
kick. He didn't understand what he'd done, what had brought this on. He turned
to his back, receiving another kick for his effort as his father fell to the
floor, kneeling over him now, and struck out hard, and he felt fire blossom in
his face and figured his orbital was definitely hurt somehow.
He was so absorbed in his own pain that he didn't hear the study door open and
the gasped surprise from one of the maids as she quickly shut the door and ran
off to call the Mistress of the house. She knew better than to interfere, but
she couldn't allow a child to be hurt. So she dialed frantically and detailed
what was happening.
Before he knew what was happening, he was lifted up under his shoulders and
slammed down onto the desk, his ribs screaming, or was that him screaming? He
didn't know what he was saying, but he felt hot breath on his neck and in his
ear.
"Yer always teasin' yer dad, ya know," he said. "Pretty little boy, shoulda
beena girl, ya know. So let's see if ya make a good lil slut like I think ya
will," he growled, bourbon soaked breath nearly choking the boy so much that
the fact he was missing half his clothes failed to dawn on him.
Sherlock was stunned into silence as he was pressed hard into the desk by the
weight on his back. His ribs were throbbing, and his feet were well off the
floor. He stared at the desk, there was paperwork, some sort of lawsuit with
his father as the defendant. He supposed that explained the drinking… His
thoughts slammed to a close when he felt something against his backside. His
eyes went wide and he started to struggle, only to have his head yanked up by
the hair and slammed into the desk with dizzying effect, blood blossoming from
his nose and stars flittering across his vision.
If his scream before had been loud, the one that followed was deafening to his
own ears. He felt the thick run of blood and he was crying then, both pain and
fear and everything else, as his father clamped one hand over his mouth
tightly, nearly cutting off his airflow. Soon he was dizzy from the small
amount of oxygen, and his struggles had ceased. Finally, he was sliding
bonelessly off the desk to the floor, his father backing up. He heard voices
around him, but he didn't recognize them. Was someone saying his name? He
wasn't sure.
"Sherlock!" came Mummy's voice. He looked up through teary eyes and promptly
passed out. Blood loss, he thought as he slid from the world. Blood loss and a
concussion maybe.
Sherlock was staring at his bandaged hand when he finished. He'd never told
anyone what had happened that night, not even his mummy or Mycroft. He looked
over to see John's face, thinking how disgusted he had to be.
"Thank you," John said, squeezing his hand, and when Sherlock's face turned
confused. "Thank you for sharing that with me, I know you've never told anyone
about that night, and I'm glad you trust me enough."
Sherlock was fighting with himself. His logical mind was screaming at him to
quit acting like this, that of course John wouldn't change his opinion just
because he was raped at ten years of age by his own father. But the other part,
a buried part, was screaming about how horribly dirty he'd been made, and then
again recently it returned.
"You…you don't…think…I'm…" he started, unable to say the words he needed to
say. "You're not disgusted by me?"
John's face twisted in disbelief and hapnophobia or not, he yanked his friend
into his arms to hug him tightly. There was a brief moment of stiffness that
melted away.
"Sherlock, you mean more to me than you'll ever know, and nothing changes that.
I want to help you get through this. I love you, you bloody git," John figured
why not go the whole route.
He felt his arms come around him, and Sherlock buried his face in his shoulder,
and then something amazing happened. Amazing to John Watson, anyway. He felt
his shirt growing wet. He was startled for a second when he realized Sherlock
was crying. Quietly, but crying nonetheless. He pulled him into a tighter
embrace and ran hands over his too thin back in soothing circles. He whispered
nonsense to him, as those long fingered hands gripped him desperately.
"I…I never knew…what I did…wrong," he gasped out at one point. "Not then…not
now…"
"Sherlock, you were a child then, he had no right, no matter what you did or
didn't do, and this Dalton bastard, he never had any right or reason to do what
he did. I saw, and you did what you could do to stop him from hurting Sally.
Please, Sherlock, remember that, she's alive because of you. You sacrificed
your own pride for her safety. She knows it, I know it, we all know it,
Sherlock," he said gently, one hand running over those dark curls.
They sat like that long after dark, John murmuring assurances to a consulting
detective who cried like a ten year old child in his arms. Because that was one
of the problems. That ten year old boy had never cried on someone, had never
let out the pain and frustration that came with being hurt so terribly by
someone who he should have been able to trust. It was after midnight when John
noticed that Sherlock had fallen into a deep sleep against him. He sighed and
wondered if he could manage to get him into a bed. Well, perhaps. Perhaps not.
But he definitely wasn't going to like sleeping like this all night…
So, John twisted up his courage and managed to pick the taller man up into a
bridal carry, which absolutely amazed him, but reminded him keenly how thin he
was for his frame. He dropped him into the bed, but he barely moved at the
motion. He tucked him into the bed but before he could move away, a hand was
gripping his wrist tightly. He looked down into hazy eyes.
"Can you stay with me?" he asked softly and John nodded.
"Of course, Sherlock."
He settled in beside him, and found himself suddenly wrapped with four long
limbs, slightly surprising him. A murmured thanks as the half asleep detective
returned to his own oblivion. John got comfortable, off his bad shoulder, and
pulled the lanky, too skinny man closer to him. Was this a good thing? Or a
bad? John wasn't sure. He'd told him what was perhaps his darkest secret, one
that his family desperately had tried to erase like it was some sort of
accident. And again John was brought to the wonder of how a family could do
that. Take a child who had been hurt so badly and then ignore the entire event
because it would be bad press. It made him slightly sick to his stomach to
think about it.
One thing stuck out, though, that he wondered if it would come up again. His
father had told him he should have been a girl, and Dalton had proceeded to
dress and treat him like one. Sherlock had never had issues with his own
gender…or had he? John was confused now. Was asexuality simply a way to avoid
his own internal struggle? John knew him well enough to know that was likely.
And now, he was face to face, once again with the pain and unknowing, and
everything was mixed up.
Eventually he fell asleep thinking about these things. The thrashing beside him
woke him, however, and a glance at the clock said it was almost five in the
morning. Sherlock had rolled to the other side, and was fighting invisible
attackers, it was obvious, muttering in his sleep for them to stop. John
recognized the nightmares too well. He put a hand on his shoulder and whispered
to him that it was alright, that he was here, that no one was going to hurt him
while John was beside him. It seemed to calm him, and he rolled and put John
into a crushing embrace, as though afraid he would escape and leave him.
"Mm, Don leave me, John," he muttered.
"I'll never leave, Sherlock, even if you tell me to leave," he whispered to the
sleeping man.
It was after eleven when the sunlight finally brought John from his slumber.
And he had to pee. And Sherlock's long leg was wrapped over his body right on
top of his straining bladder. In fact, he was pretty sure that Sherlock had him
in a better body lock than any wrestler in the history of wrestling. One leg
over his midsection, hooked under his hip, the other wrapped around his leg,
one arm over his chest and the other under his head crooked and resting on his
shoulder. Good lord, this man had long limbs, he thought for the thousandth
time. Of course, this was the first time he had them wrapped around him like
this. But as wrapped as he was, he had to pee. Badly.
"Sherlock?" he said softly, reaching over to shake his shoulder. "Hey,
Sherlock, I really need to piss, but…"
Gray-green eyes fluttered open to stare at him in confusion. He blinked, his
eyes felt swollen and puffy, like he'd cried himself to sleep, and then he
remembered, that's exactly what he'd done, and he'd asked John to stay in bed
with him. He swallowed thickly and stared for a long moment.
"Um…" he started, and John smiled, leaning over to place a kiss on his
forehead. The detective flushed pink immediately at the kind gesture.
"Shh, Sherlock. Shh. I'd stay here like this all day, but I'm afraid I've gotta
piss."
Sherlock frowned and nodded, not really understanding what John was talking
about. "Okay…" he said, his mind blurry from sleep still.
"So…I need you to disentangle yourself, Sherlock," he said, a soft smile
gracing his lips.
Sherlock frowned then looked at the absolute tangled heap he'd managed to make
out of their limbs during the night. "Oh…" he muttered softly and began pulling
away, twinging at the stiffness in his muscles from the strange position he'd
put himself in with John. With John.
John got up and patted his plaster as he got up leaving Sherlock absolutely
confused. He'd been confused since he woke up in that basement, and he was sure
the feeling wasn't going away anytime soon.
John sighed as he washed his face quickly with a rag, and picked another and
wrung out warm water to clear Sherlock's face. He returned to find him exactly
as he'd left him, looking after him with a dazed look. John sat down and sighed
and began to wash his flatmate's face gently with the warm rag. He jerked at
first, but then seemed to be willing to let him wash away the crusted salty
tear tracks, and rub away the sleepy gunk from his eyes.
"There, now, is that better?" John asked, softly.
Sherlock nodded. "I…thank you, John. F-for last night, for this…for
not…leaving."
"Sherlock, why would I leave?" John asked, moving to sit beside him.
"After what you saw…what he did…I'm not anything anymore. I can't…I can't even
think straight. I can't even begin to put two thoughts together, and every time
I close my eyes he's there. And then I just think I'm going to explode but I
can't because…because…I don't know," he said, his eyes dropping. "And I never
don't know."
John swallowed, and then grabbed him and held him against him again, though he
didn't cry this time, he felt the tension evaporate. "Sherlock, please, listen
to what I'm going to say right this minute. I love you, you bloody idiot, and I
don't care if you can't ever deduce the color of my underpants for the rest of
your life. I don't care if you have to sleep wrapped around me for the rest of
my life if it helps you I'll do it. I don't care if you cry on me. I don't
care. I will be here, for it all. I'll stay while you insult me, while you
yell, whatever it takes. I sat there, watching you and I came to a lot of
conclusions. The biggest of which is my life would be much poorer without your
presence, and I'll take you by my side no matter your condition. I don't expect
anything, Sherlock. I just want to be here for you. Whatever you need, I want…I
want to be the one there for you."
Sherlock's brain had short circuited again (okay this was beginning to be a
bloody annoying habit, he told his brain). He couldn't say anything, he just
wrapped his bony hands around him and pressed his face into the hollow of his
neck and breathed in John and felt better. John, who had watched everything,
who knew everything, and hadn't run away. John, who had let him cry, which he
never did. John, who had already become his whole world, and now was beginning
to become even more central to it. John.
"P-please…John," he whispered finally. "D-don't say that if you don't mean it,
please, I've…never let anyone…ever…in…and…I might just give up…if you leave
after saying that…please…"
John just pulled him tighter. "Sherlock, I wouldn't say it if it wasn't true.
You mean everything to me. The worst thing ever was watching you be hurt and
not being able to stop it. I can't tell you how much I ached to reach out and
take you from him, but I couldn't bloody find him fast enough, Sherlock, and it
nearly killed me."
"I…I don't know what I can give you…John…" he said softly. "I can't…I'm not
like other people. I don't…know about these feelings…I've locked them away so
long…"
"Shh," John whispered, running soothing hands over his back, flinching a bit at
the ridged wounds from the crop near the small of his back still. "Look, I
know, I bloody well know, Sherlock, just…just let me be here. I can take it.
And I know a little about what's going to happen, I still have nightmares,
remember?"
Sherlock nodded slowly into the crook of his neck. "Okay," he said simply.
Time passed as he sat there in John's arms, but for once his mind was quiet. No
thoughts, only blissful silence filled the spaces. Finally he swallowed and sat
up.
"Maybe I could look at those files today," he said finally and John smiled wide
at him.
Chapter End Notes
     Thanks for reading! Comments, Kudos and recommendations recommended.
     I am American, so please forgive any Americanisms I have put in by
     mistake, please Britpick you you have any slang or things to be said
     typical for the characters.
     I have five more chapters planned, but I have to get all my others
     updated. This is on FF . net as well, but I cross post everything
     these days. Paranoid. :) Again, Thanks.
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