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The Prey	By : amandalee Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3756 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: The authors do not claim ownership to Sherlock or any of its characters, and we make no money from writing this.

Chapter List
- 16
- 17
- 18
A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who's posted a review since our last update. I hope you will continue to read and enjoy this story, gory though it is.

Chapter 17

John, having heard the cackling followed by a scream moments before, tensed and looked toward the location of the backyard.

"Sherlock?" He bolted up to his feet, gripping the crowbar until his knuckles were white.

The lack of a response was not encouraging at all. While John was aware of his friend's total disregard for social niceties, which sometimes included not answering when spoken to, he was fairly certain that Sherlock would never ignore him on purpose under circumstances such as these. Self-proclaimed sociopath though he was, he would know that John would never forgive him for such callous behaviour.

"Sherlock, I swear to God, if you're not answering just because you 'don't feel like it', I'm gonna…"

John moved as stealthily as he could along the outer wall of the shed, craning his neck (and wishing, not for the first time, that he were taller) in his attempts to see past the junk and foliage. Sweat was practically flowing down his spine, causing his skin to itch terribly and his clothes to stick to his body like a damp second skin.

Why had he chosen to wear the jacket over his T-shirt? It offered a degree of protection against the mosquitoes and gnats which populated the forest air, but it was also making him overheat profusely. And what had become of his supposed partner?!

"Sherlock…" he tried again, and this time his tongue very nearly glued itself to his palate, his entire mouth behaving as though his saliva glands had stopped working altogether.

John knew the possibility that Sherlock hadn't heard him was highly unlikely; the detective's hearing was as acute as his other senses, and he had proven many times over that he picked up stuff that weren't even intended for his ears. No. Something was wrong. John's gut had been trying to tell him that for some time.

His grip on the crowbar tightened further as he rounded a corner that would offer him better insight into the backyard. The doctor later supposed he had his army days to thank for his above-average reflexes, because the moment he stepped into view, a hatchet was swung at him and very likely would have severed his head from his neck had he not dodged before his conscious mind was made aware of the danger.

Even so, the dodge caused him to lose hold of the crowbar and it fell quite useless to the dirt. John barely gave the thing lumbering toward him much thought, save for the fact that it had been the same individual who had thrown the hatchet, and that it was coming right for him - and that from the brief sight of it, the creature was dreadfully ugly. John turned on his heel, nearly slipping, and ran for his life, his weapon forgotten.

Where the hell was Sherlock? John thought he had heard Sherlock cry out, but there had been no subsequent calls for help. Then again, since when did that insufferable man ever call for help? The lack of a voice from Sherlock - as well as his complete physical absence - indicated that he had likely been apprehended. Unless he was already dead.

No! John refused to think it. Instead he continued his run into the woods surrounding the cabin grounds. He could hear that... thing following him, deep, gravelly voice laughing like a child as it lumbered along. Careening into the undergrowth and feeling the scrape of shrubbery against his skin, John glanced back only briefly, worried he might stumble or collide with a tree or low hanging branch. Though large and bulky in stature, the freakish man was still fast. John could only hope that he might be able to outmaneuver his attacker - or even better, outsmart it. If so, the doctor would have to think fast and hope he could keep his bearings better than a criminal who had been living in these woods all its life.

Was the hatchet-wielding lunatic alone? Sherlock had mentioned three different sets of tracks when they examined the path earlier, one of which belonged to a giant. Was this the giant? John had not gotten a very thorough look at the assailant, being busy running for his life and all; only that the man was substantially larger than himself both in height and girth.

Crouched down behind a moss-covered boulder, John decided to hazard a glance in the direction of the childish laughter and was able to observe his attacker properly for the first time.

The man was tall but by no means a giant; perhaps six-four with a large build, although he also seemed to be lugging around on a few excess pounds. He wore a checkered shirt, which had probably once been red but was now more a ruddy brown, but at least it made him stand out amongst the many shades of forest green. The man's skull was lumpy and his face misaligned with a notable scar running across his left eye.

Wait… His left eye was gone. John was being chased by a one-eyed attacker. No doubt the mountain man knew these woods like the back of his own hand, but at least he had a limited field of vision and most likely also impaired depth perception, and these things might very well work in John's favour.

Something else that struck him as odd was the big man's jerky gait, his childlike laughter, and the candid look of joy on his face as he swung the axe around, seemingly on random, with what could only be described as great enthusiasm.

This mountain man was, John realized, most likely retarded.

John's hands felt desperately empty. He wished he had not dropped his weapon and hoped he could find something out here in the forest... but why would anyone, even these bastards, leave their weapons out in the woods? One of them was mentally deficient, but they could not all be so. Otherwise, how would they have functioned for this long without being discovered?

The brute was getting agitated now, frustrated that he could not find his quarry. He whined like a dog as he looked around and rushed forward as though he might flush out his prey through surprise, as if John were a bird. The doctor's hands blindly sought purchase on a large stone by his feet, hoping perhaps if he were to be found, he could use it to bludgeon his assailant. His heart nearly stopped when lifting the stone set loose several smaller pebbles, which audibly rolled away.

The oafish monster's head perked as he looked around, having clearly heard the small sound. He listened closer, hoping to hear more. John's heart had of course not stopped, though presently he wondered if his pursuer would now hear it pounding.

Then another noise arose, though it came from the yard from which both hunter and hunted had run. One of the other criminals was barking out some unintelligible command, and the large brute turned, whining once more. Hesitating for only a moment, he lumbered off toward the voice, obviously obeying the call to return home.

John let out a breath he hadn't released he was holding, and slowly he also released his spastic hold on the stone. The immediate danger seemed to be over for now, but the doctor was utterly lost as far as how to proceed from here. Without Sherlock he truly was lost, both literally and figuratively. The detective always took the initiative and made the decisions, John blindly following his experienced lead. He had virtually been doing the same in Afghanistan; taking orders from his superiors without question. It made him feel… secure, somehow. Forced to make his own decisions, John quickly felt his fate spiraling out of control.

Now Sherlock was gone, held captive by a bunch of inbred psychopaths. Unless… No, John did not want to go there. He could not bear to lose both Mary and Sherlock, on the same day no less. His friend had to be alive.

John's self-preservation instinct told him to get himself someplace safe, which in this case meant as far from the wretched cabin as possible. If he simply ran, in whatever direction, he was bound to get to a road sooner or later… wasn't that so? He was fairly sure he would not find his way back to Avalon without Sherlock to guide him.

John quenched a sob and pressed his hand against his mouth to muffle any further sounds. Why was this happening? Just a few hours ago this had just been a regular case, and now he was literally fighting for his life. His own life, and Sherlock's. Mary's had already been brutally taken from her.

He looked up at the trees, which seemed all the more taller and oppressive in the dimming light, and he deeply wished and he were home in London, that he had never left home in the first place. Perhaps in his native country, even a crime as gruesome as this could have been battled much more efficiently.

He heard an impious laugh back at the grounds and winced. Perhaps not even in all of Britain could they have faced something so awful. If Sherlock was still alive to count as the 'they' in question.

The notion steeled John's resolve once more. Sherlock would not be dead, and he would not die, not if his friend and assistant had any say in it. John had been a pig and a lout for long enough, and he would make things right. He would save Sherlock and go through each and every one of these monsters if required.

John glanced down at the stone still in his hand and dropped it to the dirt. If he was about to set things right again, he would need more than rocks. If he might have a chance to rescue the one person he had left in this awful godforsaken place, he would have to focus, and keep his head clear.

Night had fallen completely now. Lights flickered in the windows of the cabin, perhaps oil lamps. John heard nothing from Sherlock or the criminals at this distance, but it did not matter. His resolve was made of steel, after all. Fists clenched, he stood up from behind the hiding place, taking a step forward.

***

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes, and it took him a moment to recollect the recent events and orient himself. He was lying on his side on a cold, dry wooden surface, and though he could see absolutely nothing, he sensed that he was enclosed in a tight place with a dank, musty smell. Most likely underground, or at the very least on ground level. His hands were tied behind his back, secured firmly by duct tape, as were his legs, tied together both at the knees and ankles, which left him about as mobile as a caterpillar. A piece of the tape had been placed over his mouth as well, its polyethylene taste seeping through his lips.

A dull, throbbing ache pulsated in his skull. He could not remember anything after the giant had clubbed him in the head, but judging from the texture of the congealed blood which covered the entire left side of his face and hair, he had been unconscious for at least an hour, perhaps more. The good news was that he didn't believe he had sustained any fractures or brain hemorrhage; maybe a mild concussion at worst. Scalp wounds always bleed profusely. It meant nothing. The bad news was that he was trapped with no means of escape.

Sherlock uselessly tugged on his bonds, reaching the conclusion he had already suspected: there was no way he was getting out of here on his own. The unnatural and static position he had been forced into began to take a toll on his body in general, and his shoulder joints in particular. The detective prided himself on having a high tolerance for physical pain. Oftentimes he was able to ignore amounts of it that had stronger men crying like newborns. But even the great Sherlock Holmes had limits.

What would it be now, he silently asked. Would he be eaten like the others? It hardly made sense, as the group already had plenty of meat on hand, but then again, no one said that these brutes were capable of rational thinking. He considered possibility that they might keep him as a slave of sorts, for their own perverse indulgences, and though he hoped not, he could not deny the very real possibility of it. If not, he seriously doubted the chances of being held for ransom. Obviously these men (did they even qualify as men?) had no use for money, and even if they might, they likely would not understand the concept of ransom.

Unless they decided to let him slowly starve to death...

What had happened to John, he wondered. Had he escaped? Sherlock hoped so, but considering the near catatonic state the older man had assumed at the shed where Mary likely still hung, he could have been easily apprehended. Then again, Sherlock heard no indication that John was nearby. He hoped John was not dead.

What if John had simply run off to save his own skin? Had the doctor reached that level of apathy to not care about anyone but himself?

Sherlock shook his head, angry. Their bond had been strained in the past few days, but would the events of the week have been enough to allow John to escape with no further thoughts of his once partner, friend, and lover? No, not possible. Sherlock knew John much better than that. John was a soldier, loyal to the end.

Even so, the detective had to consider his current predicament. He needed to determine a way to escape, or at the very least be ready in case his captors were going to return. He thought about trying to reach the phone he carried in his jacket pocket, but there was no way of doing that with both his hands and feet tied, and besides there was no reception to be had in this area even if he managed. Sherlock wondered if it was pure coincidence that the culprits had chosen to set up their base of operation here exactly.

Making a subtle change to his position in an attempt to alleviate the pain in his shoulders, the detective had to admit defeat when the change did nothing except worsen the ache. Blind, immobile, and only able to breathe through his nose, he tried to utilize the only sense he still had control over by listening for sounds that might indicate either the return of his captors, or - as Sherlock desperately hoped - his saviour.

***

The shaking of John's legs increased by each step he took toward the nightmarish lodge. He had found a rusty old metal rod in the woods near the backyard which he now carried with him. Still he heard no sounds from the cabin. John stubbornly refused to admit the possibility that the silence meant there was nothing left for him to save.

Back against a tall pine tree, the ex-army surgeon contemplated his options. Damn it, he was supposed to be better at this. He was a soldier, after all; however not a strategist. Making a plan of attack had never been his forte.

Pressed against the tree trunk like a squirrel, he crept around its circumference until he could see the cabin and its grounds. Though his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, the nightfall had not brought moonlight with its arrival, and looking for anyone creeping about on the property proved difficult. In addition, the flickering lamplight brought moving shadows that deceived his vision. Despite the difficulty, he heard no footsteps, and he considered this a good sign.

"Stay strong, Sherlock," he whispered, though he did not doubt the detective could hold his own. John only hoped he could be half as strong as his friend.

Almost as though fate had granted him a favor, John spotted something only a few paces away. Even in this poor light, he could see it. The tree stump had several ugly marks in it already, and hopefully the damage in the wood indicated that the axe presently lodged into it was very sharp. He nearly gave into the impulse of running straight out into the open to snatch the newfound weapon, but he restrained himself at the last possible moment. Being cautious was vital now, with every move he made. John listened again, desperately hoping he was not about to run straight into the welcoming arms - or shotgun as it were - of an unseen attacker. He peered into the darkness, seeing nothing and no one.

Think like a cat.

Taking careful steps and keeping close to the ground, he crossed the space between tree and stump within five paces and closed his hands around the handle. He struggled for a second, feeling his heart rate increase, but finally pried the axe loose. The very moment it was in his possession, he ducked behind the stump itself, and he let loose a breath he had not realized he was holding.

John did not know how it was possible for a human body to be sweating and freezing at the same time, but it was happening to him in this very moment. Sour-smelling pearls of perspiration were trickling down his torso in a slow drizzle, but at the same time his extremities, first and foremost the hands holding the axe, felt like ice.

John was also not sure how much time he had left to free Sherlock. Mary had been killed within six hours of being abducted, and the doctor estimated half an hour - more or less - had passed since he last heard from his friend.

His heart took a tiny leap when his ears suddenly picked up the very distinct sound of creaking hinges. The front door opened, and a man stepped out onto the primitive porch. Not the axe-wielding mentally deficient lunatic John had encountered, but a man even bigger and, John quickly realized, also uglier. Standing at least 7 foot tall, the giant sported a cleft palate and upper lip offering John a good view of the sharp, pointy teeth not concealed by anything. Like his close relative, this mountain man had only patches of hair scattered across his skull, but unlike the axe-wielder, he wore a long, matted beard, which somehow made his grossly deformed features look even more inhuman.

When the giant took his first few steps in John's presence, the doctor could tell that Sherlock had been right in most of his assumptions. The mountain man did walk with a distinct limp, and though undoubtedly strong and cleverer than his partner-in-crime, he simply could not be very fast.

For a split second, John considered the possibility of being about to outmaneuver this man as well, but he was quickly proven wrong when the giant adjusted his grip on a rifle.

Of course, he reminded himself. It could never be so easy. The soldier in him dared not take anything for granted.

Heavy footsteps grew louder as the oafish man who had pursued him wandered outside as well, chuckling as though ready to play what had probably felt to him like a game in searching for their escaped quarry. He still brandished his axe, and even if he was mentally challenged, he likely did not take much concentration to hit anyone with the sizeable blade. He lumbered into the front yard and glanced about the property with a childish glee that seemed even more unnerving than the stoic concentration of his taller relative.

Glancing back at the giant, John's blood became ice water when he saw the man staring in his direction. Yet the brute turned away, much to the doctor's relief. John was resolute to keep his breath even and remain as calm as physically possible, given the circumstances. He could not afford to give away his position now.

Superior vena cava, he thought to himself. Arteria pulmonalis. Right atrium. Right ventricle...

He heard a gruff shout, barely any words he could decipher. Did this clan even speak or understand English anymore, he wondered. The shorter creature all but toddled over to the tallest and received a harsh jostle for his troubles. Though neither of the monsters were ideal to combat, John hoped that few would remain few, and that no others were waiting to surprise him. The last thing he or Sherlock needed was to combat ten inbred lunatics.

The taller of the pair gestured towards the woods in a direction opposite of John, and grumbled out another unintelligible command. Shortly thereafter, they grabbed an oil lamp, ignited it, and walked in that direction.

John, holding the axe against his chest, realized that this was probably his one and only chance. A more ample opportunity was not likely to present itself soon. There was no doubt the murderous mountain men had headed back out into the woods to search for him. Their survival as a cannibalistic clan and capability to continue as they had depended on leaving absolutely no loose ends.

John sprang to his feet as soon as he was certain the two mountain men were out of hearing range and sprinted the short distance over to the cabin. Still no sounds came from within, so if Sherlock was alive, he was either unconscious or had been silenced some other way. John winced at the thought of what those animals could have done to his friend in such a short time nonetheless.

Had Mycroft felt a similar anguish following the hours after Sherlock's assault when his little brother was in critical condition? No doubt the Ice-man was more adept at handling stressful situations than John himself, but he must have felt something.

If John failed to get Sherlock out alive, he had absolutely no doubts about his own fate at the hands of Mycroft Holmes. He would be, quite literally, a dead man regardless if he got away from these cannibals if Sherlock did not.

John paused outside the front entrance, listening intently, but all he could hear besides his own pounding heart was the faint rustling of leaves nearby. As silently as possible, he pulled the creaking door open and entered.

A stench of a family without concept of personal hygiene invaded his senses as he stood within. Indeed, even the cooking ware and platter looked as though they had never been cleaned. Two beds seemed to confirm his suspicions of the small clan, and though he was not deeply surprised at the stains on the ragged mattresses, the notion of these monsters having killed victims on their own beds - and then still slept in them - made his stomach lurch.

Peering in the lamplight, he scanned the entire room for both signs of hidden attackers and Sherlock himself before creeping towards a closed door. Unlocked, the door gave way easily, and John's grip on his weapon tensed, though in vain. The room, though it smelled irrevocably foul, held no one. What surprised John was the presence of a toilet and bathtub within, though clearly neither had been used in a very long time. Both were clogged to the brim with unknown fluids; fluids that John did not identify, mostly because he did not want to.

A faint noise reached his ears, and John went still as a stone, listening. Either John had been found out, or (and he hoped it was the latter) Sherlock was alive. Leaving the room, he slowly moved towards another door.

The scrabbling was coming from within, joined by the sound of breathing. Whomever was behind that door, their breathing came heavy and erratic, a clear sign that they were frightened. John pressed an ear to the door, worried at the chance of a trap.

"Sherlock...?"

"MN!" was all a frantic voice could return. Sherlock was indeed behind the door, but from the sound of it he had been gagged.

"It's alright, I'm here," John said, almost wanting to laugh. Sherlock was alive, and now he would be saved. The doctor tried the doorknob, and as expected, it was locked. Would he have the time to try picking the lock, or would he have to risk the noise of shouldering the door in himself? No, he could manage to pick the lock. If the age of the door, indeed the entire cabin, were any indication, he could have his friend out in no time at all. He hurried for a tool of some sort, and found a screwdriver.

"I'll get you out of there," he said, setting to work on the ancient lock. "Don't worry."

Further fumbling suggested Sherlock was trying to right himself or possibly move away from the door.

"It's alright," John repeated. "I'm quite alone. Those bastards are out looking for me in the woods. Don't worry. Both of them are far away."

The scrabbling stopped very suddenly, causing John to hesitate, but only for the briefest moment. He concentrated, trying to ignore the frenzied voice that returned on the other side. A click, and then another, and the knob turned.

The area behind the door was very small, barely more than a pocket built into the wall, and it offered just enough space to accommodate Sherlock's prostrate form on the floor. The detective lay bound and gagged, effective immobilized by duct tape, and John was momentarily horrified by the amount of dried blood on his face. What would he find when he looked beyond those voluminous curls: a cleft skull?

Relief was the first emotion to flood Sherlock's open and very aware eyes when the door was opened and revealed John. Immediately he sputtered muffled words into his gag, and his long, thin body renewed its struggles against the bonds. John hurried to kneel by his friend's side, setting the axe down beside him as he pulled away the piece of duct tape covering the detective's mouth. Sherlock winced from the obvious pain it caused, but at least he had the sense not to berate his assistant. John could not wait to free him, but he would need something sharp to cut through the many layers of duct tape.

"Where are they?" Sherlock asked. John did not have to guess to whom his partner referred.

"They're gone," he replied. "Looking for me in the woods. You're safe now. We'll get out before they come back."

"Three!" The detective's bloodied face twisted into an ugly grimace of despair. To John it was a surprise every time to see the beautiful man's features make such a sudden and drastic transformation.

"What?"

"John, there are three!"

The doctor reached for his axe just as Sherlock's eyes bulged and fixated on something behind John's back. He had just enough time to see a shape approach him from the right and hear a maniacal cackle he'd believed until now could only exist in nightmares. The creature swung its own weapon against John's head, and the following moment everything went black.

Sherlock watched his small, brave friend collapse into a heap on the floor, and briefly wondered how John would have felt knowing he landed face-first in Sherlock's lap.

TBC...
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The Prey