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The Prey	By : amandalee Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3759 -:- 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
- 17
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- 19
A/N: The horrors continue, so if you're a sensitive reader and/or not a horror fan, you're encouraged to seek out something else that better suits your tastes. We do not wish to break anyone's heart (or brain!)

Chapter 18

John's head was feeling several sizes too big when he blurrily came to. He could feel himself being carried, and not at all with consideration or gentility. Whomever was lugging him about did so as though he were a sack of grain. He did not reach full consciousness until he felt rough hands lifting him by the arms and tying him to something from above, thus leaving him hanging rather painfully by his wrists. Like his partner, his mouth was bound with duct tape, and he could only make muffled noises of protest.

Vision blurred and red, John squeezed his eyes shut, hoping he could quickly clear them of the blood that likely came from the blow that had rendered him unconscious in the first place. A hook light hanging above him was the only light source in the space, and as he steadily regained focus, he could see that he was not alone. The two men were back from their excursion into the forest, the tallest having his back turned to him. The other sat on a nearby stool, grinning in excitement and bouncing a little on his seat.

Just as John found himself wondering where the third was, he felt spindly fingers grab the back of his neck, jolting him with surprise. Gnarled fingernails dug into skin for only a second, and he felt hot breath beating against his cheek as the creature laughed. John turned his head away on instinct, and saw that to his right was another figure similarly bound and hanging.

Sherlock.

The younger man was also awake, and though he tried to keep his expression neutral, his eyes told of the fear he felt within every inch of his body. The same feeling was taking hold of John as well.

The smallest of the three mountain men gamboled out from behind their prey, his movements much like the middle creature, except sped up to a hyper, erratic pace. It hurried over to the giant, who was fumbling with something metallic, as indicated by the sharp clattering noises made in the process.

Was this it? John wordlessly asked himself. Was this how Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were to meet their end, not battling the likes of a criminal mastermind, but slashed to ribbons as food for inbred degenerates?

The giant spun around, and though he did not hold a knife, the slim, pointed awl in his huge hand was of no comfort to his restrained subjects. John turned his face away, eyes squeezed shut. He wanted to be spared the sight of having it plunged into himself, but watching it being done to Sherlock and not be able to do a damn thing to help his best friend was an even worse scenario.

The detective, defiant as always, kept his eyes firmly trained on the three cannibals. Under normal circumstances, meaning if their captors had been fully human, Sherlock would have been nattering off deductions, some of them very delicate and personal, in order to provoke the criminals and throw them off balance, which in turn would leave room for mistakes that might grant Sherlock and his stalwart partner an opportunity to escape. There was, however, not a language the detective could speak that would not sound like meaningless gibberish to these men.

They had not replaced the gag on Sherlock, so supposedly the younger man had realized words were a lost cause and accepted the virtue of silence.

Sherlock's full lips parted slightly as he witnessed the display. The giant spun the awl between his two monstrously large, scarred, hairy hands, as if contemplating the most efficient - or entertaining - way to use it. Meanwhile the smallest of the three had chosen a knife for himself. Sherlock recognized it as the same one being used to combat him, the blade rusty and covered in filth. It had nicked him in the face; just scratches, really, but he might still need to have his tetanus vaccination renewed. Assuming, of course, that he got out of their clutches before they turned both him and John into their own twisted version of beef jerky.

The smallest one was excited to the point of practically vibrating. Only when the toothsome giant gave a gesture did he move, and when he did, the burst of speed forward caused both detective and doctor to expect Sherlock be reduced to tatters in seconds. Sherlock could not help the small yelp which escaped his lips when the gangly creature set upon him, but he realized very quickly that his flesh was not being sliced. Instead, the knife cut through his clothes, and the articles were ripped away from his pale body in little time. John watched in horror as his friend dangled naked in front of their filthy audience.

The one-eyed man-child bounced in his seat and giggled.

In less than a second the smallest was behind John once more, teasing the surface of his skin with the tip of the knife. John hoped he would only be stripped as his partner had, but one could not be certain with unbalanced men such as these; for all he knew, he might get stabbed in the neck just for a laugh.

John was starting to feel numb all over from the fear. He heard his clothes rip before he felt them yanked from his body. Even so, he preferred the bastards play with him instead of Sherlock. Not that he expected them to ignore Sherlock entirely, but he would rather he took the worst of it.

Then again... were that the case, how would he be able to get Sherlock out of this hellhole?

The feeling in John's arms returned painfully when the skinny freak behind him wrapped arms and legs around him, hanging by the doctor off of the ground. He felt the fine edge of the dirty blade against his throat, saw the underdeveloped stump of what would have been a middle and ring finger on the monster's left hand, which held the knife. A drop of spittle landed on the junction of neck and shoulder. But John could do nothing; the three-fingered monstrosity was wrapped around him tightly, stuck on him like a leech.

The giant grumbled out an order and John felt relief as the smallest let go, landing on the floor again.

Flaky, red marks left by the mountain man's scraggly, unkempt fingernails now crisscrossed John's arms and shoulders. He tried not to dwell too much on the different kinds of pathogenic microbes that in all likelihood dwelt beneath those fingernails, or if he would live long enough to find out.

John yelped when the three-fingered lunatic suddenly pinched the flesh of his torso. Its very distinct laughter sounded again, and the creature doubtlessly seemed pleased about the discovery. The doctor choked back a desperate plea of mercy when the giant approached as well, enormous hands stretched out toward John to cop a feel of his own.

The following minute consisted of intense and very humiliating scrutiny in the shape of poking, prodding and more squeezing, as if John were not even a person but a Christmas hog about to be taken to slaughter. To these men he supposed that's all he was. Not a sound escaped Sherlock while his friend was examined, but his erratic breathing and unwillingness to watch were clear indicators of his true emotions.

"Mmphh!" The doctor tried his best to voice a protest through his gag when the smaller creature cupped his genitals and began to roll his testicles with mock gentility. Were they going to geld him? Emasculate him? He had a horrific mental image of the three-fingered cannibal tearing his penis off using only its teeth and then sharing the treat with his two companions.

John glanced back at Sherlock once more, and saw the way his friend gritted his teeth, glaring at their captors. Despite their horror, both doctor and detective shared in the anger of the idea of harm directed toward the other. Still, though he looked desperate to speak (a silent Sherlock Holmes was a rare thing indeed) John's friend remained silent. Any other individual might start begging, but not Sherlock. Even if they could understand English, what was the use of reasoning with monsters like these?

The one-eyed brute jumped up from his seat and rushed forward towards Sherlock, but the detective did not so much as flinch, ever defiant. Sherlock might have also suspected a clan member this childish might not be as big of a threat as a blithering psychopath or a tower of muscle, but John was nervous all the same. After all, people were capable of awful things when they did not know any better.

Fortunately the man-child only seemed interested in getting a closer look, lifting a leg here, inhaling the scent of the neck there, and looking to be deeply fascinated with the detective's head of thick curls. The other two ignored him, which presently suited both partners just fine.

Sherlock looked to be ignoring the brute as well, and the distant look in his blue eyes read of more than just an attempt to mentally escape the situation. Sherlock was trying to think of a way out of this. He was scanning the place for something to help them escape.

Watching Sherlock had distracted John from the tortuous inspection by his captors, and he yelped in both pain and surprise when he felt the hand squeezing his stomach replaced by the tip of the awl. The smaller man cackled at his reaction. John looked down instinctively to inspect the damage, but he could not see if skin was broken from the angle at which he hanged. Even so, he felt no dripping of blood. Another prod with the awl had him shouting muffled curses of anger and pain, but again he did not think he was bleeding.

They were teasing him.

Sherlock wished that John would not scream from underneath his gag. Provoking a reaction from their victims was exactly what these primitive psychopaths were after, and John was handing it to them without the slightest bit of fight. The wisest plan of action at present was to show as little emotion as possible; anything to make their captors to lose interest and thus allow Sherlock to start planning their escape.

Had they wanted to simply kill us, they would have done it already, the detective thought.

There had to be a purpose as to why both John and himself had been strung up and put on display rather than butchered outright and stashed in the shed like Mary. Sherlock had already ruled out the possibility of a ransom. These men lived outside the society that dealt in money. They were hunters, trappers, scavengers… murderers. Meat was all that mattered in their small, twisted world, and currently they had more than enough of it.

The sudden realization hit Sherlock like an anvil. The mountain men were planning to keep them alive in order to prevent their meat supply from going bad. It was a nauseating thought, but it also provided an iota of hope.

According to the detective's calculations, it would take forty-eight hours of silence on his part before Mycroft began making inquiries, perhaps sixty, depending on his brother's schedule. If they could manage to stay alive that long…

Sherlock failed to suppress a wince when his friend next to him emitted a particularly heart-wrenching cry of pure agony, and from the corner of his eye, the detective could see that they had indeed drawn blood this time.

Hurry, Mycroft…

***

Sawtooth was pleased with the development of things. He had been worried for a while after One-Eye, stupid as always, had let their second quarry escape into the woods. He'd feared that the fat little man would be clever enough to evade capture and perhaps even bring the piggies, with the flashing lights and loud, obnoxious sirens, into the heart of their den.

Fortunately none of that had come to be. The little man had behaved in a predictably foolish way by returning to the den to rescue his companion. He had been an easy target for the experienced Three-finger, and Sawtooth felt something akin to pride when he thought about his eldest son and his skills as a hunter. He observed the way Three-finger dangled off of the heavier one, not giving it much thought after so many years of behaviour based merely off of impulse. His eldest got the job done, unlike the youngest, and thus had freer rein in the household. And if Three-finger's behaviour caused a few more cries of pain, then so be it.

The thinner man currently being sniffed at by One-Eye had the possibility of being a problem though. They had caught people like this in the past, defiant and refusing to cooperate. But they always screamed. Work at them long enough, they always scream. They always beg and cry. They cooperate then.

Even so, something in this tall, skinny prey had aroused Sawtooth's interest. This one was different from most others. The patriarch had noticed it when he first had the young man in his grasp, taking in the details of the face. Meat was meat, and those the clan took for such uses were not treated in the same regard as the family, but sometimes, once in a great while, prey would come along that almost looked... appealing. Familiar in a way. Though otherwise despicably smooth and resembling any other prey, this one's bright blue eyes were set far apart, and his jaw was weak, his neck long and thick.

Though he was at first loath to admit it, the younger man's appearance brought back long forgotten memories of Sawtooth's deceased mate. She had died giving birth to his youngest son, who had entered the world as a tiny, screaming, pink, dumb lump and eventually evolved into a big, fat lump, all grown but still just as dumb. Had Three-finger not been so attached his younger sibling, Sawtooth would have put him on a spit and roasted him before he got to experience his fifth spring. He could tell by then that One-Eye was useless and dumb and would never contribute to feeding the clan. Now, twenty-eight springs later, all the clan's youngest was good for was manual labour.

Sawtooth stared at the skinny, unblemished body hanging so delectably before him with a sudden hunger that was different from the kind that demanded he fill his stomach. He desired this Outsider. As a food source the man would be poor; his body, as had been established, consisted mostly of skin, bone and sinews. He was considerably lighter than a man his height should be, which suggested he'd been starving. Outsiders rarely starved these days. Rather they were fat, slow, big to the point that hunting them down came easy.

This man was none of that. He'd even held his own against Three-finger before the patriarch himself got involved. Probably he had fought battles before, perhaps with his life at stake. His feisty nature coupled with his unusual appearance titillated Sawtooth. He would take great pleasure in cowing the spirited Outsider. Despite his years, Sawtooth always enjoyed a challenge.

He watched as his son tormented the short, pudgy man, making him scream. That one was meat, pure and simple. They still had the whore from earlier to chop up, and Sawtooth was positive his little clan would feed off of her for at least a week. All they had to do was keep this one confined until it was his turn to be butchered.

The scrawny one's eyes were shut, but they snapped open when Sawtooth grasped his hanging, naked body and pawed at it unashamedly. The man writhed from disgust, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in a way that was almost comical. The moment his lips parted to suck in some well-needed air, Sawtooth grasped the opportunity to shove two large fingers deep down the man's throat.

Finally he made sound, choking out a rebellious cry as he was invaded. Three-finger and One-Eye giggled at the futile attempts of fighting back. The weak jaw tightened and Sawtooth paid it no mind; he knew the little rat was instinctively biting down, but it made no difference. Prey always thought they had a chance at hurting the family, but they did not feel the pain, not nearly to the capacity of Outsiders. It was truly a satisfying, sweet thing to experience, the realization that they could not hurt their attackers, and subsequent discovery of the pain the family was capable of causing.

The plump one cried out from beneath his gag, clearly trying to get the patriarch's attention, likely arguing against his companion's treatment. Sawtooth only ignored him, and his relatives turned their interest towards the whining piece of meat, Three-finger clawing playfully at bits of flesh and One-Eye rubbing his hands against a disgusted face.

The skinny thing gagged around thick fingers; the response Sawtooth was hoping for. He loved when they squirmed. He removed his scarred hand, and the newfound freedom of the full-lipped mouth allowed the thin young man to eject a full gob of mucus and spit right into Sawtooth's eyes. Snarling, Sawtooth backhanded the little wretch.

"MN!" the plump one objected. He got a lick across his face by One-Eye for the protest, as well as a hard jab with a jagged-nailed finger.

The skinny one's head hung for a moment, dazed by the blow, and Sawtooth moved behind him. The awl was still in one meaty hand, and he drifted its tip up the length of the man's spine. He felt and saw the small start of the pale body, and his cloven mouth spread into a grin as he closed his free hand around one half of his prey's backside, squeezing at the supple, curved flesh. The body beneath his touch stiffened as though stricken with rigor mortis, but only for a few seconds.

The skinny Outsider's posterior was practically the only part of him that carried any substance. Other than that he was rake-thin; all long, sinewy limbs and visible bones beneath pale skin. A few moles and birthmarks marred the otherwise perfect smoothness.

Sawtooth lifted the subject by his arse, thereby taking some of the weight off his straining wrists. He knew he was causing pain by digging his fingers into the soft, pliant flesh, even though his quarry was fighting hard not to let it show. More muffled protests sounded from the pudgy one, and Three-finger playfully pinched his upturned nose, as if disciplining a wayward child.

Sawtooth forced one thick, blunt finger into the skinny Outsider's hole, and by then he was already fairly certain the man was a whore; the type who enjoyed another man's attentions before a woman's. Was the stumpy little man perhaps his dominant partner? It was obvious they had a close bond, and yet they shared no physical characteristics whatsoever, so they couldn't be family.

Finally the skinny pale one emitted a noise; a low, keening moan communicating both dread as well as pain. He also thrashed about in an attempt to dislodge the digit buried inside him up to the second knuckle, failing miserably.

His prey's fear aroused the giant mountain man. It never took much to break an Outsider's resolve. If all else failed, the following would do the trick every single time. Sawtooth leered, exposing his row of misshapen teeth, and lifted his victim off of the hook which kept him upright.

The man made some vain attempts to kick him, but he failed to gain any leverage and thus his blows lacked the strength to do any damage. Sawtooth held his prey at eye level, letting his foul breath wash over the man's face. Briefly the patriarch toyed with the idea of tearing out the whore's full lips and consuming them before the eyes of him and his stout friend. He decided against it, thinking he might find a better use yet for those lips.

TBC...
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The Prey