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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
- 18
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A/N: This chapter includes graphic non-con. Please proceed with caution.

Chapter 19

Though he knew it would do nothing, John wished desperately for the ability to speak. The instinct to object, to shout, to do... anything was clawing at him from the inside. As it was now, he could not even mumble without that disgusting, salivating maniac pinching and jabbing at him with filthy fingernails. Nevertheless, he hated being restrained and gagged, utterly incapable of interrupting the horrible treatment of his closest friend.

John winced as he saw the way Sherlock stiffened like a board, as though he felt the pain on the younger man's face himself. Sherlock only stared blankly as the giant did whatever he was doing, and though from the doctor's angle he could not see the specifics, he had an impression of what might be happening.

But he would not remotely begin to place himself in his partner's position, to pretend that he could understand how all of this felt. John was spoiled in comparison to the past that Sherlock had, and their present predicament felt like a culmination of the abuse doled out to the detective from preceding years.

How ashamed was Sherlock as he was invaded by this monster? Had he reached a place in his mind where he no longer felt shame from such cruelty?

Instinct brought John to struggle in vain against his bonds. However, his snarl was rendered pathetic by the gag, and he received a punch to the stomach for his troubles. He could only watch as his partner was hoisted off of where he once hung and carried away by the giant like a slab of meat.

Sherlock was struggling now, slithering in the giant's grasp like a possessed snake. He had to know what was coming, and the knowledge made him frantic. With his wrists still bound, the amount of resistance he could offer was rather limited, and the strength in his blows, though fuelled by panic, had no effect on his captor's huge, muscular body.

With a shout of triumph, the giant threw Sherlock down onto his bed. The detective's head banged hard against the metallic headboard, and John almost wished his friend would lose consciousness and thus be spared the experience awaiting him.

No such luck, though. A gnarled, oversized hand entangled in Sherlock's nest of dark curls and jerked his head back to the point of seriously straining his neck. Veins and tendons bulged under the fine porcelain skin, protesting against the violent treatment, while the brilliant young detective's hands desperately clawed at the filthy mattress he was pressed deeper and deeper into.

John wanted to block out the sounds of Sherlock calling his name, of being reminded that he was present and could do absolutely nothing to help his friend. He wanted to look away, and yet something compelled him to keep his eyes firmly trained on the scene taking place before him. He watched as the giant held down Sherlock with one hand and freed his bloated member with the other. Predictably it was huge, proportionate to the rest of his body, and bound to tear Sherlock up, especially if inserted dryly.

Again John wanted to be able to speak, to tell Sherlock that things would be alright. He felt like an idiot for it, but he still wanted to say it, despite the situation. But he could not, so he convinced himself that providing comfort was useless.

He was broken from his trance by the repulsive sound of the toothy giant's throat driving up a noxious concoction of phlegm and saliva, spitting it into his palm, and John knew precisely where the event was headed. It nearly made him sick. He felt he should be crying, but the shock of what was about to happen left his eyes dry. Instead, he felt tiny rivers of sweat pouring down his naked skin, shivering as he hung exposed and manhandled by the two remaining clan members. He barely paid them any attention, watching in horror as their leader rubbed himself slick and pulled the struggling young man's legs far apart. Sherlock gave a choked cry of insolence and fear that might have sounded funny in dreadfully different circumstances, and he frantically tried to escape the giant's grasp, but the struggle did absolutely nothing to change his fate. Dirty nails dug into the flesh of his bottom and spread the cheeks open.

John flinched as a scream filled the cabin, and he nearly cried out as well. He had no idea then whether the scream was more out of pain or humiliation, although it was clearly a combination of both. Again Sherlock struggled to escape, even to crawl away from under the crushing weight, but he was locked in the grip of a beast which barely deserved to be called a man, and he was going nowhere.

The mountain man was grunting like a pig as drove himself into the body beneath. Though his rapist's massive frame almost completely covered Sherlock's, nothing failed to muffle his cries of pain, anguish and despair, all mixed into one.

John finally chose to look at the floor under his feet. They dangled helplessly at least three inches above the frayed, filthy boards which constituted the floor of the cottage. The static position and his inability to change it caused lactic acid to form in his arms and shoulders, but that pain was nothing compared to what Sherlock must be feeling in this very moment.

A tear escaped the doctor's eye, and he lifted his gaze for just a second, perhaps to make sure his friend was still among the living. Sherlock had given up his struggles and lay more or less limp under his rapist, and his defiant screams had been reduced into a pitiful, constant whimpering.

Almost immediately John looked away. He could not bear to see his friend treated in such an abhorrent way. Sherlock was so very, very proud, and to watch his honour be taken from him by a clan of inbred degenerates was truly breaking John's heart.

Why couldn't they have chosen him instead? He was a soldier, used to taking the brunt of an enemy's cruelty to protect others. He had, however, failed to protect both Sherlock and Mary, the two people closest to him. Was this his punishment for his fecklessness, John wondered, to watch his loved ones suffer and die before his very eyes?

One of the men lingering around him gave a disproving grunt. A slender hand grabbed him by the jaw and jerked his head forward again, toward the horrible sight.

Of course. They wanted him to watch. They could tell he and Sherlock were friends and delighted in tormenting him just as much as his partner. The skinny one giggled and shook the face in his hand. John deeply wanted to bite, to reduce the fingers on the little bastard all the more. Maybe that would be painful enough for one of these assholes to feel.

Instead of biting, he strained to turn his head away once more, but a hand from the bigger man joined from the other side. His face was firmly held right toward Sherlock's rape, which did not seem to end.

No. John angrily resisted. No, he would not play their game. He squeezed his eyes shut, refusing to look. They could force him in this direction all they bloody wanted, but he would not look.

Another jab of a fingernail and John gave a muffled yelp. He was certain it had been in one of the wounds caused by the awl. Both of the man-child's meaty hands held the doctor's head forward, and his skinny relative pried open John's eyes with bony fingers. He did not bother wondering what filth was being transferred from fingers to eyes at present, not when the giant in front of him relentlessly, furiously ploughed into Sherlock, nails scraping against pale skin and leaving angry red marks.

John had stopped counting the minutes long before the abominable man - after what seemed like an eternity - released himself into his victim. Vision hazy from the harsh treatment of his eyes and the near-unbearable emotional stress he was experiencing, the doctor was still able to witness the mountain man pulling out of Sherlock, his vile member covered in specks of blood. Sherlock's blood.

The giant tucked himself back into his trousers without wiping his soiled penis. Sherlock made no attempts to rise, even though the crushing weight was momentarily taken off of him. John could hear him quietly sobbing into the sullied mattress.

Was Sherlock crying?

Despite everything they had gone through together, John had never, not once, seen or heard Sherlock Holmes cry. He had seen the detective screaming in fury, laughing like an uncontrollable maniac, and practically everything in between. Many times he had seen his friend's features contorted in ecstasy following a toe-curling orgasm, and each time he had felt intense pride at being the one responsible for such deep, uninhibited pleasure in a normally untouchable man. But he had never seen Sherlock cry.

Until now.

The hare-lipped giant moved his massive bulk off the bed and stood up, clearly pleased with his accomplishment. Sherlock remained where he was, at least until he was picked up and thrown over the mountain man's shoulder once more. This time there was no squirming or writhing on the detective's part. It was as though he had already given up hope, and John found the idea incredibly sad and also disconcerting. Without Sherlock's wits and drive their chances of escaping this hellhole decreased exponentially.

The very notion of his friend crying made tears fall from John's eyes, and he resisted a sob of his own when the two men finally let go of his face.

He barely had time to consider what might happen next when he was bitten. Though John's voice was muffled, he had still shouted quite loudly from the bite, and the giant jolted in surprise at the sharp cry of pain. The mere sight of the furious brute stomping towards John frightened him, and he expected a huge fist to hit him hard enough to break his neck, or dislocate his jaw at the very least. So it surprised him that the mountain man stormed right past him - Sherlock still hanging limply over his shoulder - to slap the childish one for biting.

John was now close enough to Sherlock where they could see one another's faces. To the older man's confusion, Sherlock's eyes held no tears. The detective looked right at him, and though he looked miserable and in utmost agony, he was staring at John pointedly, expressing a wordless message to his partner.

He had not been crying after all. He was tricking them. Sherlock had a plan.

John hardly felt the sensation of his bonds being untied, and he wobbled for a moment when his feet met the ground. He glanced down at his waist where the idiot had bitten him, and though the skin was not bleeding outright, it had been broken and was now quite red. If the detective and his assistant were to get out of this hellish ordeal alive, they might just die of infection from God knew what bacteria lingered in the mouths of these men.

John considered making a mad dash for the door the moment his wrists were lowered down, but the soldier in him told him that would be most unwise; the degenerates were bound to catch him within seconds, and even if he somehow managed to evade recapture, he'd be leaving Sherlock to a horrible fate.

The detective and his partner were taken to the far end of the cottage, into an adjacent room which consisted mainly of small storing spaces resembling cattle stalls. It was not a far leap of logic to assume the mountain men had kept previous victims incarcerated here while waiting for the opportune moment to butcher them.

That will not happen to us, John thought. We'll get out yet. I have to believe it.

The giant threw Sherlock callously into one tiny stall and proceeded to slam the door shut. John had hoped they would at least allow their two captives to share space, but it seemed such graciousness was out of question. John was shoved into the adjoining stall by the two smaller men, and the three-fingered lunatic finished by delivering a playful kick to his bottom while he stood on all fours. The doctor fell forward, humiliated, and he could hear the man-child laugh behind him as though it was the funniest thing ever.

Both their doors were sealed with sturdy padlocks before the mountain men finally decided to leave the two men alone. Inside the room ruled utter darkness.

John received a face full of dirt upon hitting the floor, and he hoped he was not tasting excrement. Spitting the worst of it out only launched the remaining dust back into his face.

Looking up proved impossible at first from the cramped space of his tiny cell, but he managed to gain enough wiggling room to right himself. He tried to ignore the stains on the walls around him, despite the close proximity, and he did not have to think very hard to realize they were from the blood of countless victims from the past. Instinct told him to curl up into himself, but he resisted. He heard the rustling of Sherlock getting his bearings in the adjacent cell and turned on his side to address him.

"Sherlock?" his voice quivered as he spoke.

Sherlock did not breathe as he turned over to face the shaky slab of wood separating the two men, exhaling sharply once he was in the proper position.

John noticed a fault in the boards of the wall, uneven and badly nailed together, possibly from an attempted escape by a previous victim. A very small gap allowed him to glimpse movement in the other cell. The doctor considered muscling the board away, but he knew the attempt would be heard by their jailers. Instead, he pressed his cheek against the wood, wishing he could have been able to hold his friend. Even if Sherlock denied him the chance, John would have held on and his arms would have required the jaws of life to let go.

"John..." The gap was infiltrated by pale fingertips, and John quickly put his own hand forward, their fingers meeting. The contact was not much at all, but it was something.

"Sherlock," John replied. "Are you..." He stopped, knowing the question would be idiotic. His partner answered nonetheless.

"I've been better."

The slightly sarcastic delivery of the line suggested that Sherlock was, despite everything, still his old self. Only the slight tremor in his voice revealed that something was amiss in the first place.

"How about you, John?" the younger man asked in an obvious attempt to steer conversation away from himself. "I saw what they did to you, with that awl."

"I'll live," the doctor quickly replied. "It's nothing serious, just a superficial nick."

They had managed to draw blood, but the flow had stopped minutes after the wound was inflicted, and John, having a medical degree, was fairly certain they had not hit any vital organs or major blood vessels. In truth, he was more concerned about the bite from the idiot, but he saw no reason to make his concerns known to his already agonized friend.

"Are you… are you badly hurt, Sherlock?" John asked tentatively, already knowing that his friend was injured, just not to what degree. A cock practically the size of a tree trunk had been forcibly shoved into his body with barely any lubrication. In the best case scenario, the bleeding was caused by a minor tear. In the worst case scenario, Sherlock was currently hemorrhaging to death.

"I'm still bleeding," a quiet, pained voice said. "It's less than a flow, but more than a trickle. It should slow down in the next few hours if I do nothing to aggravate it."

It amazed John how rational and objective his friend was being despite the distressing circumstances and the horrific violation he was just recently subjected to. Was Sherlock using logic as a means of coping? John had witnessed the abject panic in Sherlock moments before he was held down and penetrated against his will, and he was absolutely certain it had been genuine.

"You put up quite a fight," John said, unsure of what would be the right thing to say.

"He was three times my size. There wasn't realistically any way I could hold him off," Sherlock replied, sounding bitter.

At least he hadn't made it easy for the big bastard, John thought.

"I couldn't stop him, but it occurred to me I could do something else," Sherlock added. "So I did."

"What?" John asked. As far as he had seen, Sherlock had been unable to do little else but struggle in vain and take the abuse given to him. Still, he remembered the look in Sherlock's eyes when the giant had gotten close enough to John.

The small contact between them was broken, causing a slight lurch in John's stomach, but Sherlock's hand returned, this time holding a very small object. As the doctor instinctively took the object, he cringed at the slick surface. In the darkness, the fluid looked black.

"I grabbed it when he carried me past a table," Sherlock explained. "And don't worry, I didn't have to smuggle it up my arse. Not that I couldn't." His voice once again became bitter. "At this point the pain is enough that I could cram a jam jar up there and not notice any difference."

"I seriously doubt that," John replied, inspecting the object. It was fashioned with a wooden, rounded handle, the metal half ending in a sharp scoop. John guessed it to be some kind of carving instrument.

"Even if you inserted it handle first..." he trailed off, repulsed at the idea, despite the desperation of their predicament.

Sherlock shrugged, though he knew his older friend could not see the gesture. He gave a joyless laugh, though it hurt him to do so.

"What's so funny?" John asked, thinking nothing could be amusing about their situation.

"Nothing," Sherlock admitted, placing his fingers through the gap of the wall to once more make contact with his assistant. "I was just thinking about how it wouldn't have been the first time."

Against better judgment, John chuckled as well as one very memorable incident bubbled up to the surface of his memory. That day he had learned that his then-newfound friend sometimes used his rectum as an emergency storage space... and also gotten to know Sherlock much more intimately; perhaps more so than he was ready for at the time.

Even though he was impressed with the fact that Sherlock had shown enough presence of mind to grab something and hide it despite the shock and pain inflicted on his person, the tool had little use as a weapon. A knife or even an awl would have been much more useful.

The detective seemed able to sense his friend's hesitation through their linked fingers.

"Dig, John," Sherlock said imploringly. "This wall…" he rapped at the wall in question with his knuckles, "…faces outdoors. You can dig yourself out beneath it. Use the instrument as a spade. Hurry, though. The soil is tightly packed. It won't give easily. If they catch you…"

The doctor shuddered at the thought of what the punishment for running away might be. If he wasn't killed outright, their captors would probably not hesitate to chop off a limb or even two.

"Make sure you have somewhere to hide it if they come in to check on us," Sherlock reminded his partner. "Someplace other than your rectum."

John managed a small chuckle and tested the strength of the wood gauge against the ground. Sherlock was, as always, correct. Breaking enough of the tough soil to get underneath the barrier would require speed, but also care, so that he would not break the damn metal piece off of the handle. Hoping his progress would not be overheard, he began to scrape away at the dirt, passing the time by thinking back on an event which in retrospect felt less uncomfortable and more humorous.

TBC...
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The Prey