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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.

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A/N: Once again, thanks for the reviews! Very inspirational.

Chapter 22

Sawtooth sniffed the air and could swear he smelled the presence of their game. They were close and would soon be much closer. He nearly had them moments before, but they had slipped away. These sweet little morsels were clever, but not clever enough. Like so many others before them, their disadvantage was that the woods were not their home. The plump one would become food like past prey, and the pretty one would be theirs until his death... which might not be far off if he continued to defy them.

A scream echoed through the trees, and a familiar scream at that. One of the pair had stepped in a bear trap. Sawtooth hoped this meant the downed man's companion would linger in an attempt to help free him. Past victims usually did.

Less than a minute later, Three-finger's distant laughter picked up in excitement, and Sawtooth knew this meant their meat had been found. One-Eye was likely not far off, and as useless as the oaf could be at times, he could at least be trusted to hold onto their prey with a grip of iron if need be. Though not quick, Sawtooth hurried onward, grip on his bow tightening in anticipation.

The smell of fresh blood became stronger and stronger the closer he got to his trapped prey, and mixed with it was also the very distinct smell of fear; something the seasoned mountain man had learned to distinguish extremely well in his long life as a hunter. It had taken more than usual to bring out the fear in this particular Outsider, but it was definitely there now. The scent was almost intoxicating in its sweetness, and Sawtooth felt his member stiffen beneath his dirty overalls simply from smelling the scrawny whore's pain. There would be a lot more of that to come.

The frantic screaming began and quickly increased in magnitude before Sawtooth had reached his target, and when Three-finger's excited cry of triumph followed, the clan leader realized that his eldest son had already reached their fallen prey. The notion angered him for some strange, primitive reason. He had not given his son permission to play with the scrawny whore, and Three-finger had been taking far too many liberties lately. Perhaps it was time for Sawtooth to assert his dominance, lest the insolent pup forget who was making the decisions.

Lifting his shotgun, the seven-foot-one hunter stomped forward like the veritable bull he was, cleft lip curled and serrated teeth exposed in a snarl.

***

Sherlock counted the seconds between John finally leaving and the first of the deranged inbreeds showing up, and if perception of time was still accurate (he believed so, despite the pain eating away at both his body and mind) his calculations told him John definitely had a chance.

If his friend could maintain a constant running speed of twenty kilometres per hour, which equaled 5,6 metres per second, he would need approximately eighty seconds to reach the river.

The other two are nowhere near as fast as John, he reminded himself. If only he could avert the small one's attention long enough to secure John's freedom…

Rapid footsteps came louder until the giggling madman was suddenly upon him. Sherlock could not help the scream that erupted from him when their bodies connected, and he silently hoped John would not double back just from hearing his cries.

The skinny fiend straddled Sherlock, and a line of spit dangled from his lips until landing on his victim. Sherlock had no false expectations of how this would end. He was stuck to the ground and unable to do much else but feel the agony of jagged metal teeth clamped over his leg. Struggling while still in its grip would only worsen the damage and spill more precious blood, and once he succumbed to shock, he would be utterly useless to himself. He only wished the damnable beast above him would not savor the moments leading up to his death as he rightly predicted.

Drooling in excitement, the lunatic watched Sherlock's face intently as he leaned backwards and pressed down on the trap's jaws. Sherlock nearly threw up at the pain, and he felt bile climb up his throat when his attacker leaned forward again, hot puffs of foul breath beating against his face.

"Just kill me already, you sick bastard," Sherlock snarled.

The mountain man's face pressed against his as he reached at his belt for something, and when the object was removed, Sherlock realized he might just get his wish. An old revolver was cocked in the maniac's mismatched hands, and as it was aimed right between his eyes, Sherlock was resolute to keep his eyes open, to look past the gun and at his killer.

The trigger was pulled.

When Sherlock heard no thunderous bang, he thought perhaps he had died instantly, but he quickly caught on to what had happened. A look of confusion, then anger spread over the pointed features of the mountain man's ugly face.

The gun had jammed.

As if refusing to believe it, the deranged creature pulled the trigger three, four, five more times, his frustration growing by each time the weapon refused to do his bidding. The revolver - a Smith & Wesson model 42 - was old, Sherlock realized, and likely not regularly used. It was still employed as a service revolver by American police in some districts, and that was likely where these lunatics had gotten it. How many police officers had they managed to slaughter and do away with over the years?

Sherlock's thoughts momentarily drifted to contemplate the obvious and glaring inefficiency of the local police department and their inability to even protect their own, but the furious howl of his attacker, no longer in a playful mood, quickly made him forget thoughts about anything but the present.

The little madman spun the revolver in his fully developed right hand and decided to use it as a blunt force weapon instead. Sherlock barely had time to raise his arm to shield his neck and face from the blow that followed, and he could hear a sickening crack when the gun barrel connected with his forearm.

A fracture, the detective instantly deduced, and a familiar one at that. Sebastian Moran had already done his best to grind that particular bone to pulp ten years ago and managed to break it in two places. The arm had held together reasonably well with the help of a surgically inserted titanium screw, but taking the brunt of such a ferocious attack turned out to be too much, even for said piece of near-indestructible metal.

Out of instinct rather than a conscious act of will, Sherlock lashed out with a blow of his own and managed to knock the revolver out of the little beast's hand, although he failed to dislodge the creature itself, which immediately started pummeling him with new blows, this time using its bare fists. The smallest but undoubtedly the most psychotic of the three mountain men seemed hellbent on killing him then and there.

When simple use of fists did not please it, the little beast finally slammed its head against Sherlock's. The detective flitted in and out of consciousness from the blow, and his vision blurred when he tried to look up at his attacker. Disoriented, Sherlock instinctively struggled to remain conscious until the pain of his arm and leg snapped him into full awareness again.

A sound of edged metal flicking against leather reached his ears as the mountain man removed a knife from a tattered belt. The curved blade - bowie, Sherlock thought - gleamed dully in the sunlight as the man above him teased at bare skin, like some sick mockery of intimacy.

The pain of both fractured bone and metal-ravaged flesh had Sherlock feeling the pull of sleep, and though he fought it, he feared he would fall unconscious and not even be aware of the slitting of his throat before he finally died.

He was jarred back awake when he heard the roar of a rough voice that made the scrawny fiend straddling him stop and look up. More footsteps, much heavier, approached, and Sherlock turned his faltering gaze to the leader of the clan. The detective did not need to know their language to understand that the giant was vastly displeased.

And so, apparently, was the skinny little psycho. Snarling like an predator protecting its kill, it exposed its inflamed, swollen gums and crooked, mismatched teeth and hissed at the larger mountain man. The knife remained poised at Sherlock's throat, scraping at the outmost layer of skin but not yet drawing blood.

Furious at being challenged, the giant gave a toothy snarl of his own, soon followed by a thunderous roar, not unlike that of a bear. Sherlock dared not move his head in fear of slitting his own throat, or provoking the little beast to actually slice him, but his eyes keenly followed the heated exchange about to take place. Even now he could not stop his brain from jumping to a chain of deductive reasoning triggered so easily by the slightest observation. Right now it was trying to calculate probability as for which of the two would come out the victor in case the small one kept challenging their leader, which in turn could mean life or death to him.

The giant: size, weight, brute strength, experience. But his size is also a drawback, as well as his advanced age. A son challenging his father for leadership? The small one: fast, agile, dexterous, and quick-witted, but psychotic. The last can work as an advantage as well as a disadvantage. Not nearly as strong as the giant, naturally, and he's used to bending to his father's will. Will he this time?

Within the fraction of a second it became obvious to the detective that the small one was not going to take heed of the giant's warning bellow. Instead the creature flipped the knife in its hand and lifted it above its head, and Sherlock watched it coming toward him in a slow, murderous arc, appearing trapped in suspended animation for a moment that seemed to go on forever.

At the last possible moment, the skinny monster was knocked aside, thrown off of him and bashed from its grip of the knife, which fell harmless on the ground next to Sherlock. If he could manage to fight the haze brought on by pain and head trauma, he might be able to procure the blade for himself. He would not be able to defeat both of them, but he might have a chance of killing at least one, rage of the survivor be damned.

Rolling onto his side, partly to get closer to the knife, partly to recoil out of instinct, he watched as the skinny hunter staggered to its feet, reeling a little from the impact of the butt of the leader's shotgun against its head. Even with a pain threshold like few other creatures, a concussion was not something to simply shrug off. Still, the maniac hissed and sputtered like a cat, yammering out some unintelligible argument, and stepped forward to once again challenge the giant. But following the blow to the head, the shorter hunter was now the slower of the two, and the clan leader grabbed his troublesome charge by the neck.

Sherlock half-expected the brute to ring it. Instead the smaller mountain man was throttled against a tree, and an arrow was removed from its quiver, pressed dangerously against the smaller creature's temple. The giant muttered something, clearly a warning, and though his brood twitched and grumbled, the two stood back up on peaceful terms.

Of course, Sherlock considered. With only three members of their clan - the third appearing to be relatively useless in comparison - killing off anyone within their group would only be a last resort. Still, the massive alpha had been dead serious in his threat, because his smaller companion had finally acquiesced.

In his slow creep towards the blade and dazed observation of the two hunters, Sherlock had not realized he had an audience.

The idiot had also arrived on the scene and was now staring at him with a questioning look in its one remaining eye. The scar, which had blinded him on the left side, had distorted his features to the point of giving him a permanently surprised expression on his otherwise slack face. The creature, however, was not so retarded as to being completely unaware of its surroundings. The single eye, now focused on Sherlock, was gleaming with obvious childish interest. Like a child with an eye for a shiny new toy.

There was not enough strength or vigor left in the detective's mangled body to make a lunge for the blade. His right arm was useless from the elbow down; his fingers, even though he could still feel them, were no longer obeying the commands from his brain. Likely the result of motor nerve damage on top of the broken ulna, Sherlock deduced, possibly in the risk of becoming permanent unless…

A new wave of white-hot pain flared through his trapped leg and further into every fiber of his being when he was suddenly yanked back with excessive force. The idiot had grasped the chain of the bear trap and tugged on it, snorting gleefully at the detrimental effect it had on their plaything.

The combined laughter of the cleft-mouthed giant and the three-fingered madman joined the man-child's infantile guffawing, and to Sherlock's surprise and then utter disgust, the idiot began to touch him with something that could only be described as mock tenderness. One large, filthy hand stroked his damp nest of curls and he swore he could hear hushing noises of comfort leave the medium-sized lunatic's mouth.

At this point, Sherlock was tempted to knock himself out.

The giant barked some form of command at the one-eyed brute and turned to leave, the skinny one all but skipping after the clan alpha. The oaf remained behind, grinning at Sherlock, who could only hope that the trap which he worried would never come off would not be tugged on anymore. Big hands, their prints and grooves coated in dirt and fingernails caked with Lord knew what, patted the detective like he were a dog, squashing at hollow cheeks and pulling at curly locks of hair. Though Sherlock thought himself to have an impressive gag reflex, the moment the foul-smelling man closed a palm over his lips, he thought he might throw up.

Even so, he despaired at the absence of the beast's two relatives. He did not need to be a detective or a genius to know where they were going, and what they would do when they reached their destination.

John…

***

John was presently muttering out every expletive he could think of. He had reached the river quite quickly, but the current was immeasurably strong. John thought himself a decent swimmer, but this surge would unquestionably wash him downstream. The doctor considered running along the shore until he could find a more manageable area to swim across... but what if he was followed? What if the water there was shallow enough for his attackers to wade through?

There were many "what ifs" and John suspected that if he stayed around to analyse them all, his chances of getting out of these woods alive decreased by each second. After all, he was not…

Oh God, how was he expected to do this without Sherlock? What was happening to his best friend this very moment? Had the savages found him yet? Had they killed him on the spot? If not, what were they going to do with him?

Stupid question, John realized, as he had seen with his own eyes last night what the inbred lunatics thought Sherlock was good for. The memory of his partner being violated by the biggest - and ugliest - of the mountain men, of having to watch his unwilling body being used as an outlet for such animalistic urges made John's throat constrict painfully, and he had to stop for a moment to collect himself and choke back the anguished sobs which threatened to break free.

John was, of course, well-aware of rape conducted as a type of psychological warfare, especially in primitive cultures, but he had never expected it to happen to Sherlock or himself, not on this side of the globe. He'd truly believed he had left such atrocities behind when leaving Afghanistan. Clearly that had been an erroneous judgment; one that had cost him greatly.

Swallowing his pain, physical as well as spiritual, he once again gave the river his full attention. His body was doing its best to remind him that he was no longer twenty-five and wounded on top of that. The recent exertion had made him sweat rivers, and he had not drunk any fluids since yesterday.

No, no, no! This was not the time to be thinking about such matters. He'd have plenty of time to rehydrate and recuperate in a hospital if he managed to get out of this fucked up mess, but he wasn't out of the woods yet - quite literally.

John navigated his way along the riverbank, cursing the fact that it was so steep. He needed to watch where he put his feet, or he would soon be rolling down the slope like a big, bouncy marble.

He had barely started his descent before he heard that damnable laugh in the distance, something that he might hear in his nightmares if he were to survive this ordeal. Stumbling as he climbed, he scrambled downward and clung to a small wall where land had been carved out from floods in the past, suggesting that for all of the trouble he would have in crossing the river, at least the waters were not as deep as they once had been. He pressed against the wall, listening as the deranged giggling became steadily louder.

Had they found Sherlock? And if so, had they killed him? John silently tried to convince himself that they had completely passed his friend by, but the chances of that were one in a million. And now they were coming for him.

Still, John had not been injured very seriously, at least not compared to Sherlock. Perhaps if he surprised the bony little maniac, he could toss it into the current. It might not kill the hunter, but the river might carry him downstream and thus far away.

The laughter died down as the mountain man approached, giggles replaced by a heavy breathing. John doubted his attacker was out of breath. The little bleeder sounded more like he was sexually excited at the notion of attacking and killing. The doctor's thoughts wandered back to his poor friend, and what level of abuse these monsters would continue to inflict upon him if they had not killed him already. Unless they would not stop even when he was but a lifeless corpse.

At least a corpse would not mind being raped, John grimly found himself thinking.

As he listened to try and get an impression of where the smallest hunter was, John realized he could no longer hear its presence. The slope was silent, save for the rushing of the river's current. His heart hammered furiously as he strained to sense any sign of the despicable thing's presence.

Before he could form an idea of what to do, he caught a flash of movement in the corner of his eye, and he could barely realize this was an outstretched arm as the creature's blade whistled past his ear and into the dirt inches from his face.

John had his army combat training to thank for his above-average reflexes, and those were what saved him from being skewered by the pointed object thrown at him. Just a fraction of a second slower, and he would have lost an ear. A full second, and the creature would be licking grey matter off the blade after pulling it out.

John made his decision in the blink of an eye. His entire body twisting in a feat of athleticism that was unbecoming of his overweight, nearly-forty-year-old self, the doctor went for the knife. He managed to close his hands around the hilt - both of them - but he had definitely not expected the damnable object to be stuck. John struggled for the briefest of moments, using his legs for traction. He felt the knife shift, just marginally, but enough for him to keep trying.

He had expected the creature to come at him, but somehow the beastly little thing still managed to catch him by surprise. A sudden weight collided with him and dislodged him from his stance. Four thin but incredibly strong limbs, all long, wiry sinews and muscle, coiled around him with the lethal strength of a large constrictor. The deformed little psychopath had jumped onto his back and caught his head in a chokehold.

John's vision dimmed within seconds, and he realized he would be rendered unconscious very soon unless he managed to break out of the sleeper hold and reestablish the blood flow to his brain. He clawed frantically at the thin, unbending arms of his attacker, but he might as well have been tearing at a pair of steel shackles. As the lure of sleep beckoned to John, growing stronger by each second, he knew he had to resort to desperate measures. Putting his left foot against the wall of dirt which constituted the river bank, he used his last remaining strength to push as hard as he could.

Gravity did the rest. The inbred creature lost its balance and stumbled, but the steely arms did not loosen, and John felt the dreadful sensation of falling backwards down the slope. Both bodies rolled halfway down, and finally John was freed from the thing's grip. He scrambled to his feet as quickly as he could, but unsurprisingly, his opponent was quicker, having an entire life's worth of practice. Muscles tensed under the mountain man's arms like steel cords, and without a knife, he resorted to spreading his spidery fingers like claws. What had once been dangling spittle was looking dangerously close to frenzied foam.

How appropriate that this clan resemble rabid dogs, John considered.

They only circled for three seconds before the three-fingered man lunged forward. John reacted on pure instinct, letting his training take over. They struggled, and the doctor felt the long, broken, filthy fingernails digging into his skin, causing new sores which allowed germs to be transferred between them.

Then the fiend bit him.

John cried out in pain, though he surprised himself at how the cry sounded more like a roar than a high-pitched yelp. It appeared that fighting to survive against these monsters had him resorting to behave a little like them, and the very idea chilled him.

More than thirty paces away, John had an unseen witness. The giant leader had been able to approach without notice due to the fight, and he now calmly took aim at the struggling pair.

The blast of a shotgun tore through the air moments later, and John felt a sudden and intense pain in his right shoulder. The greater part of the leaden shots fired at him had missed their target and entered the coursing waters beneath him, but a few embedded themselves in his body with enough force to throw him back several feet. John landed heavily on his back, momentarily stunned, and could now discern the massive alpha standing on the rocky ledge above him. But more importantly, he saw the giant loading a new pair of cartridges into the double-barreled shotgun.

There goes my other shoulder, the doctor thought, realizing that fate was indeed not without a sense of irony.

Had it been like this when he was shot for the first time in the Afghan desert? He could remember the raw pain, the blazing sun, the crisp desert sand against his face, the deafening, smattering noises of bullets fired in all directions, and human voices shouting in a mixture of languages, some friendly, others not.

Besides the occasional flashes of memory which came back to haunt him, John remembered very little of the actual moment he was wounded. He found out afterwards that the man who had shot him was gunned down moments later by his comrades, but the knowledge brought him no satisfaction. The man - an enemy soldier, but still a man with dreams, hopes and goals, much like himself - had died for his conviction, much like he and everyone else who served had committed themselves to.

These three twisted men did not believe in anything besides degradation and suffering. John wanted to move, but the raw pain had spread from his right shoulder into the rest of his body, including his three uninjured limbs, rendering them practically useless. He watched the giant raise the shotgun, take aim… but before any shots were fired, the salivating little madman grabbed both his ankles and jerked him forward, thus disrupting the alpha's plans.

John could do very little with a shoulder full of buckshot. Sherlock was still out there, possibly dead, and if not, a subject of the clan's cruel amusement. Two mountain men were trying to kill him, and one of which had more cartridges for his shotgun on top of a bow and arrows. Behind him and his steadily winning opponent, a river raged. Death was imminent from nearly all sides.

No way out. The three-fingered beast before him knew it and grabbed John's neck, baring what few teeth it had and licking the man's skin as though savoring the flavor of a freshly cooked meal.

"I swear to god, if you bite me again..." John muttered.

Instead, the lunatic stood up, lifting its prey as it did so. John thought he could smell rotting meat on the thing's breath as it laughed.

Only one way out, and said way might just kill him. But if it meant getting away, if it meant the possibility of getting further away from these bastards and a little closer to help... he would gladly take the risk.

John gave up what strength he had left in his legs and let his full weight take both him and the psychotic fiend off the solid ground. They disappeared from the giant's sight and into the rushing current of the river. The coldness of the water enveloped John and he felt his foe release its hold on him.

Between the gulps of air and mouthfuls of water his struggling body could not help but swallow, John was aware of very little. He struggled to keep his head above the surface, but the currents were too strong, and he was too weak from shock and loss of blood to successfully battle the river. White foam filled his vision and the roar of gushing water filled his ears, leaving him deaf to virtually all other sounds.

He would drown, he realized now. Strangely accepting of his fate, he stopped fighting the stream, instead allowing it to take him below the surface. At least if he died like this, his body had a chance of being discovered and not end up as some fucked up steak tartare for a bunch of sadistic, inbred degenerates. It might not be much, but having a body to bury would at least offer some sense of closure for Harry and the few friends he had left. Closure was always preferable to the ever-present limbo of not knowing what had become of a missing loved one. So in a way he'd been lucky.

But Sherlock… Oh God, Sherlock. He had promised to come back for his friend. If there was even the slightest possibility that Sherlock was alive, John owed it to him to try. He owed it to Mycroft as well, having solemnly promised to keep his little brother safe (or as safe as one could considering Sherlock's restless nature and his taste for the bizarre).

John picked up his struggles against the unforgiving forces of nature, forcing his oxygen-deprived brain back into action, which in turn commanded his muscles to move. The will to live was the most fundamental component of all in a matter of survival, and John was not prepared to give it up just yet. He resurfaced and his straining lungs greedily inhaled.

TBC...
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The Prey