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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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Chapter 24

Sherlock thankfully did not remember his dreams, but he was still in a dreamlike haze when he awoke to the feeling of something jabbing into his side. He barely had his eyes open before he could recognize the sensation was coming from someone's finger. The detective found himself whining, as though he were a child again, being awoken to get ready for school. But a snarl entered his ear from mere inches away, and he quickly remembered where he was, feeling the vice-like grip of despair reclaim him.

"What do you want…?" he muttered, opening his eyes to the ugly visage glaring at him.

The idiot was leaned over him, its one functioning eye intently focused on his face. Sherlock doubted the simple creature could understand much if any of the pain they inflicted upon their victims, but as always, the mid-sized cannibal studied him with practically childlike inquisitiveness.

It smiled, passing one large, filthy hand along the length of the detective's torso. The contact made Sherlock's skin crawl. His heart sped up, pounding against his ribs like a caged animal desperate for freedom, and a new layer of cold sweat broke out on his brow. The thing's foul body odour filled his nostrils, and though Sherlock would freely admit to neglecting his personal hygiene at times, the smell currently assaulting his senses was almost too much to stomach.

It seemed the other two family members were out at the moment. It surprised the detective slightly that they trusted the idiot to be left alone with a captive. Granted he was tied up and largely incapacitated, but he didn't doubt for a moment that the giant and the scrawny one were unaware of his wits and resourcefulness.

Sherlock was convinced his attempt at escape would have been successful if he had not stepped into that ill-fated bear trap. Why hadn't he noticed it was there? He should have noticed. He really should have. He had made a mistake, and now John was dead because of it. John had depended on him to survive, and Sherlock had let him down.

Was this guilt, the detective wondered. Did he feel responsible for John's death? Was the guilt truly justified, or was it yet another one of those pesky human sentiments that clouded a person's judgment? Sherlock suspected he would never find out. Emotions on a whole were an undiscovered country for him, and now was too late to start exploring. Could learning to express feelings, or at least to interpret them ahead of time have prevented this disaster?

Sherlock thought back to his relationship with John. Getting John had been easy; keeping him was what posed the real challenge. How many times had he half-heartedly rejected his friend's attempts to initiate post-coital snuggling on the simple basis that he was not a "cuddly" or "touchy-feely" person? Then leaving, adamantly claiming they would be more comfortable sleeping separately? He had taken John for granted, assuming the doctor's blatant admiration for him, for his brilliant mind, would be enough to keep John at his side without any commitment on his part to meet John's emotional needs. He had misjudged, and John had moved on to find someone who could better fulfill his desire for intimacy. A woman.

Sherlock knew he could have tried harder. If he had, John might not have wandered. No Mary, and thus no trip to America. No being captured by inbred lunatics and consequently raped and murdered.

The idiot's rough, callused hand squeezed his hip experimentally, as if testing the texture and quality of his flesh. Sherlock tugged uselessly on his bonds and groaned at the pain it sent flaring through his broken arm, but he preferred it to the touch of this creature.

The grasping, sweaty hand began to travel further towards Sherlock's groin, as though the idiot was inspecting some fascinating new thing. Though the mountain man was no doubt exposed to victims and the abuse of said victims for years, Sherlock hardly thought the other members of the clan would encourage someone of this intellect to join in. Still, this mangy oaf still likely had sexual parts, unless the generations of inbreeding had done otherwise. Perhaps that was why so few were left.

The breath of the foul creature became heavy as it fondled Sherlock's groin, and when it pressed the length of its heavy body against him, he quickly realized this brute was a man, and very much intact. He shuddered at the hot breaths beating against his face and the stiff organ poking into his hip. The erection did not feel incredibly big, especially not compared to the size of the giant's, but Sherlock still did not want to feel anything inside his inflamed channel, let alone some filthy, disease-ridden cock. And if he was indeed about to be violated, he could not rely on his attacker to think to use lubrication, not even from saliva.

Sherlock strained his arms again, wincing at the pain which shot through his forearm. The detective considered simply continuing to pull against his bonds so that the pain would distract him from the seemingly inevitable rape. It might further destroy his bones, but at least it would take all of his focus.

The oaf pressed even closer against him, drooling against a white neck.

He felt the wet, spongy sensation of its tongue on his skin, and the creature snickered, clearly fascinated by the response it generated. Could he perhaps lure it to free him? No, it might be stupid, but surely not that stupid. The clan would not have lasted this long if the idiot could be persuaded to release captives.

Standing on all fours over the bound, slender detective, the retarded mountain man continued the intimate groping and exploration of Sherlock's body, but it made no attempts to spread his legs or to free its engorged member from the layers of clothing. Instead it seemed content to simply dry hump him, thrusting aimlessly and slobbering like an over-excited dog.

Did it refrain from penetration to avoid leaving traces that could be discovered by the massive alpha? Sherlock realized it was highly unlikely that the idiot possessed the capacity for such foresight. There was a more distinct possibility that the dense creature was imitating behaviour conducted by its relatives, but lacking the knowledge to carry it out.

After several uncomfortable grunts, the brute sluggishly lifted itself and edged towards the bedpost. Big clumsy hands scrabbled with the rope which held Sherlock's wrists. Though the act took nearly a full minute, the knots came loose at last, and wrists which had been rubbed raw came loose from the restraints. Sherlock had not expected this whatsoever, but he soon inferred the purpose. The idiot was freeing him so that the detective could be flipped over.

Minding his broken forearm, Sherlock turned as he was pushed to his side and subsequently onto his stomach, only able to hear his keeper instead of seeing him. Not much of an improvement, as he could still smell the stench and feel the prodding of that repulsive erection.

Perhaps I was somehow wrong, Sherlock thought. Perhaps this moronic lump of a man really was able to understand how to violate him...

But the sound of a removed belt or unzipped trousers did not occur. A hard member was still covered with material as it nudged against the small of the detective's back. The hot breath beat against Sherlock's neck and he cringed as he felt the thick, overwhelming body envelope his shaking form. Even with the mountain man's hard sex straining against trousers and unable to penetrate him, Sherlock was still at risk of being hurt, possibly by being crushed or suffocated. He whimpered when he felt the creature's full weight lay on top of him, resuming that terrible humping motion.

His hands were free now, but that hardly made a difference, with one arm useless and the other outside grasping distance of anything that could be used as a weapon. Sherlock briefly entertained the idea of lunging for something (a mad dash, in lack of better words) sharp and pointy that could be driven deep into the slow creature's neck. He pictured twisting the weapon - cutting through the carotid, jugular, and trachea in one fluid motion - and being showered in a spray of the creature's blood, his fading strength momentarily fuelled by adrenaline and perverse satisfaction.

What then? Even with the oaf dead, Sherlock still had a broken arm and a torn leg, not to mention disorientation brought on by extensive blood loss and several blows to the head. He could not be expected to walk, let alone search his way out of the woods in hope of finding something akin to civilization.

Doomed if you do, doomed if you don't…

The dull creature's large, filthy hand, sticky with sweat, suddenly clamped over his face, blunt fingertips probing past already swollen lips to reach his oral cavity, seemingly entranced by the warm, wet nature of it. Sherlock made his decision on pure impulse, his repulsion too great to be overshadowed by a more rational assessment. He bit down on the fingers in his mouth, hard, and did not stop even when he heard the sickening crunch of enamel scraping against bone.

The one-eyed creature yelped as it pulled the hand away, struggling at first, as Sherlock was determined to keep his grip. Sherlock was genuinely surprised. Either these monsters had some capacity - however small - to feel pain, or the thing above him was just incredibly annoyed.

He was unable to deduce further, however, because the hand which pulled away from his teeth formed into a fist and slammed down on his head, sending him into oblivion.

***

One-Eye rubbed at his hand, examining the teeth marks on his fingers. It did not hurt, not really, but he had still felt it. And prey was not supposed to bite and get away with it, not as he'd seen for himself in the past. If prey, be they meat or simply whores, fought back, they were to be punished.

Oh no!

Panicked, One-Eye leaned over the pretty pale whore that he had thumped on the head. It wasn't moving. Grasping it by the shoulders, he shook the body a little to wake it. No response. Either his toy was in too deep a sleep to react... or he had broken it.

Sawtooth was going to be very angry.

This prey had been chosen by his father. It was his property and no one else's. When he and Three-finger returned home, they would both know the killing was One-Eye's fault. If he was lucky, he might only be throttled without the additional punishment of being locked in the woodshed all night. The spasmodic grip he had on the motionless form beneath him released, leaving a red outline of blood from his bite wounds.

One-Eye glanced at his bitten fingers. Three-finger could have a look at it, perhaps fix the damage done... if he was in a forgiving enough mood.

As a small child, One-Eye had at times envisioned his hand being similar to that of his primary caregiver, but now that such a possibility was imminent, he no longer wanted it. He tried flexing his fingers, and though all five digits obeyed his command, the two which had been bit were slower to respond, and the movement caused fresh blood to seep from the gashes.

One-Eye got off the bed, twitching from agitation much like his older sibling did at times. The pale whore continued to simply lie there, showing no signs of waking up. The youngest of the small clan scratched his scalp, trying desperately to think of a way to solve the problem.

Thinking was not something One-Eye normally did or was even encouraged to do. Obeying without question was the best way to keep Sawtooth happy; something One-Eye had learned at an early age. He had also learned not to touch his father's tools or anything else without permission, and this Outsider definitely counted as one of Sawtooth's things.

On pure impulse, the one-eyed man-child gathered his quarry off the bed and looked around for a suitable place to hide the pale whore. It still wasn't moving, head lolling limply over One-Eye's shoulder as he lifted it. His gaze fell on a wooden apple crate, half-filled with bloodied old towels used to mop up blood and remains. It was large enough to contain the gangly Outsider and would hopefully hide One-Eye's transgression from the Patriarch's watchful eye.

By the time he was finished, he could hear the familiar grumble of the clan's truck coming down the way. Sawtooth and Three-finger had gone off for some errand that One-Eye could not quite remember, but they promised to be back soon, but "soon" did not translate very well for the simple man. Soon sometimes felt much longer, and ideas for what to do in order to pass the time were few and far in between.

Hearing the rattling doors of the truck slam shut, One-Eye nervously glanced back at the figure in the crate, rearranged a few rags, and - for lack of any other ideas - moved to sit on the bed where the Outsider once lay. Perhaps his relatives might not notice...

Both Sawtooth and Three-finger were already frustrated when they arrived home. They had gone downriver to search for the chubby Outsider, but instead of the waterlogged corpse they had expected to recover, they found no trace of their prey. Either the river's current had taken him much further than preconceived (and much faster at that), or the Outsider had somehow managed to break free and escape... and both hunters seriously doubted the latter.

Alive or dead, the game was lost. Hopefully the little pig was dead.

Sawtooth was first through the door and Three-finger nearly bumped into him, not expecting the leader to stop mid-entrance. One-Eye sat on an otherwise empty bed, looking all the more suspicious in his attempts to appear innocent. The whore was nowhere to be seen.

The patriarch's eyes narrowed, growling out a question as to the location of their captive, and immediately his dim-witted son looked up at him from a lowered head. Three-finger darted forward for a quick search. One-Eye hadn't somehow lost the half-conscious, broken little whore within the short time of being left alone, had he?

Suddenly a muffled groan rose from beneath the rags in the apple crate. One-Eye sighed in relief, realizing he hadn't killed his family's new plaything. Sniffing at the towels and spying a hint of naked skin amidst the stained material, Three-finger poked at the body within, resulting in the startled twitch from the whore. Though the smallest hunter chuckled at his discovery, Sawtooth was not amused in the slightest. He snarled an order for the pale man to be returned to the bed, which his eldest son promptly followed through with, hauling the naked body from the crate and dumping it beside One-Eye. Though One-Eye moved to pat the waking man's thick curls, his father lurched forward, whipping his arm at him like a bear clawing at a rival.

The man-child reared back, whimpering pitiably and raising a hand to shield his face from blows. Sawtooth, not easily swayed by displays of submission from his dumb youngest son, delivered yet another swipe for good measure. This time One-Eye more than whimpered; he virtually howled, and a disgruntled hiss sounded from Three-finger, protesting against further punishment inflicted on his sibling.

Sawtooth gave the smallest hunter a warning glare. He had not forgotten Three-finger's earlier defiance, not by a long shot. Would he need to assert his dominance for the second time in less than a day? Perhaps a blow to the head was not enough to cow the rebellious streak his eldest seemed to have developed lately. Perhaps some more extremes measures were indeed required. Sawtooth would not hesitate to use the methods he had used to subdue the stubborn Outsider on his own son.

Fortunately Three-finger withdrew from the impeding confrontation, eyes downcast, before things had a chance to progress further. One-Eye hesitantly glanced up at his father, not sure if the crisis had been averted or not. He flinched when the patriarch moved, and once again his right hand went instinctively to his face. It was then that Sawtooth noticed the lacerated and grossly swollen state of his son's middle- and index finger, marks very obviously caused by teeth. The scrawny whore had bit One-Eye, and from the looks of it, he had done quite a number on the poor oaf's hand.

Sawtooth's fury was instantly redirected on the Outsider. He grabbed the damnable man by the throat and slammed him down against the mattress, hard. Their captive emitted a choked gurgle, and blood - not all of it his own, Sawtooth suspected - bubbled up from between his lips. The massive alpha gave his eldest son a wordless command with his free hand, and Three-finger was not slow to follow it.

Despite their occasional disagreements, Sawtooth and his firstborn shared a unique bond which allowed them to practically read each other's thoughts, and Three-finger intuitively knew exactly what his father demanded at this moment. A pair of dirty old pliers were passed into the leader's outstretched hand, and Sawtooth pried the whore's mouth open by applying pressure to his mandibles. Predictably, the whore squealed and struggled against the treatment, but his struggles were kitten-weak and Sawtooth had no difficulties restraining him.

Now he was going to show their captive how the clan dealt with biting bitches.

Pressing a knee against the whore's hips, Sawtooth maintained his full weight on the naked body beneath him, and he did not ignore the cries of fear and discomfort; in fact he reveled in them. Three-finger cackled at the pathetic Outsider's pain, gleeful like a child over the inevitable.

Sawtooth crammed his fingers inside the yelping mouth. His hands were far too big to allow any sort of power in a rebellious bite, and even so, if the whore tried in any way to fight back, the giant could easily grab onto the tongue inside and do whatever he wanted with it. The Outsider squirmed and his back arched, but he was powerless. His squeals became muffled shrieks when the pliers entered and closed around a tooth. Licking the gap of his split lip and gums, Sawtooth gripped tightly and pulled.

The whore screamed. The tooth seemed to be a healthy one. It thus proved stubborn to remove, but Sawtooth twisted the pliers, not bothering with any amount of gentility. The body beneath him was hard as iron, rigid in agony. Finally the tooth came loose, and blood sprayed in a red mist from the Outsider's mouth as he continued to scream.

Three-finger was still laughing at the little creature's torment as he found a thick thread to stitch One-Eye's wounds shut. Leaving his youngest sibling in charge of the Outsider, even for a short while, had been a poor idea. Still, he was happy that One-Eye's injuries had been seen to and that reprisal had been served. He had not trusted having this new plaything in the cabin, but perhaps if punishments continued this way, the clan had nothing in the department of fighting back to worry about.

***

Sherlock fought not to swallow too much of his own blood, as his empty stomach was bound to have a bad reaction to it. He did not want to find out what these monsters would do to him if he threw up, and on top of everything, he had to try to hang on to his liquids.

Sherlock's tongue instinctively went to feel the gaping hole where his missing tooth - a lateral incisor on his upper jaw - had been forcibly removed. It wasn't the first time he had lost a tooth violently; when he was eight, another boy his age or slightly older had planked him in the face and subsequently knocked out one of his teeth. Sherlock had deleted most his memories around the fight, but he remembered in detail the events that followed; Mycroft pressing a cotton compress against the cavernous hole in his mouth to stop the bleeding while simultaneously grumbling on and on about how he could be so stupid as to provoke a bigger kid and not expect anything bad to come from it.

Quick wit and an even quicker mouth will get you in trouble, Sherlock.

Those were the exact words the elder Holmes had used that day in the car, all the while stressing the importance of guarding one's tongue. Sherlock, being unable to do much else besides listen with Mycroft's fingers in his aching, bleeding mouth, had dutifully nodded but not taken his brother's advice to heart.

This had gone on throughout the painfully slow ride to the A&E, and Sherlock suspected their driver found the ordeal every bit as bothersome as he. Wasn't he the one who had quit only a few weeks later? Mr. Soames had been his name, if Sherlock's memory still served him correctly… A simple man with simple daily needs who could not take the drama and controversy surrounding the Holmes family. Mummy had been upset, almost personally affronted, by his abrupt quitting, and Mycroft had said "good riddance" with a derisive snort. Sherlock didn't remember having an opinion himself.

The family had gone through several employees in the same fashion, and Sherlock had barely ever put any thought into the reason why. Even when he had, he decided it was the fault of the incompetent hired help, and never his own for being so difficult, Mycroft's opinion be damned.

Perhaps it was the pain from the violation and missing tooth combined with a lack of food and water that was muddling Sherlock's brain, or maybe even the despair which was closing about him closer and closer following John's death, but the detective's doubt was becoming ever more powerful. It was snagging its curved thorns throughout his brain and making him wonder... had Mycroft been right? After all, words John had said concerning the importance of tenderness were proving to have merit... far too late.

The pliers were tossed aside and Sherlock felt slight relief, glad to keep the rest of his teeth. True, he did not take care of himself as much as others did, but his teeth were not as bad as they could have been; he would have preferred to keep them, even if he was likely to experience a slow and painful death in the near future. Some strange sense of self-preservation lingered within him, possibly whatever was left of his narcissism, still fighting to remain. Also, he simply was not certain if he could withstand the pain.

Alas, the absence of pliers was no indication of mercy from his tormentors. A massive hand grasped his jaw and turned Sherlock's head toward the patriarch, who inspected the bloodstained lips, prodding at them with a dirt-covered finger.

Even though his first impulse was to inflict another bite, the detective was still rational enough to deduce the likely consequences of such an impromptu act. If provoked, these men might very well pull out every single one of his teeth just to make a point, or perhaps even go one step further and sever a limb… or some other body part he did not want to part with. Sherlock balked especially at the thought of losing his tongue. Though he was likely never going to subject anyone else to his acerbic deductions - not in this life - Sherlock still wanted to keep his most prized asset.

The huge mountain man proceeded to manually part his lips, as though inspecting his gums and remaining teeth. Seemingly pleased with his findings, the giant withdrew and turned his back on his captive, muttering some unintelligible command to his two smaller relatives. The scrawny psycho took the idiot's hand - the uninjured one - and tugged, first gently and then with growing impatience, as the oaf seemed much more interested in the proceedings involving Sherlock than anything else.

Finally a barked order from the giant followed immediately by a harsh shove to the shoulder got the man-child moving, his brother skipping ahead of him toward the kitchen area. The giant remained by the bed, his beady, misaligned eyes, one of which deviated outward, fixed intently on his prisoner. Clearly the leader had requested some time alone with Sherlock.

Sherlock was not very surprised at his fate, but he did find it peculiar that even primeval monsters such as these would value privacy. Then again... they were only human.

Breath heavy and hard, the giant unhooked his stained overalls and let them fall to his ankles. Apart from the tattered shirt - Sherlock briefly wondered where on Earth these brutes could find such a size - the clan leader was naked. Meaty hands clamped at both sides of Sherlock's head, and they seemed strong enough to crush the young man's skull. But crushing skulls was clearly not on the monster's mind, not when his frighteningly large cock was beginning to perk with arousal.

What little was left inside Sherlock's stomach lurched dangerously, but he swallowed down the urge to throw up. He had already felt the nasty thing inside him before, but he would have rather taken it where it had entered previously than allow it in his mouth. Climbing onto the mattress, the mountain man pulled his prisoner closer, guiding a bloody face towards his groin.

"Please..." Sherlock begged, feeling stupid for saying it. "Nooo..."

Initially he thought he saw pre-ejaculate weeping from the head, but based on the reddened surface and clusters of irritation, he quickly changed his conclusion. Gonorrhea. He might just throw up after all, and possibly choke on the vomit as the hardening shaft was driven into his mouth.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could also block his senses of taste and smell. He was too weak to fight back, and even then, he would only be hurt worse than before, and still be forced into pleasuring the bastard orally. The best he could do presently was escape into his mind in an attempt to block out what was about to happen. This had not been the first time he had done so (willingly or otherwise), and depending on the response of his captor, it might not be his last.

TBC...
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The Prey