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The Prey	By : amandalee Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3756 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
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Chapter List
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Chapter 27
Sherlock curled up as best he could with rope once again binding his wrists together above his head. He had thrown up once after being forced to perform oral sex on the giant with the diseased cock, (not much in his stomach besides water, stomach juices, and also the vile creature's semen) and to stop that from happening a second time, the clan alpha had covered his mouth with a piece of duct tape. Sherlock knew that if he vomited now, he would likely die from choking on it.
He closed his eyes, trying to emotionally distance himself from the horrors going on in the physical world and finding solace in the inner riches of his mind palace. He had paid regular visits there throughout his adult and semi-adult life when the noisiness and stress of the real world became too much to handle; something people commonly referred to as "zoning out" and disregarded as yet another dimension of the quirkiness that was Sherlock Holmes and his eccentric ways. What they didn't know was that without his mind palace, Sherlock might not have survived.
But finding his way inside the palace now was proving difficult. He so wanted to escape inside, to be numb to all around him. At this point, it did not matter where he would go within the palace. He wanted to be in his apartment, watching bloody horrible reality programs, rather than be here in this hellhole.
At least his leg still hurt, and it had no suspicious odor yet, he mused with a combination of fear and relief. Had it gone numb, he would be far more worried. Sherlock could not closely inspect the wounds caused by the bear trap, and he was not presently certain if he would have wanted to. What was the point of looking for signs of septicemia if he was slowly dying here anyway?
He heard a shuffling at his side and did not even have to open his eyes to identify his visitor. The breathing at the mattress edge (someone eager to get a close look at him) as well as the weight of the figure leaning there (not the skinny one) was enough for an identification.
Fuck off, Sherlock wanted to say. The duct tape kept him silent.
A grubby finger poked at his face, dirty fingernail scratching chapped lips. Sherlock fought the urge to bite again. His jaw still throbbed from the missing tooth after his latest outburst.
A voice in a higher octave interrupted their somewhat lacking conversation, and the bony maniac was approaching. Sherlock still kept his eyes closed, not much caring. The three-fingered one must have been telling his sibling to come away, because after a few seconds, the heavy weight left the mattress and both mountain men walked off.
Inside his head, far from the tangible world, Sherlock entered his favourite place in all of his mind palace: a mnemonic representation of 221B Baker Street, accurate down to the smallest detail. It was a relatively new addition to his system, but unlike any of the previous rooms, most of which were created solely for the purpose of storing and categorizing information, Baker Street felt like home. That and John…
John Watson, who lived only in Sherlock's memories now.
A single tear formed in the corner of the detective's left eye and slowly trickled down his cheek, leaving a clear trail of clean, visible skin in its wake. Sherlock himself was unaware of the tear. He watched the John of his memories, busy doing all kinds of domestic chores abhorred by Sherlock himself; filling the kettle, heating the kettle, pouring tea into a pair of mugs, one for Sherlock and one for himself, then adding milk and a teaspoon of honey to Sherlock's tea and two bits of sugar to his own.
Sherlock was able to move through the rooms of his memory palace with preternatural speed, and his next destination was John's bedroom one story up. There, in the doctor's modest wooden-frame bed, he saw himself and the doctor having sex for the first time.
The bedroom was certainly not the locale Sherlock had become used to over the years when it came to sexual interactions. In fact it was an improvement over the usual places where years ago he would offer favours of pleasure in exchange for money or drugs... or money to buy the drugs. Here it was warm, and much cleaner, and he was with someone he trusted and - though he would not quickly admit it out loud - cared about.
John had been that combination of anxious and overjoyed, as though he were a virgin again. His hands accordingly fumbled, and he tripped in his own clothing as he disrobed during their brief foreplay. He chuckled bashfully at his small nervous mistakes and eagerly kissed and caressed, his approach romantic and intimate. As far as Sherlock could remember, the climax was amazing for his friend.
Sherlock on the other hand had been comparatively reserved. He allowed most of John's enthusiasm, but the sex itself had been what entrapped the majority of his attention. He delivered one of his perfected blowjobs, easy money after so many years, and allowed John to be on top.
After all, John had clearly shown guarded interest in the male gender in the past, though he thought he had hidden such interest... but he clearly had not enacted upon it in years. Allowing the doctor to penetrate would be fitting for the transition. The sex had been good, excellent in fact, but as soon as affectionate hands tried to stroke him in the post-coital bliss, he shrugged off the attention.
A stab of guilt struck Sherlock. Once he actually thought about it, their union had become more about his own climax, and anything felt by John had become incidental. After John had become huffy over the lack of touch, the detective simply concluded that John should be grateful that his friend had been interested in him, that the doctor should feel lucky that they were not only partners and friends, but now also comfortable with providing such pleasure for one another.
Suddenly the little room in his memories was no longer such a reassuring place to be.
Sherlock withdrew from the construction of his mind and re-entered the physical world, albeit reluctantly. He knew what was awaiting him there, and he preferably would have wanted to die rather than face his repulsive captors again. Sadly he could not will himself dead, despite some previous displays of impressive control over his bodily functions.
None of the three cannibals were currently watching him, and Sherlock exhaled in relief. Practically every part of his body was aching, he was thirsty and needed to relieve himself, but at least he didn't have to return to a session of torture inflicted upon his person. Very carefully, he tested the strength of his bonds. Raw pain immediately shot through his fractured right arm, but he bit back the consequent cry which formed in his lungs.
What difference did it make? He was not going anywhere.
***
Three-finger regretted having to chase One-Eye away from their new plaything, but the big oaf was unpredictable and there was a chance he'd cause the scrawny whore some irreparable damage if left unattended. Sawtooth had made things very clear earlier. He did not want One-Eye to play with their captive, and Three-finger did not want his little brother to be punished for breaking their father's rules.
However… He would not mind at all if the scrawny whore happened to die. Considering Sawtooth had decided he wanted to keep the whore, there was nothing Three-finger could do without drawing attention to himself and thus earning a hefty punishment. Unless… the Outsider died by itself.
There were not many ways to make the little whore's death look like some kind of "accident", not when it was tied to a bed and incapable of doing much but lay there. Three-finger stared at his father's plaything from across the cabin, from this angle only able to see a pair of dirty, pale feet. He didn't like this Outsider. The torment his family granted it was not worth the threat it posed to their wellbeing.
He glanced upward at the large pot boiling on the stove, watching how Sawtooth occasionally tended to it, and even One-Eye would glance inside, either to look at the bubbles or to inform their leader if the contents might be in danger of boiling over. Supper would be ready soon, and like it or not, the "guest" would have to be fed as well, or else he would starve, much to the anticipation of Three-finger and disappointment of Sawtooth. Three-finger huffed at the predicament, sniffing and snorting and wondering if the family had any green potatoes lying around. After all, those were bad...
The thought aroused an idea in the skinny hunter's warped brain. Glancing back at his family once more and judging them to be too distracted to notice, he scurried off to a cabinet and searched until he found a specific bottle.
COOLEX ANTIFREEZE was printed on the label in bold blue letters, though he could not read or decipher the letters themselves. He knew what the fluid was used for, and what could happen if someone were to drink it. Three-finger experimentally shook the bottle, listening to the slosh of the chemical within. It would be enough. Grabbing an nearby roll of industrial tape, he strode to the bed where the Outsider lay. The little whore's eyes were closed, but he had visibly winced at the sound of someone approaching.
It possessed a great amount of self-control, Three-finger had to admit that. Most other prey would be blubbering and crying by now, yanking at their bonds and attempting to kick and bite anyone who approached. This one at least knew well enough to save its energy.
Three-finger loathed the wretched creature. The sooner he was gone, the better for the clan.
The Outsider didn't move until Three-finger poked at his ribs with his thick, malformed middle-finger which had earned him his name. The whore twitched, attempting to twist away from the mountain man so as to avoid his touch. Three-finger giggled, prodding the whore even harder, this time leaving a red mark on its skin.
It recoiled from him when he reached toward it to pluck away the duct tape covering its mouth, and he could tell from the look the Outsider gave him that it had no clue what was going on. Three-finger smiled, holding out the bottle containing the poisonous liquid. The whore regarded him with confusion and suspicion. Then it slowly dawned on their captive that he was expected to drink from the bottle, and immediately the thing began to shake its head.
"No!" it sputtered, tugging on the bonds despite the pain it must have inflicted on the broken arm.
Three-finger would waste no more time dallying. He grabbed the whore's hair and tried his hardest to keep its head still as he thrust the mouth of the bottle into the mouth of the whore. Then he tilted the bottle.
The Outsider took in a mouthful of the foul liquid, but he refused to swallow. Three-finger was not surprised. A clever whore like this had figured out his plan very quickly. Once it swallowed, it would vomit. Three-finger would replace the tape when that happened, and if it was not enough, he had another roll to reinforce the barrier. The bitch would choke and drown in his own sick, and with a little luck, the chemical would not be detected by the time Sawtooth discovered the death of his plaything.
For now, the only problem was getting the damned whore to swallow. The wretched creature's eyes bulged and its body tensed under Three-finger's hold, straining at the hand clamped over its mouth. Just a little longer...
A loud voice behind them caused Three-finger to instinctively jolt, pulling away from the whore, who promptly spat out the noxious fluid over the side of the bed, coughing but otherwise unharmed. Bristling, Three-finger calmed at the sight of One-Eye, but only slightly.
He had not been found out, but his plan had failed.
Supper was ready, and the youngest had been sent to tell his other sibling. Replacing the whore's gag, Three-finger begrudgingly followed, returning the bottle to the cabinet. He tried to match his brother's enthusiasm for the meal, knowing that at least their prisoner would still face further torment when food was served.
The blonde whore still hung upside down by her feet in the shed, and she was collecting flies now, even though she had only been dead for a little more than a day. This warm weather caused meat to spoil much quicker than usual, and unless the clan wanted their food to rot away and go to waste, it was time to have it prepared.
Sawtooth cut the rope holding the blonde whore up and threw the body over his shoulder. The pool of blood on the dirt floor from her slit throat had congealed into a thick, rubbery, dark brown sludge. Three-finger had witnessed on several occasions when his younger sibling bent down to lick coagulated blood off the floor, especially during the colder months when food was scarce.
Three-finger himself had cut the whore's throat and watched her choke and gurgle on her own life fluid moments before she gave up the ghost and passed from this world. He had regarded with great interest and intensity as her eyes clouded over and the look in them became glassy and distant. She had large eyes, not the same bold blue as the scrawny whore, but a beautiful colour nonetheless. No one in the clan was ever born with blue eyes. It was a trait that only occurred in Outsiders with a pasty complexion.
Three-finger had noted over the years that blue eyes were generally tastier than brown ones.
The family left the shed with Three-finger leading the way in his usual twitchy, manic gait. Sawtooth, carrying the body, lumbered on in a pace he found more comfortable, with One-Eye trailing closely behind. The youngest of the clan was eager to start chopping up the dead whore; one of few tasks One-Eye could be expected to perform expertly.
Eager to taste the lifeless meat hauled on the patriarch's shoulder, One-Eye plucked at the open wounds, sucking the gore from his fingertips. He could barely contain his excitement; not only had they found three Outsiders to chase, but the clan had caught two of them, one to be used as a shiny new toy and the other as a meal. He did not know if Sawtooth would eventually grow tired of his plaything, or if the Outsider would stay until he could no longer scream or move, to then become a meal, but he hoped for the latter. He liked their current guest and wanted it to stay as long as possible.
***
Sherlock gagged for a moment from the mere taste and smell of the vehicle antifreeze which had been forced down his throat, but he did not vomit. He was especially relieved that he managed to keep himself from swallowing. Of course, the intent behind the wiry bastard's actions was not unreadable. Even an idiot could have deciphered what had nearly happened.
The young detective never thought he would have been thankful for any of the feral family members, but he did feel a twinge of gratitude when the lumbering idiot had interrupted the murder attempt.
Sherlock felt a bizarre inner conflict at his possible fate. The smallest hunter clearly hated him and wanted him dead, no matter the consequences, but being kept alive by the leader in exchange for the torture and violation was hardy preferable. In fact, Sherlock was beginning to wonder if he really wanted to stay alive anymore in this hot, foul-smelling hellhole.
He was grateful for the short reprieve he was granted when all three clan members left the cabin for a few minutes, obviously to check on something outside. Had they caught another victim in one of their insidious traps? Or perhaps slain one earlier when he was left in the "care" of the idiot and woke up inside a wooden crate after biting the dull creature?
Whichever was true, Sherlock suspected he would find out soon enough.
Rustling was heard from the doorway, and the hyper-active, skinny monstrosity predictably skipped in first, soon followed by his two lumbering relatives. Sherlock would have had to twist his head and look over his shoulder in order to see them, but he purposely refrained from doing that so as not to attract attention to himself. As soon as the trio entered, however, he could smell something that was not simply unsavory body odour.
Rotting, dead flesh. They had brought a corpse with them.
The giant promptly dumped their prize on the old wooden table, and the mountain men exchanged a few words - sounding more like a pig's grunts to an outsider's ear - between themselves, the giant likely doling out commands to his two sons. Sherlock buried his face in the crook of his good arm and prayed they would not take notice of him, until he heard the sickening sound of a hand saw eating through a limb. The monsters were dismembering the body.
Mind palace, mind palace, he silently chanted inside his brain. But the more he tired to focus, the louder the hacking and sawing became. JUST LET ME GO TO MY MIND PALACE.
One of the mountain men belched. Sherlock swore he could detect the foul smell from across the room.
Eyes shut and head turned away, he could only hear the approach of one of them and feel the hot breath beat on his cheek for a moment. The idiot, he thought. He personally found it unremarkable that he was beginning to recognize his captors individually without so much as looking at them, curse his powers of deduction.
Thankfully the lumbering young brute only sniffed at him for a moment and went away again. For much of the time that the dismantling of the dead meat took place, Sherlock was ignored. This suited him just fine, but suspicion lingered as to why. Had the family planned something for him? A mental image formed of them stuffing him inside an animal carcass like some hellish version of a Mongolian nomad's dinner.
The lack of food and water must have been taking its toll on him. Either that or his injuries were making him delirious. Neither was a good sign.
Sherlock felt his ear twitch when he heard something sizzling, likely pieces of the meat. He was determined to refuse any meat they might provide. Was there any chance that the carcass they'd brought in was that of an animal? Knowing what he did about the monsters holding him captive, he doubted it. There had to be other things to eat, right? Fruits, vegetables, roots… The family would have developed scurvy otherwise. If anything, the clan might also gather canned goods or nearby berries from the woods. He would only eat these, and not what was sizzling in the nearby pot, because the more he thought about it, the less he could convince himself that the meat being prepared was not Mary Morstan.
Eventually, the lumbering man-child lost interest in preparing the meal and strayed from the kitchen area. Sherlock hoped dearly that it would not turn its attention toward him, but it was a vain hope, considering he was probably the most stimulating subject inside the primitive little lodge.
Not long passed before the idiot was once again standing by the bed, his two filthy hands pawing at the detective's bound form. Sherlock did not lift his head to look at the mountain man even when the creature leaned in to place an experimental lick on his ear.
The giant alpha soon bellowed the idiot back, obviously displeased with the younger one for shirking his chores. Cowed, the one-eyed man-child went back to stirring the pot roast simmering on the stove in an ancient copper casserole.
Sherlock focused on breathing deeply and tried his best to block out the disturbing aromas and noises assaulting his senses. He could not re-enter his mind palace now - his body was in too much agony to allow for such an escape - but he could attempt to apply a meditation technique taught to him by his first psychotherapist, to whom he had been referred as a young teenager for "anger management issues". The meditation technique was the only useful thing Sherlock had picked up from months of therapy, although it had helped him little in his dealings with life later on.
The meditation seemed to help, but only as far as making the duration of the dinner preparations. A clang of metal brought him out of his self-induced fog, a ladle against the pot. Eyes flying open instinctively, Sherlock looked up at his keepers, who were a little too happy to see him. The only reason they were smiling was because they had something unpleasant in store for their "guest". The one-eyed idiot was gnawing on a severed, boiled hand with the remaining molars he had left. The skinny psycho happened to be holding a barbecue fork. Their gigantic leader had produced a tray table, setting it down and covering the surface with a large bowl filled with slices of freshly boiled meat.
Sherlock's fingers clenched into tight fists at the gap-toothed grins above him.
The simple-minded man was ordered to pull him up into a more seated position, likely to prevent him from choking. Sherlock glanced at the meal on the tray table, knowing it was meant for him. An idiot such as the one lifting him up could have figured this out.
They cannot make me, he chanted in his brain. They would not and they could not. They could not make him eat the meat. The stink of the prepared flesh was undeniably human, and from now on, Sherlock would always face the chance that whatever meat served to him would not be from a deer or other mindless beast. No, this monstrous clan's preferred livestock was of the bipedal variety. 'Two-legged mutton' as some old cultures jokingly dubbed it.
Perhaps Sherlock himself would be added to the food storage one day... but for now, he refused to be involved in their sick game.
Let me starve, he thought resolutely. Let me wither into skin and bones. I will not eat this.
The skinny hunter impaled a piece of boiled flesh onto the barbecue fork and lifted it, smearing the greasy hot morsel against Sherlock's tightly closed mouth. When the young detective refused to comply, the meat was jabbed against his face. Sherlock was surprised that the teeth of the fork had not skewered his cheek.
"I won't!" he growled from between tightly clenched teeth and simultaneously sent his tormentors an eyeful of hate. The mountain men of course ignored any attempts at defiance from their captive, and the skinny one poked him with the fork again, this time marginally harder.
Sherlock still refused to open his mouth. He would not eat. He would starve to death sooner than revert to cannibalism.
After a few tries, the skinny hunter's playfulness turned into aggravation, and in its frustration at Sherlock's unwillingness to cooperate, it poked the detective's lip hard enough to puncture the skin and draw blood. And yet Sherlock would not open his mouth.
The giant patriarch finally stepped in, calmly shoving his agitated son aside. Sherlock instinctively recoiled from the abominable man that had already raped him twice and probably would not hesitate to do so again. The giant was not nearly as impetuous as the skinny fiend, which also - unfortunately for Sherlock - meant it was more calculating.
An enormous scarred hand grabbed the thrashing young man by the neck, thus effectively immobilizing him, and with his other hand, the clan leader pinched Sherlock's nostrils shut.
For a moment, everything blackened before Sherlock's eyes, and when he came to several seconds later, he was gulping for oxygen like a fish on dry land. The mountain men had achieved the desired reaction in their victim, and while Sherlock was greedily inhaling mouthfuls of air, the smallest hunter shoved a forkful of meat into his mouth.
The very thought of where the meat had come from washed over Sherlock's mind in overwhelming waves until every inch of him felt saturated with the blackest, meanest... evil.
Sherlock immediately wanted to throw up, but a massive hand clamped over his lips. The smallest hunter held him down with its own weight to keep the young detective from struggling. He felt himself back in the same place only hours before, about to be poisoned and choked by the giggling maniac. This time he found himself unable to vomit, perhaps from the plain and terrible fact that he was far too hungry and weak to be sick from a mouthful of human flesh. Instead he chewed. He hated it but he chewed, feeling the juices crawl down his throat.
After about thirty seconds, the hand on his mouth quickly went to his jaw, like someone forcing their dog to swallow a pill. And swallow he did. He nearly began sobbing, but he swallowed.
The cackling of the mountain man pinning him rang in his ears. He hated looking at the leering faces around him, so he turned his head, glancing beyond the giant. He wished he had not. Behind the leader was a wooden counter, draped with a weather resistant tarp. In the center lay a putrid disembodied head with familiar blonde hair.
Mary. Sherlock recognized the bad peroxide dye job she'd had done to cover up a previous one that was even worse. Her mouse-brown roots were visible even now, when most of her hair was covered in dried blood and dirt. Below the forehead, however, Mary Morstan was no longer recognizable. Not much was left of her face. The mountain men had effectively sliced away all soft tissues, including the woman's lips, cheeks, eyes and tongue. Only her nose remained, looking bizarrely out of place surrounded by what was practically a grinning cranium, surreal in its ghastliness when compared to the vibrant woman it had been just little over a day ago.
Sherlock's shock and dismay presented a second opportunity for the skinny madman to shove another forkful of human meat into his mouth. This time the detective swallowed on his own, no coercion required from the giant alpha.
TBC...
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The Prey