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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
- 30
- 31
A/N: Andrea, thank you for your review! The story is still being written on, never fear! We do, however, sometimes forget to update on aff.net. If you want to make sure you won't miss an update, please subscribe to it on Archiveofourown. http://archiveofourown.org/works/681186/chapters/1249433
Chapter 31
Sherlock remembered the first time Sebastian beat him up with shocking detail and clarity; at such times an eidetic memory was definitely more of a curse than a gift, and this was a particular piece of information his brain had not managed to delete, despite repeated attempts.
At least he had no discernible memories from the last beating which nearly killed him. He hadn't even needed to delete them; they'd gone away on their own.
Because of the shock, his doctors said. Deleting memories that were potentially harmful and might prevent recovery was a coping mechanism for the human mind. Not that Sherlock had much in common with most of humanity, and yet… Thank God for small favours.
Sherlock tried hard to remember where he was, but his senses were sending his brain conflicting information. He was in a lot of pain, everywhere, but he could not see anything or recall how he'd gotten himself in trouble. Had Sebastian returned to do what he swore to do during the trial, namely kill him?
Sherlock could remember the sour, acrid stink of Sebastian's sweat, present whenever he blew up in heated anger and became violent. He could detect a similar scent in the air now, but did it originate from the colonel or someone else?
There were other memories, mostly fragments, buried deep in Sherlock's subconscious that occasionally resurfaced. His various therapists had called them 'repressed memories', blocked by his unconscious mind due to the high level of trauma contained in them. This particular scent brought forth a glimpse into his childhood when he was a boy of four or five, being ushered into a closet by a teenaged Mycroft with great urgency, while Father, drunk and violent, staggered around outside and shouted threats to break the skin of his two sons when he got his hands on them. The stench emanating from Father had been very similar to what he could smell now.
The shuffling of a large body sounded to his right, and at that moment of remembering his past, Sherlock thought either Moran was approaching, or his father had somehow returned from death. In his delirium, he was prone to believe the latter. Opening his eyes did him no favours either, as the space was still quite dark. He was handcuffed to something bolted to the floor, and his body was wracked with agony, especially in one arm and leg. Yes, he could remember being tied up, and he could remember breaking his arm. Something with teeth had closed around his leg a short time ago... but damn it, he was barely able to remember the why and the how.
The figure in the dark shuffled around, hulking and terrible. It seemed to pay him no attention, distracted by some object it was working on. In its work, it dropped something which clattered to the floor.
The very sound caused Sherlock to wince, and in an instant his mind once again plunged into the icy abyss of his memories. He was no longer handcuffed to a filthy floor but held in the tight grip of his brother; white, freckled arms wrapped around him in the dark confines of a closet. Something made of glass had hit the hardwood floor outside - not a vase, Sherlock deduced, but something smaller, perhaps a tumbler. A voice filled with rage and slurred by drink demanded both boys show themselves, venomously spitting out hurtful words.
Sherlock tried not to listen, desperate to concentrate on the sound of Mycroft's breath only inches away from his face. He wanted to hide further, somehow disappear from the scene altogether, but even slobbering drunk, Father would eventually find them, think to look in closets.
He can't keep doing this, Sherlock would think in their hiding places. The horrible thing their father would become from the drink needed to be stopped. But... damn it, Sherlock could not remember. Something about finally trying to face this awful towering man, shouting at him to stop...
Then a hand, not Mycroft's, not even Moran's or his father's, grabbed Sherlock by the chin and pointed his face upward. In the dim light - morning, the detective thought - he saw a hateful grin, all inflamed gums and missing teeth.
His brain had a moment of clarity, and reality returned to him with the speed and impact of a colliding train.
The skinny fiend snarled at him, and Sherlock returned the snarl with an equal amount of gusto. This only seemed to amuse the demented mountain man. His trademark giggle filled the cabin, and the three-fingered psycho decided to further entertain himself by dealing out several slaps across their bound captive's head. Had the one-eyed idiot been awake to see it, he surely would have doubled over from laughter.
Sherlock pinched his eyes shut and tried hard to cover his face despite his bonds. The repellant memory of Mary Morstan's severed head laid out on the table caught up with him, and for a split second he wondered if it was still there. All the 'edible' parts had already been cut away, so there was no logical reason to keep it.
Sherlock immediately scoffed at his own thinking. "Logical reasons" and these beasts should not be mentioned in the same sentence.
He received the answer to his question regarding the whereabouts of Mary's head sooner than he had expected and not in a very pleasant manner. Suddenly a putrid scent signaling the presence of decomposition filled his nostrils, and he felt hair dragging against the exposed parts of his face and neck. Long hair. Amidst the smell of rotting meat and congealed blood, he could, very faintly, make out the brand of shampoo used by Mary.
Now Sherlock really felt like crying. He resisted, but fighting back the tears only caused them to escape, and the rivulets left glaringly clean lines amidst the grime and blood of his face. A gnarled hand, its middle digits fused together, smeared the tears and mucus over Sherlock's face, then wiped drool from the lunatic's lips onto the detective's own, a childish spur-of-the-moment gesture. Even worse, the rotten hunk of bone, hair and meat was still in the creature's other hand, lolling about like some demented party favor from hell. Mary's eyes were gone, but the empty sockets still seemed to stare at him. Accusingly.
Trying in vain to stifle his sobs, Sherlock edged away from the swinging object of torment, whimpering when he came near to straining his broken arm against the restraints. Chortling at the response, the mountain man shoved his deformed fingers into the younger man's mouth as an improvised gag, and with a sickening smile, placed the severed head in his victim's lap.
It did not take Sherlock long to understand the psychopath's attempts at making the head fellate him, and he desperately tried to ignore the sensation of a slack jaw, moist with putrefaction, against his cock.
Mind palace, he chanted in his head, straining to mentally escape. Mind palace, fucking mind palace, God help me...
He could not go. Whether the difficulty be from medication withdrawal, the wearing down from torture, or both, he could not hide inside his mind. He felt everything.
***
His eldest son's ruckus had awoken Sawtooth, accompanied as usual by loud, screeching noises and giggles. Already before he reached full consciousness, the patriarch was angry. Three-finger had no business disturbing his sleep before the sun was up, but no matter how many times he punished the cretin, Three-finger still forgot. Unless, of course, he did it out of deliberate disrespect, which was even worse. Either way, Sawtooth was going to teach him a lesson.
When the clan leader stood up, he could spot his son in the corner, hunched over and back towards him, busy playing with the scrawny whore. Some of the shrieks had been from their captive. Sawtooth let out a guttural growl of warning, but Three-finger was so wrapped up in his own game that he didn't even hear it.
That settled it. Saw-tooth grabbed a frying pan from the nearby stove and stomped toward his son and the scrawny whore. He swung the object at the smaller clan member, but fortunately for Three-finger, he had developed the reflexes of a cougar and managed to dodge the blow. The frying pan made a loud clattering noise against the old iron pipe, and although it missed its target, the move had at least attracted Three-finger's attention.
For a moment the two simply stared at each other in a silent challenge. Things had been tense between them ever since their initial disagreement regarding their captive, and the tension was still present, much like an electric charge. Sawtooth cursed his eldest's stubborn nature. He should have known Three-finger would not give up that easily. Perhaps some further use of discipline was indeed required.
He took one step toward his unruly son, and Three-finger snarled defensively, standing his ground. This expression of impudence had been a bad idea, and a scarred, massive fist shot outward and grabbed him by what little of his blond hair he had, shoving him to the floor with an audible thud. It still intrigued the patriarch that someone so small could still hit the ground so loudly. Sneering at the whore nearby, Sawtooth stood over his willful son and began to unfasten his own clothing.
A moment passed before Three-finger woozily lifted his head. He might have felt the pain of the impact had so many decades of his family's peculiar breeding not stunted his ability to feel pain, but he did taste the coppery blood pouring onto his lips from his nostrils. Within seconds, his tattered overalls were being wrenched off of his skinny frame. A familiar occurrence by now. He glanced at the whore, still chained where it sat, now acting as audience... and unwilling by the looks of it. Much to Three-finger's satisfaction, he could see that the head had not been removed from between the Outsider's thighs.
He felt Sawtooth enter him, immediately thrusting into his spindly body. He could take it, every plunge. He endured the treatment, as he always had, and listened to the peaceful snuffling and snoring of his brother, who lay blissfully unaware of what was going on. One-Eye had never in his life been approached, and Three-finger was glad for it. Instead, he locked eyes with his father's plaything, and the pleasure he felt at the terror on the whore's face was enough to help him reach a release of his own.
Sawtooth never lasted long, and this time was no exception. The clan leader finished with a grunt and lay limp atop his smaller charge, breathing heavily as he waited for his strength to return. Three-finger squirmed, more out of annoyance than actual distress.
The little wretch could take it. He had brought it upon himself by defying Sawtooth, so it was only fair that he should suffer for a while.
Eventually the aging giant gathered his weight off his son and struggled to his feet. He was getting old; there was no denying that. The thought of his eventual passing left him agitated every time. Who would lead the clan when he was gone? Three-finger? How would his reckless, impetuous son fare against the hordes of hostile Outsiders which threatened the family practically on a daily basis? A clan member always had to be on his guard nowadays. The Outsiders kept sending out their piggies, with their ridiculous hats and annoying little guns, believing they could best the clan. Fortunately most piggies they'd happened upon had been young men lacking in both wit and experience, thus making them easy prey.
One-Eye was useless. He could not be expected to contribute to the clan's living, let alone candidate for leadership. The dumb oaf was nothing but a burden, and the only reason he was allowed to live was Three-finger's fondness of him. Perhaps Three-finger had craved a child of his own and seen One-Eye as a reasonable substitute.
At times such as these, Sawtooth wondered if parting from the rest of their family had been a poor decision. Several mountains over, more of their kind lived in similar circumstances... or at least he thought they still lived. For all he knew, they had already been found by Outsiders, too many to be controlled or killed. Sawtooth hoped not, though. He and his mother may have separated from the clan to set out for their own years upon years ago, and bad blood might still exist between them despite the long time apart, but they were family.
And look at how things had progressed. Two sons, one of which killed their mother when she finally spat him from her loins and grew up to be a half-wit. The other was showing the worst of his nature by acting out, just because of Sawtooth's latest prisoner.
The patriarch glared down at Three-finger, who was getting dressed, twitching and snorting through his nostrils like a giant hairless weasel. Glancing back at the whore that was still trying in vain to get the head away from itself, Sawtooth kicked at his son, snapping at him to get up and go scout the woods.
Three-finger seethed at the order, although he knew well enough to keep his impudent response to himself. Scouting was something the family took turns doing - or rather two of them did, as One-Eye easily got lost on his own. It was important to keep Outsiders from intruding on their home, but the skinny hunter knew the reason behind the command easily.
Sawtooth wanted him out of the house so as to have time alone with his pathetic, sobbing toy. Begrudgingly, he did as told, grabbing a shotgun before he left the cabin.
Sawtooth could not perform again so shortly after his latest climax - which he'd regrettably wasted on Three-finger - but that didn’t mean he could not have fun with his new toy in other ways. He considered making the whore clean his member using its tongue, but knowing his luck, the smooth little rat would probably puke all over his lap, just like it had when he made it suck him the previous day.
He undid the knot binding the whore's hands to the old iron stove and then seated the creature upright. He doubted it would live for much longer. Quivering, trembling, its body hot and sticky from a raging fever, the pale Outsider was probably close to dying. Its left foot, sloppily bandaged to prevent further blood loss, was turning grey. Sawtooth knew what would come of that. First grey, then blue, then black. The limb was dying and would have to be severed to keep from poisoning the rest of the body.
Glancing at the hatchet he'd used to dismember the blonde whore, he briefly considered using it on his current plaything and by that perhaps postponing its imminent death, if only for a few days.
No. The Outsider's poor state of health dictated against it. Rather than making it live longer, such a drastic action could, and probably would, kill the whore on the spot.
The only option was to enjoy his prisoner while it still lived - perhaps even a little after that - and simply let it die on its own. What a shame that would be. They might just find it cold and lifeless on the floor one morning. Funny. For something so willful and eager to resist, the creature had turned out to be very delicate. Not so much like them as he had originally hoped, after all.
Sawtooth reached for the whore's head, his massive hand easily covering the sweating face. The whore whimpered, vivid blue eyes glazed and watery and white skin flushed and glistening. Feeling the shudder beneath his palm pleased him like nothing else, and for a moment he wanted to cut into the outsider's cheek just to lick the dripping blood from the gash. But even that small amount of blood loss would take the whore closer to death all the sooner. Still, he could have some fun with his plaything without having to spill blood.
Grip tightening on the whore's head, he shoved, smiling at the pained yelp as his captive's battered body hit the floor. That wrecked arm had to be agonizing.
Limbs were splayed out like an animal ready to be skinned. Licking the split of his lip and gums, Sawtooth lowered his hand and slowly inserted a finger into the whore. He relished the squeal which escaped the quivering body he had penetrated, as well as the near vibration of pain around his finger. He removed his hand... and inserted two fingers.
The whore cried and clawed at the floor, struggling to escape, but in vain. The commotion woke One-Eye, though the big oaf did not seem to mind. He watched the torment for a short while, then simply got up and went looking about in a pile of clutter for something to bide his time with until Three-finger returned.
Good. One-Eye was an idiot, but he had picked up on a few things throughout the years, such as not bothering Sawtooth when he was busy with a whore, and by now a sight like this was a commonplace as putting out clothes to dry.
***
Three-finger was still angry when he left the cottage to go scouting, and that anger grew when he was left with time to himself. He wanted to kill something, destroy it, grind it into the ground and tear it apart, limb by limb.
Curse that pale whore! Everything had gone amiss since they procured it, and now it seemed to have some strange hold over Sawtooth, compelling him to keep it alive. Three-finger wanted nothing more than to see it die.
The skinny hunter stopped dead in his tracks and twitched when he suddenly heard movement to his right. He sniffed the air. Just as he'd thought; a rabbit. Sawtooth had forbidden him from wasting valuable shotgun slugs on small game, but there was no way Three-finger would let this little rodent pass. Instead of firing it, he spun the shotgun in his hand and swung it at the skipping rabbit like a club. His timing and aim were both perfect. One single blow was enough to crush the animal's skull, and for a moment the rabbit lay there, feet twitching, as though the body had not yet caught up with the fact that the head was pulp.
Three-finger dug in. A rabbit was not the same as the pale whore, but it would do for now. Besides, he was hungry. The clan usually cooked or fried meat before eating it, but Three-finger had always preferred the taste of raw meat. He used more force than necessary when eviscerating the animal, pretending he was doing it to Sawtooth's little plaything. The meat was good; juicy, tender and ripe, just the kind you could expect from a young, healthy rabbit. It certainly tasted a lot better than that nasty blonde whore they feasted on the previous day.
When the red sticky mess coated his hands and much of his face, he moved on, savoring the feeling and not minding the flies which now buzzed around his gore-soaked visage. The rabbit was not quite the same as his ideal target, but for the moment he was satisfied. Imagination was enough for now while he scouted.
Thus far, nothing set off his suspicion. No strange smells in the air, no sounds save for the wildlife, a breeze, and a nearby air vehicle chopping away in the sky. However, as he continued to walk, he perked up as the last noise increased in volume. Three-finger looked upward, searching for any sign of the machine. Normally when they flew overhead, they passed by without fuss. This one was getting louder. It was getting closer.
Fighting the panic hammering in his heart, he dashed into a clearing to get a better look at the sky. Yes, the machine was bigger in the blue sky than they normally were. It may land. Outsiders would come out of them. Because of their newest prey? Had others come looking for them?
That whore seemed to cause more and more trouble the longer they held it, he thought bitterly. And even more likely, its plump little companion had survived its escape and told the piggies. His grip tightened on the shotgun, and he resisted the urge to furiously shoot the damnable thing down from the sky. Instead he turned about and ran as fast as he could, straight back to the cabin.
Perhaps the latest news would finally compel Sawtooth to get rid of the pale whore.
TBC...
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The Prey