Red Roses For Snow White
Fic: Red Roses For Snow White: Chapter 3
I don´t have much to add this, expect that I have been informed, that my knowledge about the mechanism of being electrocuted is incomplete. I am sorry about that, but I haven´t changed the scene, because it would need the text betad again and it would be a too big trouble. So this is fictional. Even torture scenes are.
chapter 1
chapter 2
oOo oOo oOo
"I hope you're lying comfortably there. I hope you like to lie on your back, because you'll be doing a lot of that."
"What do you really want from me?"
"You could start by telling me about yourself, Sherlock Holmes. I like to get to know my guests. And it'll help you live longer."
The detective stiffened. How did this man know his name? Oh, he must have checked his wallet. Credit card, ID, stuff like that.
As he talked, he pinned electrodes to Sherlock´s toes, fingertips and tongue.
Sherlock lay on the surgery table in the middle of the room. He checked his surroundings from his restricted viewpoint. The room had no windows, as far as he could see. It was most likely a cellar, this kind of room usually was. It seemed to be an odd mixture of a control centre and a surgery room. White tiles, monitors, a control table, a draining board, metal tables covered in instruments, brightly lit by fluorescent lamps. Hooks were fixed to the ceiling... but what for? Despite the room´s similarity to a hospital ward, it clearly wasn´t meant to help anyone heal. His observations only confirmed his fears. It looked like a modern torture chamber.
The man before him stared back with colourless eyes set in his shapeless face, his sandy brown hair beginning to grey. Grey trousers, average size, average weight. None of this would be very important, nobody would pay any attention to a man like him. And nobody would remember what he looked like, or even if they had seen him in the first place. His neighbours would have called him a humble fellow, who lived a lonely silent life, without ever seeing anyone or anyone visiting in his house.
So considering the limitations of the observational ability of average people, the chance that someone had noticed something unusual going on when this murderer had abducted him and carried him to his house, was near zero. Nobody knew that he was here, that much was certain.
"I am so pleased to have you as my guest, Sherlock Holmes. I hope that you will have more stamina than my last one, that you are more entertaining. And that you will give me your voice. I want to hear you talking to me."
Sherlock didn´t respond.
"You must be in real need." The murderer continued fingering some device in his hand. "You ran straight into my arms. You were so eager to become mine. It's not the right time to hold your tongue, my lusty bender."
Predator had finished his preparations.
"I didn´t look for company. I am a consulting detective, I was following you in order to get you to the police for the crimes you have committed. You are a serial rapist and a murderer." He managed to speak despite the piece of metal on his tongue.
Predator burst into heartfelt laughter. "Really? How noble and moral. Now, I fail to see how you're going to arrest me or alert the police. An easy question: which one of us is chained to the examination table, naked? Pay attention, "detective", I asked you a question. Give me your answer."
He turned the switch on the device in his hand. The pain surprised Sherlock and he yelped, but it wasn't insufferable and it didn´t last too long.
"Consider this as truth or dare. This was just the first level."
A new, stronger wave of pain rushed through Sherlock's nervous system.
"An answer, please."
The pain wasn´t yet too disturbing, but it demanded his attention. An answer... He should answer... What was the question?
"I will increase the duration and intensity of the current, and continue to do so as long as necessary, until you are wholly in cooperation with me."
"A…. a police officer and my… my… brother are looking for me. I know people from Scotland Yard. My brother will tear you apart when he finds you. You have no chance. He… he… can find anyone he wants to. You're a dead man." Sherlock managed to hiss.
"The stupid police and your miserable brother won´t find my house." The man assured him. "We won´t be interrupted. Yes, they´ll find you, when you've already been eaten by rats, rotting in some wasteland, in a derelict house or among trash, whatever place I choose as the final resting place for your dead body. Let´s hope that they find you in time, so there is something left of your pretty face for your grieving brother to identify you from. But not before that. They won´t ever catch me. And I will continue my little hobby. You won´t be my last toy."
A new jolt paralyzed the detective's body. His heart was beating furiously in his chest like a frightened animal's. Why?
"What... What did you ask me?"
"Did you already forget? You didn't pay enough attention. That wasn't very impressive. Are you really a detective? Or are you doing something else on the streets for your living? Who's tied down to the table, naked, without any hope of getting out? Who's in real trouble?"
The intensity of jolts increased. He didn´t give him chance to gather his strength and collect his thoughts.
"I… I am."
"Good. Right answer."
The pain stopped. Sherlock was sweaty and he gasped hastily, having forgotten to breathe for a moment.
"Now this should not be a hard one either. Listen: you are trash. You have to understand this. Repeat: I am nothing, I deserve all this. You are everything I need."
The white hot pain was stronger and more demanding than ever before.
"Repeat it."
No. He wouldn't play his game. He was Sherlock Holmes. He could handle this. But the pain didn´t stop.
He wouldn't give up.
He didn´t say a word.
The next level of current came.
"Repeat: I am nothing. I deserve all this. You are everything I need."
Sherlock´s brain was empty of every coherent thought at this voltage level. If the white hot flow of electricity that paralyzed his nerves would cease for a moment, it would be easier to get the words out.
"I... I... am... nothing... I… deserve all… this… You... are… everything… I need."
"Good boy. Now we are getting somewhere. It was so good, that you can repeat it again for me."
Again? Right… It wouldn't hurt more this time… He could do it… And he said, no, slurred the words again. It really was easier this time.
Finally, the man removed the electrodes from Sherlock's blackened skin.
"But we are just at the beginning."
Then he grabbed Sherlock´s soft cock.
No! Sherlock screamed helplessly in his mind.
oOo oOo oOo
The next morning, John descended to the living room to make breakfast, expecting to see Sherlock reading the newspapers and waiting for his morning tea. But Sherlock wasn´t there. Was he still in his bedroom? At what time had he returned? John hadn´t heard anything after he went up to his bedroom at 11 pm. Had he come home after that, and he still slept? John decided to wait and see. He had already poured tea and milk into his mug and called Sherlock, until he finally realised that he was alone. The detective hadn´t returned from his nightly chase. It wasn't unusual, after all, but normally he texted John if he was delayed. Maybe he was too occupied with his investigations even to text… Maybe John's presence wasn't crucial this time. John felt childish, he hated being left aside.
All right, what he was complaining about? He could spend a free day doing something fun… Uh… He could… What he would do? Something normal, something which normal people did. He could call Sarah and suggest a date? They could go to a movie and have dinner after that, in a nice intimate restaurant.
To his surprise, Sarah was free and willing to spend an evening with John (probably because John had reassured her that this time Sherlock wouldn´t involve himself in their date, although he didn´t explain why). A movie and dinner sound great, she replied, just what she needed. John imagined her warm smile as he spoke with her.
It really was a lovely evening with Sarah. First, they went to see 'The Runaway Bride'. It was Sarah´s choice, not exactly to John's taste, but when John saw that Sarah had enjoyed the movie, it was enough for him. After the movie, they went to an intimate Thai-restaurant near the cinema, and it was really wonderful to sit there with Sarah, and talk to her about casual things in the candlelight. For a while, there wouldn't be serial killers, Moriarty, Afghanistan or seasonal flu in the world, but just them staring into each other´s eyes, talking and laughing. He had longed for a chance to spend an evening with his loved one without any sudden interruptions. Sarah was smiling and her eyes were glimmering. John tas ted his beer and smiled back. She was so beautiful, so lovable. John made a mental note to do this more often. He had been a too obedient assistant to Sherlock, without any payment. He had his own life to live, he didn't want to always follow Sherlock's orders. When he next saw Sherlock, he resolved to tell him that he was going to take more free evenings than he had done. Yes, that he would do. He had had enough of being Sherlock's eager sidekick, enough of hanging around crime scenes to check corpses at ungodly hours. He was a trained doctor, not a coroner. It'll be easy, John thought, staring at Sarah´s lively friendly face.
When John Watson returned home the next morning, he was still in an excellent mood. Sarah had a shift, John had the day off. The whole world smiled with him. The flat was still empty, so he could spend his morning in peace enjoying his morning coffee and reading the Times, Guardian and all other newspapers without having to hurry. What a blessed peace! He should spend all his free days always like this, not running around London like some sort of a madman.
But as the day went on, nothing happened and his good feelings changed into a hangover induced headache. He regretted last evening's thoughts when he remembered that he hadn´t ever spent so much time alone in Baker Street. Suddenly, he felt lonely. The skull stared at him accusingly, though its eyes were full of emptiness.
What if the detective had returned after he had gone to his date with Sarah the previous evening, and had just left before he came home? Lestrade might have needed him for a new case.
He checked his phone. No calls.
"Mrs Hudson!" John Watson shouted out of the front door to downstairs.
"Dr Watson, everyone in the neighbourhood can hear you shouting. I'm old, but I'm not deaf. I heard well enough when you arrived home this morning, young man."
"Erhm… I'm terribly sorry, Mrs Hudson, if I disturbed you. I don´t want to bother you, but… Did you happen to see Sherlock come home after I left yesterday evening?"
"No, I haven´t seen him since he left with that young woman two days ago."
"But he vanishes for days without telling anyone, it's not unusual for him, is it, Mrs Hudson?" Almost two days ago? John stared at Mrs Hudson pleadingly.
"Yes, earlier he did, but when you moved in here Dr Watson, he's never gone so long without telling you about it. You've been so good for him. I hope everything's OK, Dr Watson."
"He'll come back soon. You have nothing to worry about," John reassured Mrs Hudson.
John stared at the skull on the mantelpiece, asking it for advice, but it was persistently silent. Maybe because I'm not its master, John thought, and for some reason he wasn't amused at all.
oOo oOo oOo
After two days of Sherlock's disappearance, John Watson had called him several times and sent him sixteen texts asking and finally pleading for an answer, without results. The worry was gnawing away at his innards like a starving animal. Things weren't as they should be. Finally, he went to meet Lestrade.
The police department was like a busy bee hive, today even more so than normally. Sally Donovan deterred him as usual; this woman was starting to get on his nerves.
"I have to talk about something very important with Lestrade."
"That might be true, but why he haven't you shared your concerns with your freaky flatmate? Or has the freak abandoned you?"
John struggled, telling himself not to hit the annoying woman. "Yes," he finally said, "he has, in a way."
Finally, DI Gregory Lestrade noticed their argument and came to ask what was wrong. After he had explained the situation to him privately, Lestrade had said not to be too worried.
"Sherlock has a habit of disappearing; he's probably on a case which he wants to investigate alone."
"I saw Sherlock for the last time with a homeless woman."
Lestrade sighed. "Sherlock has his private contacts, but he will always come back."
"Shouldn´t we try to find the woman?" he asked. She could know something.
Lestrade sighed. "I'm working on a difficult case just now. Have you read about it in the newspapers? A serial killer who brutally tortures, rapes and finally kills his victims, who are all young men. Yesterday we found his fifth victim near the Thames. The snow has melted, so any possible footprints on the ground have vanished as well. The press are demanding answers, and my superiors are waiting for results. I'm rather busy just now."
Lestrade looked reluctantly down at his desk. "John, you said that Sherlock left with a homeless woman. Don´t misunderstand me now, but could it be possible that you don´t know everything about him? He might have started using drugs again. He used to vanish when he did that, before."
"No! He's clean. He promised me not to touch that shit again. I wouldn´t accept it. If he did, I'd leave. He wouldn´t lie to me." Red spots of fury emerged on John´s cheeks.
"You don´t know him very well, John. You don´t know what kind of person he was when he used drugs. He may have been clean, but you can´t ever be sure about them. There's always the possibility that the temptation has become too great. What if the homeless woman was a dealer?"
"I am a doctor and my sister is an alcoholic. You don´t need to teach me about addicts. I didn't realise until now how prejudiced you are. Not all homeless people are criminals. No wonder they don´t want to talk to police, if you suspect them immediately. She's Sherlock's informant, so she might have had news for him."
The shocking pictures of the young men were pinned on a notice board behind Lestrade, the five different victims mutilated and their skin covered with a collection of scars. There was a disturbing similarity in their appearance and ages; they all had brown or dark hair, they were all thin and good-looking, and they were all young, in their twenties or early thirties. The only exception was the first victim, who had sandy hair, and was shorter than the rest of them.
It was easy to think later that the right answer was hung clearly in front of him. It is easy to be wise after the event, to think that he should have noticed it beforehand. John's observational and deductive abilities were totally clouded by his fury towards Lestrade, and he had stared at the pictures without really seeing them. It is easy to be a wise man with hindsight. Even Lestrade missed the obvious sometimes. He rushed out of the room, hearing Lestrade ask him not to slam door behind him. He ignored the request. Lestrade could be so narrow-minded sometimes. Despite what John had said to Chief Inspector, he too believed that there could be a tiny chance that Sherlock had relapsed. He would find him with or without Lestrade´s help. He wouldn't give up on Sherlock, even though everyone else around him seemed to have. He would find him, wherever he was.
He returned to Baker Street by foot and bought a Chinese take-away en route (he wasn´t in the mood to cook for himself). He tried to shake the image of mutilated bodies from his mind.
oOo oOo oOo
"How are we feeling today?" Predator asked Sherlock, three days and 69 electricity shocks later. He had counted every one of them, as Predator had showed considerable skill and creativeness in their placing, varying the position of the electrodes, and the duration and intensity of the current. He had enough knowledge about the effects of such shocks that fatal damage had not been caused. Sherlock expected that he would now get a demonstration with fewer repeats. He had black burning spots all over his body by now. His body was aching, and the urge to sit up and move was overwhelming. The constant agony of the shocks caused an adrenaline peak in his system, which demanded that he do something physical, to fly or fight… Or at least to get up… He was unable to obey any of the commands that his shocked nervous system sent to his body.
"Fine," Sherlock said shortly.
"Are you really sure?" Predator touched the black burns on his ivory skin sporadically.
"Yes. I feel better than ever," Sherlock managed to mumble the words, although his tongue felt like a swollen, unfamiliar thing inside his dry mouth. He had started to smell, he could sniff the stinking odour of his own fluids, but he couldn't do anything about it. Predator hadn´t no intention of cleaning him up. He would have to get accustomed to being dirty, he thought to himself blankly.
"I don't think that I'm making much progress with you. I have to try something more- persuasive."
"What's your point? Why are you even bothering? You don't need to do this."
"Because you are mine. You just have to realise it. My duty is to make this clear to you. I am everything you have. As long as you do not understand this, I'll have to teach it to you. And when you finally get it, I'll be done with you. Usually, gorgeous creatures like you don´t pay any attention to ordinary looking middle-aged people like me, who can't pay enough you for your services. To you, I'm no better than dog crap under your shoe. But now you have to notice me. I am your entire existence. I am the pain you feel and the pleasure I offer you. I am your life and death. There is nothing for you except me. "
Predator cut a deep wound between Sherlock´s second and third ribs, pressing with his left hand on Sherlock´s chest to keep him still. He slid his right hand´s index finger against the wound, and scraped it with his nail. Sherlock started from the sudden unpleasant sensation.
"You are trash. You've even started to look and smell like trash. Look at me! Say it: I am a piece of meat."
"Ma- maybe... but... you've made me this way... it's you... not me... I'm not like that."
Predator slid his index finger teasingly back and forth in the fresh wound.
"Do you like this? Does it feel good, love? This is nothing yet. Just wait. Think how you'll look after a couple of weeks."
Sherlock turned his head away. Moisture rose in the corner of his eyes.
Predator grasped his dark curls and slammed his head hard against the table.
"Pay attention when I am talking to you! Don´t do that again! Say it to me, loudly: I am a piece of meat." He pressed his finger harder against Sherlock's wound. He yanked at his restraints, thrashing against the hard table. Sherlock bit his tongue so as not to cry out, tasting his blood and swallowing it. He felt dizzy and sick from the ache in his head. He fought back against the reflex to vomit, there wasn´t anything left in his stomach to throw up, except his own blood.
"Say it, slut!"
"I... am... a... piece of meat." Mumbling the words caused him pain, too. Everything was painful now.
The pressure ceased. Predator patted his cheek as a reward, and Sherlock struggled against his instant urge to turn his head away from the unwelcome touch in fear of another punishment. Yes, he had learned to fear this man in just a couple of days. It was some kind of achievement for his tormentor.
"Who's John?"
"What?" He assumed at first that he had misheard. This disgusting man could not possibly know about John Watson.
"John has tried to contact you several times. He isn´t your brother. He's made me curious. I want to know you better. Tell me about John. I want you to talk to me. I want to hear your voice. Talk to me!" He shouted his last words.
"Nobody," Sherlock stared steadily at Predator. "I have no idea."
"'Nobody' has called you nine times and texted you twenty two times. Why is it hard for me to believe that John means nothing to you? Don´t make this difficult. I really would like to hear more about him. I'm not asking for much from you."
He wasn´t going to say anything about his friend to this man. But he had to say something. It was pointless to deny that.
"He is my stalker," he finally lied.
"A stalker?"
"He calls himself my fan. He follows me, and calls me all the time. I consider it very disturbing."
"Does he? Why is his number in your phone then?"
"By mistake."
"I don't believe you. I want an honest answer. You know what I do when I am not happy with your answers."
"You'll hurt me again."
Silence.
"That's right. Do you see this?"
Sherlock hardly saw the thin object in Predator´s hand. It was a needle. When Predator grabbed Sherlock´s index finger, he remembered the mutilated nails of Charlie and knew what Predator was going to do. The panic caught him just before the pain. Predator moved the needle under his nail a little, and his whole existence turned into pulsating anguish. Every reasonable thought vanished from his head. He heard a scream coming from somewhere, before he realised that the sound came from him. He hated himself being so unable to control his body. He hated his body, which made him scream so mindlessly. He wished that his useless body would melt away, turn to ashes, simply vanish into thin air. Sherlock writhed in his restraints helplessly, trying to shut off the pain with his fading will power. He couldn´t do anything to stop himself from feeling it. The torment would only cease when his torturer decided so. Predator´s malignantly content face leaned over him. Finally, Predator dragged the needle out.
"This is for your own good. Now tell me who John is."
"A stalker." Sherlock repeated blankly.
His tormentor showed him the bloody needle. "How d´you feel now? Are you still fine?"
"You have done this before, the others that you've used before me have already told you how it feels. You know it yourself," he spat.
"So defiant… But I´ll beat that out of you. Tell me about your friend. Talk to me, tell me about John!"
"I don't have any friends. Nobody really likes me," Sherlock attempted to convince his torturer.
This dangerous man´s interest towards John made him feel sick to the bottom of his stomach. But Predator had given him a reason to resist his temptation to give up: he had to protect John´s privacy against Predator´s dangerous curiosity. The only person in the world who could stand him, so much so that he chose to live with him, of his own free will. He wouldn't ever let down John… his John. Even if it cost him his life. At least he would have done something, right then before he died, if he had managed to keep John safe.
"This needle is thick from your blood… It wants more of it. Is your friend as pretty as you are? Are you in love with him? Does he make you feel good in a bed? Tell me, how does he like to shag you? Talk to me, tell me about John!" Predator´s voice echoed from a distance, like an unreal entity.
"Never."
"You have to enjoy this."
Predator grabbed his middle finger and forced the needle under another nail.