I am working on this...
anonymous
October 2 2010, 20:32:14 UTC
But because I am a tease here is the first section...
“Sherlock I can’t just mobilise an armed response unit on a whim of yours!”
But apparently he could and would. Lestrade hoped that John, at least, had been telling the truth when he said that they were likely to encounter armed criminals - and wasn’t that a thing to be hoping he thought wryly.
The old warehouse Sherlock had led them to appeared to be abandoned: the few windows glassless and boarded, graffiti tags climbing from ground level right up to a height that made Lestrade wince when he imagined how the artist must have got up there, even the roof had suffered with smashed tiles littered on the ground around the building. Lestrade could well imagine it was used as a crack den by addicts too far gone to get their highs anywhere more comfortable, but that didn’t explain why Sherlock had led them to it. Sherlock was hardly going to be interested in rounding up a few addicts. But he had said nothing since demanding Lestrade’s team’s presence, and even John had not revealed anything significant more. Just said the words (“armed and dangerous”) that allowed Lestrade to start things in motion.
Now the building was secured and heavily armoured officers carrying the battering ram were moving into place. Three charges against the padlocked door later and it burst off its hinges, the clang echoing loudly in the night against his men’s silence. Then there was nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Lestrade nodded to the officer in charge of the armed squad - they could move in. He looked over to the two men who had brought him here and was surprised to see that John was physically holding Sherlock back - not that it was surprising that Sherlock was itching to get to what was presumably a crime scene, but John normally enabled him. This holding him back was new, and slightly worrying.
A crackle on his radio distracted Lestrade,
“Sir, building is clear. One person, unarmed, severely injured. Over.”
“Thank you. We’ll come in. Out,” Lestrade replied as Donovan radioed for an ambulance. He looked back to John, “We’re going in. You can follow, but do NOT get in the way. That means you too Sherlock.”
He had expected some sort of sarcastic response belittling the ability of the Met, but Sherlock seemed to not hear him. Instead the man was staring at the building, looking pale and drawn in the police lights. Lestrade felt something cold settle in his stomach.
Trying to squash the dread now starting to course through him Lestrade strode towards the building, Donovan joining him.
Even though he knew the building was secured he found himself creeping through the doorway, holding his breath, on the lookout for an assault that wasn’t going to happen. As they emerged from the dark corridor into the brightly lit open space Lestrade suddenly realised why Sherlock had looked so nauseous.
There in a corner, trussed up, naked, bloody, beaten was a man Lestrade had met only once before, the man he had met when first he had worked with Sherlock, the man who had introduced himself as Mycroft Holmes.
Re: I am working on this...
anonymous
October 2 2010, 20:44:00 UTC
*takes my draft and makes a tent out of it* I will be camping here, singing annoying songs at the top of my lungs until you update. Just so you know :D
God I'm so glad you are doing this. PLEASE update soon.
Re: I am working on this...
anonymous
October 3 2010, 07:27:05 UTC
Well it is written in my head - I just need time to commit it to computer... And NO! Don't turn your draft into a tent - 2 fics are always better than 1!
I am working on this... 2/? TRIGGERS: rape, violence, it's not going to be pleasant
anonymous
October 3 2010, 12:39:10 UTC
It was a dark and rainy night, the cold seeping through his jacket. It wasn’t a part of the city he would ever normally venture into, especially not alone, but his snitch had insisted. He knew he was close to cracking this thing, hopefully tonight’s information would be enough. He turned up his collar against the wind.
A shadowy figure appeared in the gloom a little way in front of him. And then a second appeared. And then a third. Feeling distinctly uneasy, he turned off the street down a little alley, picking up his pace. His snitch had sworn he would be alone. Something was wrong. He heard footsteps behind him, the steps keeping in time with his own. He started to walk faster still, seeing a well lit street at the end of the alley, not two hundred feet away. The footsteps picked up their pace too. And got faster. They were gaining on him. Could he outrun them? Just as he was preparing to sprint off he heard the unmistakable click of a safety catch being taken off.
“Stop there.”
He stopped, his mind running through possibilities, trying to work out how he could get out of this alive. Which had turned out to be pointless. The men fully intended to let him live - after all, that was much more fun...
I am working on this... 3a/? TRIGGERS: rape, violence, it's not going to be pleasant
anonymous
October 3 2010, 12:42:13 UTC
Stupid character limit!
Even as his mind spun, trying to take in the scene, Lestrade was turning, trying to stop Sherlock before he came in, trying to stop him from the pain of seeing his brother…
But he was too late.
Sherlock had stopped stock still, just inside the room, looking if possible even paler than before, staring at his brother with horror plainly visible on his face. John was standing just behind him, looking nauseous.
“Sherlock…”
At the sound of his name Sherlock seemed to come to, suddenly looking away from the broken man.
“Sherlock…” Lestrade tried again, but Sherlock ignored him, pushing past to move into the room itself. He didn’t spare a second glance for his brother.
“Have your men touched anything? Don’t let them touch anything.”
John threw a confused and slightly worried glance over to where Sherlock appeared to be now examining a pile of old rubble in one corner. He looked from Sherlock to Mycroft and then back to Sherlock again. Lestrade just shrugged. Pursing his lips John turned his attention to Mycroft once more, moving over to where the man was lying, switching into ‘doctor mode’, murmuring, “Hush Mycroft… it’s alright… we’re here now… Sherlock’s here now… you’re ok… you’re going to be ok…”
Lestrade turned away. From what he had seen already of the man’s injuries and the blood pooling under him, none of that was true. If Lestrade’s suspicions about what had been done to Mycroft were true, it was quite possible that he would never be ‘ok’ again.
“Lestrade!” John was still speaking quietly - trying not to frighten Mycroft, Lestrade assumed - but his voice was laced with force, “He needs an ambulance now!”
“One is on its way. Sally, you’ve done your first aid training - can you give John a hand.”
“KEEP HER AWAY FROM HIM!” Sherlock’s shout startled them all. Lestrade intended to overrule him - after all, if she could help his brother what did the petty squabbling between her and him matter now… but Sherlock looked so fierce and yet so… vulnerable… that Lestrade couldn’t do it. Trying to clamp down on the nausea he was feeling, he said, “Never mind Sally. I’ll do it.”
“But sir?” Sally didn’t finish but Lestrade knew what it was she was asking and hated that she felt she had to. She was the only one who knew about…
“I’ll manage. You carry on as you are. Make sure we don’t miss anything and make sure we do it right. When we find these bastards I want to make sure there is no way they can weasel out of charges on a technicality.”
Gritting his teeth, Lestrade moved to John, crouching down beside him.
“What do you need me to do?”
John threw him a puzzled glance, but then said, “Can you press here, hard? He’s lost a lot of blood. We need to stop him losing any more.”
Lestrade took over from John, pressing down hard on Mycroft’s shoulder, trying to ignore the whimpers of pain from the man beneath him, not looking anywhere except the wound itself. Out of the corner of his eye he could just about see John moving around, checking for more injuries. A sudden hiss from the doctor, accompanied by the man underneath him flinching made him look up involuntarily.
“Lestrade…” John trailed off, apparently unwilling to say any more, but he caught Lestrade’s eye and slowly, deliberately looked down, Lestrade’s gaze following until he saw the mess of blood over the man’s thighs. So he had been right in his suspicions then. Bile started to rise in his throat. He couldn’t do this after all. He was going to be sick. He just couldn’t…
Thankfully the paramedics rushing through the door turned into just enough distraction for him to hold back the retching - for the moment anyway. He let one take over at Mycroft’s shoulder as John told the other what injuries he had found so far.
Re: I am working on this... 3b/? TRIGGERS: rape, violence, it's not going to be pleasant
anonymous
October 3 2010, 12:43:22 UTC
As Mycroft was loaded onto the stretcher Lestrade looked round for Sherlock. He had his magnifying glass out and was examining something on the wall.
“Sherlock? Don’t you want to go in the ambulance with your brother?”
“Why would I?” Sherlock almost sounded genuinely confused at the question, “There are still more clues to be investigated. I am of more use here. I can’t trust you lot to do it right.” It sounded entirely like something Sherlock might say, but something in the tone of his voice didn’t ring quite true to Lestrade. Sherlock turned away from them again.
Lestrade looked at John questioningly.
John shook his head. Apparently now that Mycroft was in the hands of other medics, it became Sherlock who took priority once more.
So Mycroft Holmes was taken off in the ambulance by himself, and Sally carried on supervising the investigation, distracting attention, while Lestrade went outside to puke the remains of his lunch up into the gutter.
*is dead* I cannot convey to you how happy I am that this finally got filled or how heart-breakingly beautiful this is Can't wait until the next update :)
Author here
anonymous
October 4 2010, 19:57:10 UTC
Oh I'm so pleased you like it so far - I was really worried you wouldn't. I know there's rather more Lestrade than Mycroft atm but M will start to take a more active role soon...
Author here
anonymous
October 4 2010, 20:01:05 UTC
Oh I'm so pleased you like it so far - I was really worried you wouldn't. I know there's rather more Lestrade than Mycroft atm but M will start to take a more active role soon...
I am working on this... 4/? TRIGGERS: rape, violence, it's not going to be pleasant
anonymous
October 4 2010, 19:51:07 UTC
The first fist connecting caused pain to explode through his jaw. The second - this time to his gut - caused him to double up. The kick to his kneecap left him stumbling, overbalancing until the hands that grasped his jacket hauled him up and pressed him up face first into the wall, hands pinned behind his back.
“What… what do you want?” he managed to gasp, choking on the blood welling up in his mouth.
“Our boss wants to send yours a message. He left it up to us to decide how to send it.”
The first voice was gruff, even in his dazed state he couldn’t help but notice it was the archetypal tough guy voice. The second voice was thin and reedy and sent a chill down his spine as it said,
“And you’re such a pretty boy… it would be a shame to waste you.”
He tried to struggle, tried to turn round but he was just pushed harder into the wall, a body pressing up against his back, pressing up and grinding against him. He could feel something - plastic? - being tied around his wrists, cutting into them. And then hands that weren’t his own were reaching round him, fumbling, pawing his trousers. The slow dawning of what they wanted to do, of what they were going to do (because how could he stop them) made him feel sick. As a hand finally succeeded in ripping open the buttons of his fly all of his muscles seemed to freeze up. As much as he wanted to struggle, to fight back, he couldn’t move any of them. He couldn’t move at all.
The hands retreated briefly, for just long enough to roughly manhandle him away from the wall and bend him over something hard, metallic - in the gloom his brain had just enough time to register it as a dustbin before the hands tore at his trousers, dropping them around his ankles. The move was repeated with his underwear and then a swift kick to his ankle pushed his legs apart. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see. All he could focus on was the hands brutally spreading him open, the hard cock being pushed between his cheeks, the burn…
“Sherlock I can’t just mobilise an armed response unit on a whim of yours!”
But apparently he could and would. Lestrade hoped that John, at least, had been telling the truth when he said that they were likely to encounter armed criminals - and wasn’t that a thing to be hoping he thought wryly.
The old warehouse Sherlock had led them to appeared to be abandoned: the few windows glassless and boarded, graffiti tags climbing from ground level right up to a height that made Lestrade wince when he imagined how the artist must have got up there, even the roof had suffered with smashed tiles littered on the ground around the building. Lestrade could well imagine it was used as a crack den by addicts too far gone to get their highs anywhere more comfortable, but that didn’t explain why Sherlock had led them to it. Sherlock was hardly going to be interested in rounding up a few addicts. But he had said nothing since demanding Lestrade’s team’s presence, and even John had not revealed anything significant more. Just said the words (“armed and dangerous”) that allowed Lestrade to start things in motion.
Now the building was secured and heavily armoured officers carrying the battering ram were moving into place. Three charges against the padlocked door later and it burst off its hinges, the clang echoing loudly in the night against his men’s silence. Then there was nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Lestrade nodded to the officer in charge of the armed squad - they could move in. He looked over to the two men who had brought him here and was surprised to see that John was physically holding Sherlock back - not that it was surprising that Sherlock was itching to get to what was presumably a crime scene, but John normally enabled him. This holding him back was new, and slightly worrying.
A crackle on his radio distracted Lestrade,
“Sir, building is clear. One person, unarmed, severely injured. Over.”
“Thank you. We’ll come in. Out,” Lestrade replied as Donovan radioed for an ambulance. He looked back to John, “We’re going in. You can follow, but do NOT get in the way. That means you too Sherlock.”
He had expected some sort of sarcastic response belittling the ability of the Met, but Sherlock seemed to not hear him. Instead the man was staring at the building, looking pale and drawn in the police lights. Lestrade felt something cold settle in his stomach.
Trying to squash the dread now starting to course through him Lestrade strode towards the building, Donovan joining him.
Even though he knew the building was secured he found himself creeping through the doorway, holding his breath, on the lookout for an assault that wasn’t going to happen. As they emerged from the dark corridor into the brightly lit open space Lestrade suddenly realised why Sherlock had looked so nauseous.
There in a corner, trussed up, naked, bloody, beaten was a man Lestrade had met only once before, the man he had met when first he had worked with Sherlock, the man who had introduced himself as Mycroft Holmes.
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God I'm so glad you are doing this. PLEASE update soon.
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And NO! Don't turn your draft into a tent - 2 fics are always better than 1!
Reply
A shadowy figure appeared in the gloom a little way in front of him. And then a second appeared. And then a third. Feeling distinctly uneasy, he turned off the street down a little alley, picking up his pace. His snitch had sworn he would be alone. Something was wrong. He heard footsteps behind him, the steps keeping in time with his own. He started to walk faster still, seeing a well lit street at the end of the alley, not two hundred feet away. The footsteps picked up their pace too. And got faster. They were gaining on him. Could he outrun them? Just as he was preparing to sprint off he heard the unmistakable click of a safety catch being taken off.
“Stop there.”
He stopped, his mind running through possibilities, trying to work out how he could get out of this alive. Which had turned out to be pointless. The men fully intended to let him live - after all, that was much more fun...
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Even as his mind spun, trying to take in the scene, Lestrade was turning, trying to stop Sherlock before he came in, trying to stop him from the pain of seeing his brother…
But he was too late.
Sherlock had stopped stock still, just inside the room, looking if possible even paler than before, staring at his brother with horror plainly visible on his face. John was standing just behind him, looking nauseous.
“Sherlock…”
At the sound of his name Sherlock seemed to come to, suddenly looking away from the broken man.
“Sherlock…” Lestrade tried again, but Sherlock ignored him, pushing past to move into the room itself. He didn’t spare a second glance for his brother.
“Have your men touched anything? Don’t let them touch anything.”
John threw a confused and slightly worried glance over to where Sherlock appeared to be now examining a pile of old rubble in one corner. He looked from Sherlock to Mycroft and then back to Sherlock again. Lestrade just shrugged. Pursing his lips John turned his attention to Mycroft once more, moving over to where the man was lying, switching into ‘doctor mode’, murmuring, “Hush Mycroft… it’s alright… we’re here now… Sherlock’s here now… you’re ok… you’re going to be ok…”
Lestrade turned away. From what he had seen already of the man’s injuries and the blood pooling under him, none of that was true. If Lestrade’s suspicions about what had been done to Mycroft were true, it was quite possible that he would never be ‘ok’ again.
“Lestrade!” John was still speaking quietly - trying not to frighten Mycroft, Lestrade assumed - but his voice was laced with force, “He needs an ambulance now!”
“One is on its way. Sally, you’ve done your first aid training - can you give John a hand.”
“KEEP HER AWAY FROM HIM!” Sherlock’s shout startled them all. Lestrade intended to overrule him - after all, if she could help his brother what did the petty squabbling between her and him matter now… but Sherlock looked so fierce and yet so… vulnerable… that Lestrade couldn’t do it. Trying to clamp down on the nausea he was feeling, he said, “Never mind Sally. I’ll do it.”
“But sir?” Sally didn’t finish but Lestrade knew what it was she was asking and hated that she felt she had to. She was the only one who knew about…
“I’ll manage. You carry on as you are. Make sure we don’t miss anything and make sure we do it right. When we find these bastards I want to make sure there is no way they can weasel out of charges on a technicality.”
Gritting his teeth, Lestrade moved to John, crouching down beside him.
“What do you need me to do?”
John threw him a puzzled glance, but then said, “Can you press here, hard? He’s lost a lot of blood. We need to stop him losing any more.”
Lestrade took over from John, pressing down hard on Mycroft’s shoulder, trying to ignore the whimpers of pain from the man beneath him, not looking anywhere except the wound itself. Out of the corner of his eye he could just about see John moving around, checking for more injuries. A sudden hiss from the doctor, accompanied by the man underneath him flinching made him look up involuntarily.
“Lestrade…” John trailed off, apparently unwilling to say any more, but he caught Lestrade’s eye and slowly, deliberately looked down, Lestrade’s gaze following until he saw the mess of blood over the man’s thighs. So he had been right in his suspicions then. Bile started to rise in his throat. He couldn’t do this after all. He was going to be sick. He just couldn’t…
Thankfully the paramedics rushing through the door turned into just enough distraction for him to hold back the retching - for the moment anyway. He let one take over at Mycroft’s shoulder as John told the other what injuries he had found so far.
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“Sherlock? Don’t you want to go in the ambulance with your brother?”
“Why would I?” Sherlock almost sounded genuinely confused at the question, “There are still more clues to be investigated. I am of more use here. I can’t trust you lot to do it right.” It sounded entirely like something Sherlock might say, but something in the tone of his voice didn’t ring quite true to Lestrade. Sherlock turned away from them again.
Lestrade looked at John questioningly.
John shook his head. Apparently now that Mycroft was in the hands of other medics, it became Sherlock who took priority once more.
So Mycroft Holmes was taken off in the ambulance by himself, and Sally carried on supervising the investigation, distracting attention, while Lestrade went outside to puke the remains of his lunch up into the gutter.
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(The comment has been removed)
(and a very little more is now up)
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I cannot convey to you how happy I am that this finally got filled or how heart-breakingly beautiful this is
Can't wait until the next update :)
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“What… what do you want?” he managed to gasp, choking on the blood welling up in his mouth.
“Our boss wants to send yours a message. He left it up to us to decide how to send it.”
The first voice was gruff, even in his dazed state he couldn’t help but notice it was the archetypal tough guy voice. The second voice was thin and reedy and sent a chill down his spine as it said,
“And you’re such a pretty boy… it would be a shame to waste you.”
He tried to struggle, tried to turn round but he was just pushed harder into the wall, a body pressing up against his back, pressing up and grinding against him. He could feel something - plastic? - being tied around his wrists, cutting into them. And then hands that weren’t his own were reaching round him, fumbling, pawing his trousers. The slow dawning of what they wanted to do, of what they were going to do (because how could he stop them) made him feel sick. As a hand finally succeeded in ripping open the buttons of his fly all of his muscles seemed to freeze up. As much as he wanted to struggle, to fight back, he couldn’t move any of them. He couldn’t move at all.
The hands retreated briefly, for just long enough to roughly manhandle him away from the wall and bend him over something hard, metallic - in the gloom his brain had just enough time to register it as a dustbin before the hands tore at his trousers, dropping them around his ankles. The move was repeated with his underwear and then a swift kick to his ankle pushed his legs apart. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see. All he could focus on was the hands brutally spreading him open, the hard cock being pushed between his cheeks, the burn…
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A little more is now posted...
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I shall be sitting here, waiting (im)patiently for more
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There is a little more posted now
If only RL would just disappear for a bit!
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