Too Close to Holmes - 7/?
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7 - Broken
Warning - This chapter contains rape.
The world came swimming back to Sherlock extremely slowly and with notable reluctance. He could hear the sounds of another person breathing and pacing, the noise pounding into his brain with almost as much force as the original blow. After taking a moment to adjust to the pain of his head injury and the sudden influx of noise, smell and sensation, Sherlock slowly opened his eyes and considered his surroundings.
He was lying, face-down, on a bare mattress, his hands cuffed to a pipe on the wall above his head. There were no windows in the room, and, craning his head to look over his shoulder, Sherlock was able to see that he was in an ordinary domestic garage, with a plain brown wooden door leading into the main house. Once he was fully aware of his surroundings, the reality of his own state hit him.
He was naked, and apparently had been for some time, if the abrasions on his wrists from the cold, metal handcuffs were anything to go by. A brief moment of panic flooded through Sherlock's veins, but this was quickly quashed when a quick clench of muscles assured him that, so far, at least, he had not been subjected to any sexual assault. Groaning with a combination of relief and concern over what he would face now that he was awake, Sherlock peered over his other shoulder at his pacing abductor.
"Something tells me this isn't Mycroft kidnapping me for my own good."
There was a snort from the corner, and the other man walked over to crouch down next to Sherlock's head. He was a stocky man, roughly the same build as Mycroft, but completely bald. Even his eyebrows had been waxed off. He was wearing plain blue jeans with a white t-shirt, and smiled softly down at Sherlock.
"I don't know who Mycroft is, but this really isn't for your own good." He said, stroking Sherlock's hair gently, ignoring the detective's violent flinch.
"Who are you?" Sherlock asked, glaring angrily.
"Victor Trevor." Was the reply. "I tried to tell you to leave it alone, Sherlock, but I guess that was never going to happen."
"Obviously." Sherlock muttered, biting back against the wave of nausea that spread through his body. "What do you want now?"
Victor smiled, looking closely at Sherlock. "I was going to just kill you." He said softly. "But now... I just can't."
"Why not?" Sherlock asked.
"I never forgot you." Victor told him. "You really were the most beautiful little boy I'd ever seen. With all other beautiful children, that beauty fades by the time they become adults. They lose their innocent, angelic quality. But you... you're still so beautiful."
Sherlock fought down the urge to whimper. It was painfully clear, now, what this man planned to do.
"Why?" He asked, cringing at how weak and vulnerable his voice sounded. "Aren't I a bit old for you?"
"No." Victor responded simply, reaching forward to run a hand down Sherlock's back.
Sherlock thrashed angrily as Victor lowered himself to straddle his lower back, kicking his legs violently and ineffectively in an attempt to throw off the larger man. The world around him seemed to fade to nothing but the pressure of the man on his back and the urgent need to throw him off, and Sherlock choked, bile rising in his throat as he heard the ominous sounds of jeans being unzipped and a condom wrapped being torn open.
"Stop!" He shouted as Victor grabbed his hips roughly. "Just fucking stop!"
And, suddenly, it was too late. The pain of Trevor's violent entry with no preparation at all made Sherlock feel as though he was being torn in half, and every nerve in his body seemed to spark and burn in protest. He thrashed even more violently, trying to force the horrendous violation from his body. Every movement from Victor burned even more than the last, made even worse by Sherlock's desperate attempts to get away, and, suddenly, with a feeling of brokenness he hadn't experienced since he was nine years old, Sherlock was tired.
Sherlock's body went limp, all futile attempts to fight drained from him. He turned his head to bury his face in the flesh of his own arm, and, through the numbness that was slowly filling his mind and body, he was stunned to feel warm, wet tears on his skin. While he could still feel the pain, it didn't seem to be registering in his mind with the same intensity. Everything around him felt fuzzy, like he was experiencing everything through a layer of cotton wool, or clouded glass, or a dose of morphine.
He was so tired; tired of fighting, tired of hurting. All he wanted was for this to be over. He was fairly sure that Trevor planned to kill him once this was over, but suddenly, that didn't seem so bad. Sherlock had never been afraid of death - how could a person be afraid of a state which you experienced nothing? Being afraid of nothing was ridiculous. And, while Sherlock would have liked to keep on living, experience as much as possible of this world, death, and the nothingness that went with it, seemed infinitely better than living with this for the rest of his life. He no longer had the excuse that he was just a child, that there was nothing he could do against a grown man. Now, he was a grown man. He should have been able to fight him, should have been clever enough to find a way out, should have... should have been able to do something.
Out of nowhere, John's face flashed in Sherlock's mind. John. John would help him. John had to help him. That was what John did. But... no. Sherlock didn't want John to see him like this. As much as he had scorned him for it, Sherlock wanted John to look at him with admiration in his eyes and see a hero. If John came for him now, if John saw him letting Victor Trevor do this to him, then he would never look at him and see a hero again. He would always see a pathetic, weak, crying victim.
And then, Sherlock knew who he wanted to save him.
"Mycroft." He whimpered weakly into his arm. He wanted his brother to come and save him. Just like when they were children, when Sherlock was six years old and one of the boys from two years above him in school pushed him down and made his knee bleed, and Sherlock had looked up and seen Mycroft striding over, his eyes blazing, furious at whoever had hurt his brother. Just like then, all those years ago, when Sherlock had been crying on the ground, clutching at his bleeding knee, all he wanted in the world at this moment, when the pain was so much worse, so much deeper than that... all he wanted was his big brother.
Victor finished just as quickly and suddenly as he had started. One particularly vicious move, his teeth sinking sharply into Sherlock's bare shoulder, and it was over. He simply lay there for a moment, panting into Sherlock's ear, the smell of his breath flooding his victim's senses, making him wretch, until, finally, after what felt like an eternity, he stood up.
Sherlock listened numbly to the sound of Trevor zipping up his jeans. He heard him grab something from the floor, walk back over to Sherlock, and crouch down beside him. And then, he felt it. In the middle of his back, above the white scars forming the numbers 01, Sherlock felt Victor Trevor carving his next number.
"Well done, Sherlock." Trevor said happily while he worked. "You're my quarter-century."
"That's great." Sherlock choked roughly, spitting out the vomit that had found it's way from his throat to his mouth. "What does this mean, then? I'll see you again for the fiftieth?"
"Not likely." Trevor laughed, standing up once he had finished the last stroke of the '25 with a flourish. "I've looked you up. Sherlock Holmes, the great detective. I was always going to kill you, once we were finished."
Sherlock listened, hearing the click of a gun's safety being flicked off. He looked up, watching as Trevor aimed the gun at his head.
"Nice knowing you, lover." Trevor whispered.
Sherlock closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and his ears exploded with the crack of a gunshot.
A/N: Wow. This chapter was SO hard to write. It made me cry so much, especially writing about Sherlock wishing for his big brother. Hope you... well... may be the wrong word, but I hope you liked.
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