fTitle: Sherlock Struggles
Rated: M (Violence and rape, but nothing too, too graphic.)
Summary: After Mary bails out Watson, Sherlock is left without protection in the jail yard. What follows will change him forever. (Movie verse since I'm going off of a scene from it.)
Part: 1/1 (3,875 words)
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes or anything copyrighted within it. Even though ACD has been dead for a long ass time and a lot of this is public domain, I still own nothing. I'm just playing in ACD's world for a bit then stepping out and going home.
Also: This is un-beta-ed. I aplogize for any typos or mistakes. Please point them out and if you would like to beta for me, by all means, let me know! I would owe you my first born son!
It was cold and Watson was no longer there to give him body heat. This is Holmes' last coherent thought as he turns away from the gate to see the men of the jail yard eyeing him with a sordid hunger. Somewhere, about a block away at this point, Mary Morstan is fussing over John and he, in turn, is trying to shake the anger he feels toward the man he has left behind.
As the men close in around Sherlock Holmes, he wonders if John will feel guilty about leaving him there because surely he won't live through this.
"Wut's ya name, luv?" Says the one closest to Holmes. He is missing his front three teeth.
Sherlock ignores him and studies his surroundings – the men who circle him and the guards who pay the yard not the slightest bit of attention; he observes it all, but, there is no getting out of this, is there? With his heart pounding, Sherlock resolves himself to his fate, but he'll be damned if he doesn't go down without a fight.
His fists clench and he eyes his opponents. There are nine who seemed more than a little interested and another dozen at least who look like vultures hoping for the leftovers. The thud in his chest picks up speed and though he tries to calculate in his mind how he will fight, the precise plan jumps ship as soon as the man with the missing teeth reaches to grab him and the only thing left is instinct, bittersweet instinct, and somehow he dodges the dirty arms and spins away absurdly, "Don't you bloody think about touching me!"
A line of infected, red gums spreads; the man smiles at him, "You're mine for the day, luv, shouldn't 'av left ya, eh? Your friend, 'e was keeping watch wasn't 'e? 'E's gone now, ain't 'e? No one to save a pretty lit'le thing like you."
The men around him grunt and nod in agreement and Sherlock feels his stomach clench tightly, his fists are raised, feet grounded, but it's all instinct, bloody useless instinct when it comes to nine criminals who would think nothing of raping a man like him, there is no redemption for these men, no turning back, they've accepted what they are, they love it, they revere in it, and they see Holmes like a buffet just waiting to be gorged. They've done this before, he can tell by the looks on some of their faces, they love the feel of a tight virgin arse forced around them, the greed of sex and the smell of blood, they love it, they do, they can't wait, they can't wait to rip into him like a child would into a piece of candy, not caring if he cries or screams or begs or dies because that's the thrill, that's the game and Sherlock tries not to lose his breath, his stance, he tries but he knows he will lose and the feeling in his gut tightens and his blood pumps in his ears and all he can think about it no, no, please, this can't happen, don't let this happen, this can't happen, don't let them touch me, don't let them hurt me, please, please, please, I can't breathe, please, please…
So, this is what they call 'Panic.'
The feral side of him kicks in. He swings, misses, swings again, catches the man with the missing teeth in the jaw and successfully knocks out another tooth. It is the only triumphant hit he gets in, however.
A large man he recognizes faintly as Big John Buckhead (from the seedy gambler's pub he's rescued Watson from on more than one occasion) grabs his neck and lifts him from the ground, thus immobilizing his attempts at defense. He dangles for a second before swinging his feet in a futile attempt to kick the giant of a man. If he were to live, Sherlock knows he will, for the rest of his life, carry and adverse and irrational fear of all tall men.
Holmes chokes in strangulated gasps and he tries his damndest to draw in fresh breath from in-between the inhuman fingers that grip his slim neck like a piece of inanimate pipe. Those fingers tighten and Sherlock can feel his vision fading, darkness clouding the edges of his sight like a slow falling night. One of his kicks grazes the side of the large man and Big John, in a fit of anger, drops him over one of the benches, the one he had previously shared with Watson, if he remembers correctly.
But all thought flees his mind in favor of the searing pain that encompasses his foot as he feels it give out under the stress of hitting the bench at such an angle. It rolls forward and Sherlock feels rather than hears the crack of the metatarsal closest to the inside of his foot. He cries out in pain and lies in a crumbled heap on the grimy ground, one leg still precariously placed on the now cracked bench.
He wills himself away then. Praying for the first time in a long time for someone, anyone, to put a stop to this, to chase these monsters away, to save him from this.
"Watson," he cries out, "Watson, please! Come back!" The rational part of his mind knows that his friend is out of hearing range, but some part of him hopes that the man will hear his pleas and just come back, just come back and save him and hold him and tell him that it's okay, Sherlock, it's okay, it's fine, they won't hurt you, it's okay, it's okay, it's okay.
Big John laughs then; it rumbles like thunder and shakes Sherlock to his very core. He knows he has already won; Sherlock is strong, yes, but he is also small, skinny, no match for the nine men who look at his backside with disgusting vigor and sneer their excitement and nudge each other's ribs and revel in the fear of the man who lay in a sad heap on a cold, cold, cold, dirty, hard, dirty, cold ground. "Don't, please," he whispers, "I beg of you." He begs and begs, Sherlock does, he begs and he prays and he hopes and wishes and the seconds still just for the moment and he thinks he's fine and they will leave him alone and it's all right, it's okay, they won't hurt him, and he can almost hear Watson's voice, soothing, loving, a friend, a friend, he just wants a friend, his friend, his Watson, and where is he? Why can't he hear him anymore and oh God—
When Big John reaches for him, Sherlock closes his eyes. He doesn't want to see. The hands that grab him are calloused and rough and they tear with dereliction: His waistcoat, his shirt, his trousers, and though Sherlock fights, he is overpowered, but he bites and he scratches and he screams until his throat feels like sand and glass and still he screams more. They each, all nine in turn, press his face into the dirt, take him and shred him, ripping into his body and spending themselves within the rectum of a brilliant man who could never be duplicated and will be ruined forever.
Sherlock struggles. He grows weaker with every singular rape and when Big John clamps his thumb and forefinger around Sherlock's nose and he is forced, in want of air, to open his mouth, he swears he is dead, dying, fading, he can't still be alive, how could anyone live through such atrocities, such pain, such humiliation and what did he do to deserve this, what, what, what, not normal, different, deviating from the norm too much, punished now, punishment, my fault my fault my fault!
And so, Big John shoves his large prick into his mouth, effectively choking the smaller man, gagging him, causing him to sputter for the air he is not granted until the orgasm finishes and he is spitting semen and gasping for air and the tears fall down in big blobs and only partially wash away the gritty mixture of dirt and come and blood.
And they leave him there. Caked in their expenditures, his tears, and the blood that runs down the crevices of his arse and mixes with the dirt and rocks that lay under his bruised body. They leave him to die. Or to live, since that would be much, much worse.
Time passes and Lestrade shows up to tell him he's been bailed out and God, did he wish he had come earlier. The sight before him steals his breath, his words, and he fears that when he presses two fingers to the sides of desecrated man's neck he won't feel a pulse but he never gets that far, no, as soon as he touches bruised skin Sherlock jerks from whatever state of unconsciousness he is in and his hoarse voice attempts a scream that only comes out as a straggled moan and he crawls away from the inspector and blast fearing tall men he fears them all he does and they will never touch him again no they won't and God just take him and he cries and cries and sobs and gasps and loses air and he's down and he's fading and the world blackens and the pain ebbs away and that's all.
That's it. He's gone. And Lestrade sends a silent prayer up to Heaven that he's unconscious. It's for the better, it is. Death would be kind now; it would be better. But he's only passed out. At some point he will awaken and the brilliant man who could never be duplicated is now ruined forever.
The first time Sherlock comes back to consciousness is just under a half hour from Lestrade and his men bringing him to Baker Street. Watson, as soon as he arrived, has been by his side throughout it. Holmes' hand rests in John's own and his head is bowed. He is trying to build up the strength to clean and care for Holmes, but all he can do at the moment is hold the limp and bruised hand and try not to cry for what he knows is the loss of his friend. Because, how can Sherlock be the same after this?
All he has managed has been to wipe Sherlock's face and body of the excess of the dirt, and the blood, and the semen and pulls on a lose set of trousers to conceal his nudity and his dignity. Or what's left of it. John couldn't do much more than that. His body shook too hard, the guilt hurt too much, he couldn't see through the tears stinging his eyes.
Watson doesn't feel the first movements under his palm, doesn't see the battered face twist in agony as the violated man wakes for the first time since he passed out from hyperventilating in the jail yard, even if he really isn't awake, even if he's still half in darkness and half out.
And Sherlock still thinks he's there.
So, when he wakes, it's with a fright and the sudden remembrance of exactly why it feels like his insides are about to fall out.
And someone is holding his hand.
He jolts and cries out, his throat flaring up in pain, and jerks away with a straggled yell, "No! P-Please, no!"
Watson is ripped from his quiet state and can only watch in horror as Sherlock scrambles away from him, tears already streaming down his face. With a hard swallow, John finally regains his breath. "Sherlock! It's okay! It's me! It's John! Holmes, it's all right, you're safe now!"
Still, it takes nearly 10 minutes to calm his friend. During this, Mrs. Hudson has raced into the room upon the cries and is horrified by the state the unflappable detective is now in.
She realizes everything as John reaches to comfort his friend and Sherlock cries harder and pleads with him to not hurt him again, curling up and sobbing and holding himself in a sad attempt to protect his body from the men in the jail yard who, even now, are silhouettes in his eyes. Ignoring the fact that her tenant's voice is cracking and rough, she lunges forward and pulls John away, replacing his hand with hers and talking in a soothing, and definitively female, voice.
"Mr. Holmes, come now, deep breaths, it's all right, no one is going to hurt you here."
It takes a minute, but John gets it. This reaction is because he is a man. And it was men who raped him so brutally. And Watson's feels himself crack and shatter into thousands and millions of pieces.
Great, gasping sobs are coming from Sherlock, who trembles and shakes on the bed. Mrs. Hudson finds herself smoothing his hair back and speaking soft, nonsensical words to him, calming him slowly, and when he falls back asleep, it's a deep one that John regretfully aids with an injection.
His chest hurts to think that Sherlock is better off unconscious at this point.
And Doctor John Watson paces. It's hours later and he paces. Sherlock is stitched up but still unconscious in his bedroom; the blood, dirt, and semen have been carefully washed away with shaking hands, he has been lovingly redressed and tucked into bed by his dear friend.
Inspector Lestrade sits in John's chair in the sitting room, his brows are furrowed and his eyes dark. He has seen some appalling things but never like this. This is personal. He knows the victim. So, he sits and waits, watching John pace the room and Mary try to calm him. Nothing works. Nothing aids in Watson's fear and in his guilt.
He knew. He knew they were looking at Sherlock with hungry eyes and still he left.
Mrs. Hudson comes with more tea and coffee and when she leaves, Mary wipes at invisible rings on the table and wipes invisible crumbs from her dress. She flitters through the room, fluffing pillows, folding and refolding throw blankets, and trying to keep herself busy.
And John paces; the stench of guilt rising from his soiled clothes.
"They have all been let go." Lestrade says of the guards on duty.
John wheels at him, "They should be hanged!"
"They have enough coming at them now, Dr. Watson. They allowed a respectable detective to be audaciously raped under their watch."
"All those inmates should be…You should…We—"
"–Don't know who was involved." The inspector's voice sounds tight and sad. "There is nothing we can do until Holmes regains consciousness. Only then can we take action, Holmes can tell us which ones did this to him."
Watson glares and stalks from the room, no doubt to take up perch at Sherlock's bedside, a cold hand to hold and to warm, a friend to speak softly to, hoping beyond hope that his words have meaning and that his friend hears them.
"Sherlock, friend, listen to me, it's okay now, it's over. They will never hurt you again. You're home now. You're safe now. Sherlock, please. Holmes, you must wake up. I know you don't want to, but you must. Please, please, come back. Just come back and it's going to be okay, it's all right, it's fine. I'm here now. Sherlock, I'm here now, John is here. I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have left, I'm so sorry, please, wake up, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it's going to be okay, it is, it is, Watson is here now. I'm here now, I'll never leave you again. Please, friend. Brother, please, please, please." He bends his head and lets the tears fall. "Please, Holmes. I need you to stay. Sherlock…"
The cold seems to seek him out, seeping into his veins with a squalid joy in the like of an inmate upon seeing a fresh face, a new body to force into some sadistic sonata known as the Jail Yard Gangbang. He just can't get warm. No matter how many blankets Watson must have piled on him or how often the fire is stroked – he is cold. Forced into submission by the cold, forced into the fetal position on a bed that was once a familiar friend by the cold, forced away from whom it was that he once was: A brilliant man who could never be duplicated and is now ruined forever.
Things like this just don't happen to a man like Sherlock Holmes.
But the tearing, grunting, jagged, biting nails did happen.
And it is so cold.
If he closes his eyes hard enough, if he squeezes them so tightly that sparks of color shoot across his vision like some decrepit firework display, he can just see Watson leaving the yard, going with Mary, leaving him behind. Those are his last moments of his old life.
He hasn't been fully conscious in a while. For 27 hours, he has lived a sort of half-life, awake but not awake. He stays tightly curled up, cringes away from any touch, and constantly cries out from his nightmares. The time passes quickly for him, most of it spent in a drug-induced sleep he knows is courtesy of Watson. He knows. He shivers and he knows that Watson puts more and more blankets on him to try to warm him. He knows it's Watson because he knows Watson.
But he has no voice. The screaming and the crying seemed to have expended his vocal abilities for the time being. It hurts to even breathe.
As he finally comes back to himself, Sherlock feels a dull ache inside him. His ribs hurt and when he brushes his fingers against his hips he finds the skin tender with bruising that he knows are in the shapes of at least nine sets of hands.
He shifts again and the figure seated beside his bed snaps awake. "Holmes?" Sherlock tries to talk, but nothing but a gurgled sound escapes from his throat. "Sh, don't try to speak. You vocal chords are probably very sore. Come, sit up, let me help you, we'll get some water in you." John moves to help Holmes into a sitting position but the man cries out in a strangled and pitiful moan and shrinks away.
John visibly sags. He's petrified, Sherlock is, of course. "I won't hurt you, Holmes, I promise you; I will never hurt you."
It isn't that Sherlock doesn't believe him, on the contrary, he does. He knows Watson. And Watson would never do anything to hurt him. But Watson is a man. And a rather tall one at that. And all Holmes can think of is how men, especially tall ones, have hurt him. The rational side of him argues this. This is Watson! John! This is your friend, your brother! Not all men are bad! You're a man! Stop this! John cares for you!
He croaks out a sad apology, his eyes large and filling with tears. "I-I-I'm," it takes him a moment to get the words out, "I'm sorry, W-W-Watson." He wheezes and holds his throat. The skin is tender here too, from where Big John strangled him.
"Hush, you have nothing to be sorry for. Can you sit up?" It takes a moment and the pain flares through his body as he does so, but Sherlock manages to move himself into a sitting position. John, careful not to move too quickly or touch him, pulls the pillows up and stacks them behind Sherlock's back. "Okay, good, does it hurt too much to sit up?"
"Please, Sherlock, don't try to talk too much. From the sounds you are making, your vocal chords are most likely very swollen; I need you to rest your voice. Just nod or shake your head." Sherlock nods and remains quiet, watching his friend with fearful eyes. "I'm going to get Mrs. Hudson. We'll get you something light to eat and some warm water." Again, Sherlock nods.
John stands and moves to the door. "Mrs. Hudson?" He calls down the hallway. Holmes hears the familiar click of her heels up the steps.
"Is he awake?"
"Yes. Can I please have some warm, not hot, broth, a cup of plain tea, and a glass of warm water?"
There's a mumble Sherlock can't make out, then, "For his throat. And perhaps cuppa for myself as well, please."
Mrs. Hudson looks into room and Sherlock drops his head down. He doesn't want to be seen like this, so he studies his hands, clenching them together in an effort to divert his attention from the flashes in his head, to make it seem like he's okay, that he's not petrified of the shadows in his room, or the looks of his landlady, or the touch of his best friend.
"Of course, I'll bring them right up."
Watson's voice sounds tired. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."
Sherlock squeezes his hands, fighting the panic that threatens to rise up within him. He jumps when Watson sits on the edge of the bed, but holds himself still. He has no reason to fear violence from John. They may have squabbled together, a hit or kick here and there, but John would never, never, never hurt his Sherlock to such a degree.
"I don't want you to be afraid of me, but I understand if you are." Snapping his head up, Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but John silences him with a raised hand. "Don't, you really do need to rest your voice." He gives Holmes and apologetic look. "As I said, I don't want you to fear me, but it's okay if you do. Sherlock, what you went through, I…what I mean to say is…" Watson sighs irritably, "I'm going to be frank with you, please forgive me, but, you were viciously raped by several…monsters. Obviously, you need to time to heal. Not just from the physical effects, but also the emotional. A man is a man, regardless of who he is. And I…I shouldn't have left you there. I put the blame of this upon myself."
Before he could stop him, Sherlock's raspy, abused voice sounds, "J-John, it's not y-y-your…"
"Holmes, it is. And please, as your doctor, I really must insist you do not speak."
Sighing, Holmes leans back more heavily on the pillows, if only he could talk without issue, then he could tell John that, yes, he was angry with him at first for leaving him but…I don't blame you. They may have gone for both of us if you had not left me. I would never wish to see you like that; it would break my heart. And I know you and many others may think that I don't have one, but I do. And if anything were to happen to you, my heart would surely shatter. But he can't speak. So, he tells this to his Watson in the only way he can.
With a tremble and a deep breath, Sherlock puts his hand on top of John's. He may fear all men, but he could never fear his Boswell.
If I haven't already scared you off with this subject matter and my unforgiving way of writing it, then I beg of you to please leave me a review. Really, it would mean a lot to me. Thank you!