A/N - Heloo! This is my first Sherlock story so be kind and do tell me if I'm a bit OOC with the characters. Enjoy!
Disclaimers - If I owned Sherlock, I wouldn't be writing fanfiction for it now, would I?
Warnings - WILL contain violence, abuse and rape. I'll tell you when it gets nasty in which chapters so you can look away if you need to.
Positives - Major Sherlock whumpage!
Lestrade peered through the January rain, his numb hand gripping the handle of the umbrella. He had been standing there for far too long, the toes on his feet had lost their feeling. He checked his watch and sighed. 'Bloody Americans,' he thought moodily to himself, stamping his feet in some attempt to get the feeling back. He tried not to think of thought that was repeatedly cropping up in his mind. Two years. Two years since he had last seen that pale face. He had trained himself not toe think, not to look over and over again at the case file. It had taken along time but he had managed to do it.
Today was the day that Sherlock Holmes went missing. And he had never been seen since. He shuddered at the thought of him. He used to have a tendency of running off when least expected, many times without a word to any one. Sometimes he would be away for weeks, working on things that he wouldn't or couldn't even tell John about. But this time had two differences. The first one was he didn't pack, and the second one was he never came back.
To describe his relationship with Sherlock was near impossible. With complicated men came complicated relationships. To say they were friends was a bit of a stretch, but they weren't just work colleagues either. And he did care for him. To an extent, he did care for the young man. It was true he annoyed him, constantly took the piss out of him and his workers. But still couldn't help but care for him. Very few people could see past the cold, unfeeling mask that he always placed upon himself, but Lestrade could. He had seen him at his worst and at his best and he knew that he wasn't an emotionless sociopath as made people out to believe.
John knew this too.
Lestrade's heart still wrenched when he thought about the lost look in that man's face on the day that Sherlock went missing. He had known that there was something wrong that day. Lestrade had prayed and hoped that he had been wrong, but he wasn't. He was right and Sherlock was gone. The statistics told him that Sherlock was dead, but that thought he simply couldn't face. But if he wasn't dead, then where was he?
"Excuse me?" Lestrade jumped, sending the water on his umbrella flying everywhere. A young man was standing under his own blue umbrella, gazing at Lestrade with a sort of tame curiosity. His dark brown hair was sticking up in odd places on his head as if he had just woken up. "Are you Inspector Le..." He looked down at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand, frowning. "...Straid?"
Lestrade smiled and offered a hand. "Lestrade." The other man blushed and gripped Lestrades extended hand.
"Sorry about that," He apologized bashfully, his American accent strong. "I'm Inspector Ellis."
"Nice to meet you. Do you wanna get out of this rain?" Ellis grinned.
"Yeah thanks," Lestrade hailed a taxi and they clambered in. They leant back into the seats, sighing. "I'm sorry it took so long, I had to wait for the plane for like 2 hours longer." Lestrade shrugged.
"Don't worry about it. How was your flight?"
"Yeah it was good. Slept through most of it," From his suitcase, he drew a case file. "I know that we're both tired, so why don't we just get down to business." Lestrade was pleasantly surprised by the brusque nature of his colleague.
"Might as well. It's not as if we're on a time schedule or anything." Ellis grinned and opened the case file. Seven pictures were in there of seven dead men. Both men's eyes had grown accustomed to the sight of such atrocities, though it didn't make it any easier.
"There's something bothering me about this case." Ellis muttered, shaking his head.
"You mean besides the seven dead bodies?" Ellis grinned.
"Yeah, besides that," He paused for a moment, frowning down at the case file in his hand. "What I don't get is why he started out here, went to New York and came back again. It just seems pointless."
"More publicity?" John suggested. "Though I suppose there are easier ways to gain publicity."
"Exactly so what could it be? And there's the other thing," Lestrade turned in interest to him. "These deaths are screaming "sexual sadist" but... There was minimal violence, no torture, no rape and yes they were naked but that's the extent of it," Ellis stared again down at the file. "Somethings missing."
"Maybe we haven't found all the bodies yet? No that wouldn't be it..." Lestrade mused to himself. Then he blanched. "Maybe he has another outlet." Ellis looked at him.
"What do you mean?"
"Maybe he's trying to disguise the fact that he's a sexual sadist by taking out his rage on some one else. Maybe a boyfriend or... son..." The American stared at him, the same horror in his eyes.
"You mean this bastard's sick enough to rape his own son?"
"He may be. If the need is strong enough, he would do that."
"Christ," Ellis muttered to himself. "I really hope we find this son of a bitch"
2 weeks later... Peter Ellis walked down the dark corridor, his trained eyes searching for any doors or anybody in this god forsaken place. He didn't use his torch; stealth was key for this game for this game to be won in his favour. He was used to this, having done it so many times that it a second nature to him. The only thing that was worrying was that there was absolutely no signal in this old mansion, so it really was every man for himself. Walking slowly, he held his gun in a steady hand, his dark eyes looking about the gloom for any sign of life. His eyes fell upon something: a metal door.
Swallowing and trying to push the images of the dead men out of his mind, he opened the door cautiously. It was the door to a cellar. There weren't any lights, but he could make out steps. "Police, anyone here?" Ellis asked the room, his voice rebounding off the cold stone walls. He felt for a light switch, but found no such luck. He pulled out his torch and on seeing a flight of stairs, he quickly descended.
On reaching the bottom, he said "Anyone down here?" He turned the torch in his hand, flashing the light around the room and to his horror, saw a crumpled figure in the corner. With heightened trepidation and a daunting sense of dread in his stomach, he approached it. It was everything he had expected and worse.
A small, crumpled figure lay naked on the hard stone floor. The only was he was sure he wasn't dead was black curl that was continuously been blown back forth from his breath. He was skinny enough to be dead though. He was chained to the wall by his wrists and ankles. His whole body was painfully thin; bruises, burns scars and all other types of afflictions were painted on his pale skin. His face was hidden by a mass of black, overgrown curls. Tentatively, Ellis shook the man on the shoulder.
He jumped up as though he had been given an electric shock. He backed against the wall, his wide eyes staring frantically at Ellis. "It's alright. It's alright I'm not here to hurt you I promise. Slowly and discreetly, he placed his gun on the floor and raised his hands to show he wasn't going to hurt him. "It's ok. I'm with the police. I'm going to get you out of here." The man was still staring at him, as if he had never heard English before. What if he hadn't? Shit, he hadn't thought of that problem.
"Are you hurt?" Ellis asked.
The man continued to stare at him, but then he whimpered, "I-I w-w-wasn't sleep-ping."
Ellis was so thrown off by this comment, he wasn't sure how to respond. "...What?"
"I-I wasn't sleeping. I p-promise I w-wasn't. D-don't tell Sir. Y-y-you can't-t tell Sir, I-I'll... I'll get in so much trouble," Tears filled his eyes as he drew his thin legs to his chest. "Please d-don't tell Sir. I-I'm not allowed t-to be sleeping." Ellis put a hand gently on the young mans' shoulder, only to have flinched away from underneath him. Human contact normally meant abuse for this man.
"I'm not going to tell him anything. I'm going to get you out of here."
"O-out?" he frowned at the statement. Ellis realised how cold the man must be. He shrugged of his trench coat and put it careful on his small shoulders. It felt weird to have something covering him. He hadn't had clothes for so long, he had forgotten what it had felt like.
"W-who are y-you?" the man asked, regarding Ellis with fear.
"My name is Peter Ellis," he said quietly, smiling. The young man's eyes widened at this. It was weird. There wasn't any malice in the smile, no sick pleasure in his eyes. It almost looked... happy. But, in such a way that for once it didn't frighten him. Tentatively, as if he may disappear at his touch, he put a thin finger on his face.
"A-are... Are you r-real?"
He smiled again. "Yes, I'm real. Are you hurt?"
The young man wasn't sure how to answer the question. How could he define hurt?
"I-I don't know," he answered truthfully.
Ellis nodded, "What's your name."
It was as though he needed a moment to remember. "Sherlock H-Holmes," Ellis smiled again and offered a hand. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn't focus on that right now.
"Nice to meet you Sherlock Holmes." Slowly, like Sherlock was being tricked, he took the inspector's hand and for the first time in two years, felt friendly human contact.