Sorry for how long it's taken to get something else up - I've been trying to adjust to 6th form life and it's hard.
Warnings for: Torture, blood, violence, language, rape (non-explicit), trauma and eventual slash. It's also not very realistic, I suppose.
Characters belong to BBC's Sherlock (which, by the way, is an awesome show and one of the crackiest fandoms I've ever seen).
Edit – I've gone through this one and got rid of the mistakes I could see, but if there are any, sorry.
"We're going to play Sherlock," says Moriarty very slowly, shoving his face close into Sherlock's. Sherlock grimaces but stares back, resisting the urge to turn his head to one side.
"So I had deduced from the fact that I'm not yet dead, and the additional fact I am now chained to a wall."
Moriarty laughs. "You are clever. But predictable."
Sherlock grits his teeth and lets Moriarty talk.
"You see here," he says, the childish lilt back into his Irish accent. "I have a surprise for you."
He presses a button and part of the wall slides back – a door not a wall then, Sherlock blames the large amounts of chloroform currently in his bloodstream – and reveals a second room, joined to the one Sherlock and Moriarty are in.
And there is John. Chained like Sherlock, but only by his wrists, not flat against the wall with all four limbs secured. He looks semi-conscious, but unharmed. Sherlock tries to deduce, but his brain is still a little too fuzzy.
There is a red dot right over John's heart, and another between his eyes.
Sherlock feels his heart flutter – when had that last happened? – and has to bite his tongue to stop a scream. He'd thought John had escaped; John hadn't been at the flat. But Moriarty has got there, got him.
"Sherlock?" John sits up, scrabbling nails on the floor. "Sherlock, what's going on?"
"Quiet you," hisses Moriarty. John glares, but perhaps he reads the lasers are on him from Sherlock's expression. "You're going to be dead by the end of this anyway. But I'd be remiss if I didn't burn your heart out first."
"I thought I was the one you were going to burn," mutters Sherlock, trying not to let the edge of panic creep into his voice – fuck, where is Lestrade?
"I did consider it, but I am so changeable! What I'm going to do to you should be sufficient to make sure you never come near me again, and your pet is frankly quite irritating. He needs to be put down; my way."
John looks scared – really, really scared, trying to hide it, can tell by the crinkle between his eyes where he's forcing control into his expression.
"So we're going to play another game. And this game is a silent one; I'm going to do whatever I want to your fragile little body, and John here is going to watch. But if you make one sound, utter a word, Sherlock, if you scream or beg for mercy, then I'll shoot him."
Sherlock feels like his brain is separate to the rest of him – more so than usual. "And if I don't?"
"You will. Everyone has a breaking point."
Sherlock only glares, lets the silence stretch out just long enough to make Moriarty uncomfortable, and then says "But what if I don't?"
"Then I suppose I have to let him live. Doesn't mean I have to let him go."
John's leg is hurting him, throb throb at the back of his mind, but he concentrates on forcing his terror somewhere under his stomach, visualises pushing it down into his legs.
Moriarty leaves, but John can see the camera in the corner of the room – Sherlock would be pleased he'd spotted it – and there's no doubt the madman will be watching. Listening.
Because if Sherlock makes a sound John is going to die.
The thought scares him more for Sherlock than for himself – already shot once, scary but probably less so if it's clean this time – because Sherlock never seems quite human. He takes pain better.
John knows Sherlock won't want him to die, so he knows Sherlock's going to be in a mess by the time this finishes.
Moriarty will kill them both eventually. John first, at Sherlock's hand (tongue?), then Sherlock through whatever method's he fancies.
John can't do anything but watch as a man steps into the room. He roughs Sherlock up a bit, a few punches here and there, nothing serious. Sherlock, of course, keeps his mouth firmly shut.
It gets worse. Harder.
The man kicks Sherlock repeatedly in the ribs until at least one snaps – John hears it resounding through is brain like an icicle, and bile rises in his throat. Sherlock lets out a breath that's perhaps slightly louder than the rest of them, and for a second the room holds still, waiting.
It seems Moriarty isn't bored yet, because John isn't shot and Sherlock's beating goes on.
Sherlock knows how to keep his brain unattached from his body, just leave it floating in the air above his head, and so the pain is dulled a great deal. Besides, these wounds are superficial, mostly. He's suffered worse, much worse, and he has John to protect.
The rib hurts, and he lets out a very slight hiss, but Moriarty doesn't seem to count it. Sherlock breathes a little more easily and flexes his body as much as he can to soften the blows without it being too obvious.
John is staring at him from the other room, looking sick.
Sherlock isn't going to break.
The man leaves and Sherlock is left hanging limply from the wall, breathing heavily. His left cheek is bruised purple and blood and sweat drips past his lips. John shakes his head, hating the chain that binds both his wrists.
"Sherlock? Are you alright?"
Sherlock nods once, lips pressed so tightly shut they're going white. He's a fool honestly – they both are. Of course he's not alright; he just got the crap kicked out of him.
"You don't have to. I mean, it's going to happen sooner or later. If I'm honest I'd rather it be sooner."
Sherlock sends him a penetrating glare that clearly says no, and then the door opens a second time.
It's a woman, Chinese, and John reckons Black Lotus material, although he can't be sure. Sherlock looks a tiny bit more afraid, maybe.
Before anyone can react the woman spins on her heel and delivers an impressive roundhouse kick to Sherlock's already cracked ribs.
Sherlock doubles over as far as the chains will let him, wheezing. John cries out.
The last one hurt, Sherlock had to admit, penetrating his out-of-body system and almost forcing a groan past his lips. He bites his tongue hard enough to draw blood and lets out a rush of air instead.
John gives a shout, but Sherlock ignores him, too busy wrestling his brain into submission, forcing it to be distant. The woman gives a mock bow and leaves. Good – one blow he could take.
This time John doesn't say anything to him, only shakes his head. The red dot is still on his face, not wavering, but following his movements carefully.
Sherlock focuses on the dot and blocks everything else, sending the world into a tunnel with a pinprick of red light at the end.
Sherlock looks barely conscious when the next person enters. A man, rather wiry looking, with a mop of ginger hair.
This man uses knives. And whips.
In less than five minutes Sherlock is pouring blood, head lolling, although his eyes are open and constantly fixed on John. Still he is silent; John wonders how he does it.
Seeing Sherlock in such a state really does feel like it's burning his heart. He can't understand why Sherlock doesn't just give up like a normal person would.
Then again, Sherlock was never normal.
The Chinese woman comes back and kicks Sherlock a bit more. Once she goes between his legs, and this draws a jerk from Sherlock, and his mouth opens. John, despite himself, cringes, but the yell is silent. Sherlock's tongue is bleeding.
More people come and go, some coming back for more, and all of them have their own methods, but Sherlock doesn't give up.
So Moriarty changes the methods.
A man throws knives at Sherlock, blindfolded, but although Sherlock allows himself to flinch he doesn't make a sound. Moriarty won't want to kill him yet, and he can deduce that the thrower works for the circus and has never killed his target yet.
A woman comes through and holds a glass of water in front of his face, offering it to him, if only he'll say he wants it. The test is hard, as his throat burns and his shaking limbs indicate dehydration, but Sherlock has gone through whole days without water whilst on a case. He swallows the blood in his mouth instead and pretends it refreshes him.
The final man rapes him. Viciously.
John closes his eyes for this part. At first he'd thought Sherlock was going to be given some relief, when the man, large and tanned, came and let him out of his bonds, placing a foot on the small of his back so that any movement might snap Sherlock's spine. Sherlock, who's so sensible about everything but John, wisely doesn't move.
When it starts Sherlock doesn't seem surprised – he'd probably deduced it from the pattern on the man's socks or something – but fixes his eyes on John's and tightens his jaw.
In the blackness produced when his eyes are closed, John listens. There's shuffling and growling – from the other man – but he can't hear anything but heavy breathing on Sherlock's part, and a scuffling on the floor.
When John hears the moving stop he opens one eye, then the other. The man stands up and leaves. Sherlock is still lying on his front, eyes piercing. Blood trickles down his legs. His nails are cracked and the floor scratched from where he's gripped at the tiles.
John shakes his head again and wants to call Sherlock an idiot. He doesn't.
John's eyes are begging him to stop it, and Sherlock knows he's hurting him by persisting.
Better to be hurt and alive than hurt and dead.
Moriarty comes back, and he looks angry.
Understatement, Sherlock corrects himself, still lying naked on the floor and burning all over. He's been biting his tongue so hard he doesn't even feel that any more – dangerous really, in case he slips. Moriarty looks like a rampaging bear. One that just had its cub stolen and wants it back. Murderous.
Because he hadn't factored into his plans Sherlock wasn't going to break. And Moriarty hates it when things don't go to plan.
Moriarty seizes Sherlock's upper body and hurls him against the wall, snarling and shouting, slapping his face and telling him to speak or he'll regret it. Sherlock gives him a look that clearly says 'what can you do?' and Moriarty spots it, and doesn't like it.
He's done things the wrong way round. If he'd told Sherlock he'd hurt John until Sherlock spoke it would have been a matter of minutes. But he's already got John threatened, and there's nothing he can do to Sherlock that'll make it any worse.
It's John who breaks before Sherlock, the one who starts to scream and beg for mercy. And not for himself.
Moriarty's eyes darken and he begins to throw Sherlock against the wall repeatedly, seizing a fistful of dark hair and slamming Sherlock's head into the concrete, once, twice, three times. Blood bursts from Sherlock's nose and the rest of his scabs, sending streams running down his neck and bare back.
John tugs on his chains, screaming out.
"Stop it, for fucks sake just stop it!" He can feel the tears rushing down his cheeks, and he doesn't care. He sees the look in Sherlock's eyes, and he's seen it before.
It's the look of a dying man. A silent one, but dying all the same, as his brain, the brilliant brain, gets rattled around in his skull.
Moriarty grabs Sherlock's wrists and twists one until it snaps. Sherlock hisses, but he doesn't look like he could form words, even if he wanted to. The sound of his head hitting the wall resounds in John's head, thud, thud.
There's blood spattered up the wall, more than ever before, handprints smeared into smudges. John can barely watch, throwing his weight into his shoulders, feeling the old bullet wound twinge, willing the chains to snap.
"STOP IT!" he screams. "STOP IT STOP IT STOPPIT!"
Then he hears it. A shot.
Moriarty's too incensed, and Sherlock's too far gone, but John hears it. And another. He looks down, and sees the red dot fly from his chest and rest somewhere on the floor.
And then the door bursts open and people pour in, people with guns, people who shoot Moriarty even as he slams Sherlock's head one more time against the wall. He jerks and falls, his blood misting over Sherlock's torso and settling in the places that aren't already slick with crimson.
There's another shot and the chains break from the wall. He pitches forwards and scrambles on, pushing past and seizing Sherlock from where he's slid to the floor, pressing their foreheads together.
Through the fog covering him there comes a voice, hoarse and cracked, and it's saying something.
"Speak to me Sherlock, say something…"
It's just a trick. Just a trick.
"Please, it's John, just tell me you're not going to give up…"
Trick. Moriarty's clever, using John to try and get it out of him.
He won't speak.
"Please," John whispers, rocking back and forth gently. "Please speak to me. It's over. He's gone."
Beside him someone kneels down with a first-aid kit. Lestrade rips off his helmet and starts talking on his radio, urgently, panicking.
John's tears leave streaks in the blood drying on Sherlock's face.
Sherlock pries his eyes open, sticky with sweat and blood, and looks. There's John, free – not dead – and the police, he deduces by the uniforms.
So Sherlock finally opens his mouth, and blood drips from his tongue.
He screams as he would have for the past hours, screams until he's hoarse and choking and John's crying, and Lestrade and another police officer try and calm him, but none of it's working.
Only John doesn't try and get him to stop; he holds him and slowly whispers; "That's it. Let it all out."
Sherlock finishes screaming and collapses in John's arms, sobbing. John presses their foreheads together again and continues rocking, holding the wrist that isn't bent right round in his hand.
Sherlock doesn't look like he's dying any more, but it doesn't mean he won't.
As it is, Sherlock doesn't die. He spends four days in a coma and John spends four days sitting by his bed refusing to move.
Even when Sherlock wakes, even when most of the injuries heal, even when he's allowed back home, he still doesn't speak. John talks to him but Sherlock's mouth is closed (figuratively at least). Instead he learns sign language and masters it within a week. It takes John longer, and he's still carrying around the laminated card with the hands on it a month later.
Everyone tries. Lestrade tells him of how Mycroft tracked Moriarty. Mycroft tells him of how Lestrade kicked down the door himself. Molly blushes and acts shy still. Anderson and Donavon stop by, but don't what to say, so they just sit and stare and pass around doughnuts.
Sherlock opens his mouth to eat. And to breathe. But never to speak.
It's silly he knows, but there's a part of him that feels if he actually forms words then something terrible will happen to John.
He can still make noises, still screams sometimes, at night, and once when he slipped on the stairs and couldn't get up. John comes running when Sherlock screams, every time.
He continues his work for the yard, still able to make his deductions perfectly. Lestrade is grateful and it shows. Anderson doesn't say another bad word about Sherlock, but Sherlock wishes he would.
John feels guilty, but Sherlock deduces it immediately and tells him to stop being an ass with a flick of his hands. Sarah attempts to get together again, but John pushes her away.
Mrs Hudson can see them both, hurting, especially Sherlock. His mantelpiece skull has no eyes to see his signing, so he throws it in the bin.
Mycroft threatens to send him to therapy. John sees the look on Sherlock's face when this is suggested and threatens to ram 'that absurd umbrella' into personal areas of Mycroft's body. Mycroft backs down. Sherlock smiles for the first time in weeks.
When John masters the signing to fully keep up with Sherlock he asks if he wants to talk. They both know he means the raping part.
Sherlock tells him he's been raped in the past – occupational hazard. John thinks this calm acceptance is very bad, worse than breakdowns and sobbing, and it shows. Being raped more than once is definitely a Bit Not Good. Sherlock shrugs, but there's a trace of something in his face.
So John kisses him. Just to show him it's not always like that.
When he's finished Sherlock's eyes are shining, and his mouth opens, but no sound comes out, as always. John holds his hand as he struggles, but it doesn't happen. Sherlock loses the battle with the obsessive compulsive tendency and closes his mouth again, but he's still smiling.
John smiles too; Sherlock won't speak yet, perhaps, but he will someday.
I'm sorry for writing this - but after the large amounts of fluff in my last fic I needed a change and this was what came out...
Thanks for reading, please review!