Hello everyone! Surprise, surprise! Martin-J-Christopher-Freeman (formerly InvisibleBlade) and I have talked it over and we've decided to publish this early! She's handling the AO3 side and I'm doing this side.

Yes, InvisibleBlade changed her name. She accidentally deleted her blog and has had to restart from scratch, so she got a new URL and a new name. She is now Martin-J-Christopher-Freeman! Yes, she is now Martin. An angry little hedgehog. Though she's more like a fluffy kitten. Hehe ^_^
She does still have the URL moriartysinvisibleblade, but she uses it for her creative writing blog now.

MJCF: Sherlock, Sebastian Moran, Daddy Holmes
TSA: John, Mycroft, Greg

MAJOR WARNINGS AHEAD

THIS CHAPTER IS VERY DARK AND DISTURBING. TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR TORTURE, RAPE, FORCE FEEDING, AND ALL SORTS OF DISGUSTING THINGS. THIS IS A VERY FUCKED UP FIRST CHAPTER AND I AM SO SORRY. CONSIDER YOURSELVES WARNED. THIS FIC IS GOING TO BE DARKER THAN THE FIRST AND IT WILL STAY DARK FOR QUITE A WHILE. CONSIDER YOURSELVES WARNED.

The Personal Blog of Dr John H Watson

May 20

He was my best friend, and I'll always believe in him.

[comments]

Harry W: call me, please. i just wanna talk

Mike S: I'm sorry mate. Any time you want to chat feel free to call.

...::-::...

May 31

Just a quick update, I suppose.

Seems Greg and Mycroft are going ahead and having a summer wedding. Since Sherlock isn't here anymore, I'm gonna be Myc's best man. Some bloke from the Yard is gonna be Greg's. I'm not giving out the date to respect their privacy. I don't even know why I'm posting this really. I guess it's to keep my therapist happy.

...::-::...

The wedding was held a month and a half after Sherlock's fall. It was a private wedding, small, personal. It was lonely. John didn't talk to anyone much those days. Everyone only ever wanted to talk about Sherlock. He didn't want to talk about Sherlock. He didn't want to relive that day any more than he already did every night. He was alone, bar the cat, but he didn't have anyone to talk to. Sure, he had Greg and Mike and sometimes Bill, but they weren't who he wanted to talk to.

He visited Sherlock as often as he could given his busy work schedule. Sometimes, on rainy days, he would arrive to discover an umbrella propped over the headstone. He would smile softly, thanking Mycroft silently. On better days he would set up a blanket and pour them each a glass of wine, dumping Sherlock's into the earth when they were finished. He would tell Sherlock all about Lily and how she cried every night, waiting for her daddy to come home. He would tell him about Mycroft's progress, and how big his own kitten was getting. His 'official' name was Ty, a nickname for Little Tyke, but John knew Mycroft called him Sherlock. He'd overheard him talking to him once and it had brought tears to his eyes. Everyone had their ways of coping. Myc had the cat, Greg had work, and John had... Huh. What did he have? Oh, that's right. He was bottling up his emotions until they exploded.

The wedding was actually quite beautiful. It was short, sweet, and to the point. And now Greg was no longer a Lestrade. Now he was a Holmes. John glanced down at the ring he still wore and swallowed. He would have been a Holmes by now if things had been different.

The reception was calm and collected, not a hair out of place. The food was scrumptious and far too fancy for John's palate. But when it came time for gifts, that was when John lost it.

Someone had given Mycroft a new pocket watch. Silver, gorgeous, expensive. And inscribed in the top? Gallifreyan for 'family.' Now who else would give Mycroft a Gallifreyan pocket watch other than Sherlock? John cried and screamed and had to be dragged away from the small gathering by security.

...::-::...

The Personal Blog of Dr John H Watson

June 16

The wedding was a disaster.

[comments disabled]

...::-::...

For a while Sherlock found himself watching his loved ones from a safe distance. He kept a constant eye on John's blog, smiling and laughing at some posts, and crying a waterfall of tears at others. He watched as Lily pined and John grieved. He chuckled as he saw the officers at the Yard struggling without him but frowned when he saw how much pressure was now being put on Greg's shoulders. He longed for his cases. He longed to be home. He longed for a life that he knew he could no longer have. At least not for a very long time.

He sadly looked on each time his brother placed his umbrella over his fake body's gravestone. Mycroft would often stand there for hours, just talking, getting sopping wet in the rain. Sherlock worried for him. He didn't want him getting ill again. It was the times that John came to the gravestone that Sherlock really had a hard time coping with. John's words always sliced through him like a butcher's knife. He was half tempted to come out of hiding in those moments. He wondered what John would do. Would he do anything? Or would he simply think it was a trick his grieving mind was playing on him? Sherlock never got to find out. He always found a reason for him to not return to John just yet.

You'll put him in danger, Sherlock Holmes.

He won't forgive you.

Let him grieve and forget you.

Let him move on to a life where he can finally be with someone normal.

He was there at his brother's and Greg's wedding and found a wave of warmth wash over him as he witnessed the happy and momentous occasion. He took a big risk in buying them both a present. A Gallifreyan engraved pocket watch. It simply stated 'family.' He hadn't thought about the repercussions of doing so properly and when John broke down so did Sherlock. Watching John break down was like physically seeing a part of his soul slowly dying. It had taken everything in his will power to not scream out. He had simply slipped away from the reception, unseen. That night he had wanted to write an anonymous comment on John's blog post but the comments were disabled. So instead Sherlock scribbled on a piece of paper and posted it through the door of 221B.

I believe in John Watson.

After that, Sherlock made the quick decision to leave London. He'd heard that America was a nice place this time of year. He might go there. It was likely that Moriarty had some connections there. Perhaps he could build up a good relationship with the homeless of America, like he had done in London. It may come in handy. It was difficult to get to America, however, as he was so well known by now. He was known as the fake detective. He had to change his whole identity. He pulled on a baggy pair of jeans, a thick hoody, and a cap. No one recognised him now. It was simple to sneak on board with his fake ID.

When he finally got to America he did indeed get to know a majority of its homeless as he flitted about the vast country constantly. He sought out quite a few of Moriarty's men, killing them without a second thought, but not before he interrogated them to find out where there were others. As time progressed he realised that Moriarty's web was thicker and stretched out wider than he ever could have imagined. He travelled across the world, causing quite a bit of mayhem on the way. A good few months in and he had almost demolished the more worrying side of the web. The others could wait their turn. But then Sherlock met Sebastian Moran and his entire life was turned upside down and back to front.

"Met" was a rather lose word. Perhaps kidnapped was far more accurate. He was forced into a box and shipped all the way to god knows where, but instinct told him he was back in London. Then things became a bit of a blur.

...::-::...

Sherlock was shrouded in a thick blanket of darkness, and for one sweeping moment he actually considered the possibility that he really was dead now. A sharp pain jolting through his body told his brain that he was still very much alive. The dead didn't feel pain. He hissed and tried to recoil from the feeling of something slicing into his body. After realising that he couldn't actually move as he was restrained, the panic began to set in. Blood was beginning to pump from his leg at a frightening pace. It was silent at first, apart from his futile pleas for the torture to stop and the slick sound of a knife ripping open his skin. Then there came the voice. The voice was venomous and obviously belonged to his torturer.

'Tick tock goes the clock, and Sherlock bleeds a little faster. Tick tock goes the clock, I am the detective's master.'

'Piss off,' he managed to choke out, pushing past his pain.

'Shut the fuck up!'

Sherlock flinched and a small whimper escaped his lips and fell into the darkness.

'Who – who are you?' His voice was small now, a whisper, pathetic. For that question he earned a right hook from the man who was looming somewhere in the pitch black. He cried out as his nose began to spurt a thick mass of blood.

'You'll learn not to talk. Understood? I do the talking here.' A thick and meaty hand ran its fingers over Sherlock's bloody and broken nose. A thumb and a middle finger clasp his nose and suddenly there was a loud click. Sherlock screamed. His nose had been put back in its rightful place, causing a fresh spurt of blood to tunnel out of his nostrils.

'I am Sebastian Moran.' The voice sounded even deadlier now. 'And I am going to make you rue the day that you killed James Moriarty.'

'I didn't–'

The meaty hand slapped him across his right cheek bone. 'What did I say about keeping that pretty mouth of yours bloody shut!?' Sherlock swallowed and instantly regretted doing so. The blood from his nose had run down onto his lips and into his mouth. All he could taste now was the tangy taste of the red liquid spilling over his taste buds.

'I loved him!' the man, or Sebastian as he had called himself, roared at the top of his lungs. 'I loved him! And you fucking killed him! And what? You thought you could outsmart the world into thinking you're dead!? Well, listen here sunshine. By the time I'm done with you you're gonna wish you really did take the bloody fall!'

The big meaty hand began to wipe something across the wound on his leg. Salt, his brain informed him as his eyes rolled into the back of his head and his body thrashed about manically.

...::-::...

'How's my dirty little whore today?' Sherlock hissed as he felt a large object being forced up into his arse. He yelled out and struggled but then the object started to vibrate and dear lord, he became an aroused mess.

'Is my dirty little whore going to be alright?'

That was the last he heard from Sebastian for a long time, and for all of that time he was left aroused with an incapability of gaining any kind of release.

Pleased with the results of his little experiment, Sebastian Moran began to use that torture method frequently. Several times Sherlock had been forced to moan out his captor's name whilst thrashing about like a hormonal teenager trying to rut against thin air.

...::-::...

Time was non-existent here. It was as endless as the bottomless pit of darkness Sherlock was trapped in. He was barely aware of anything now other than pain. In his mind he had begun to rate the pain, one being bearable, and ten being utterly intolerable. The ones were becoming rarer now as his torturer got more and more inventive with his torture tactics. By now Sherlock's mind was beginning to drift. His mind palace had started putting up defences to try and protect him. Sherlock knew however that his mind would finally snap under the pressure, especially because it was starting to delete every horrific thing that had happened to him, or was happening to him. Soon his mind was deleting at such a rapid rate that Sherlock was concerned that it was going to start deleting the really important things in his life. Like John. He couldn't forget John. No. Not his John. His wonderful John.

One time, when he was finally left alone, he reached his long and bony fingers out to grab a sharp stone. Twiddling it in his fingers he began to scratch a word into his palm. It was messy from the angle he was writing from and hurt, but it was nothing compared to the pain he was used to.

REMEMBER

'What the fuck do you think you're doing?' Sebastian spat into his face. A large dollop of the spit landed on Sherlock's cheek and rested there, sinking into the hollowed out space that months of starvation had replaced his cheekbones with. His wrist was yanked and tugged and the word was inspected. The man made a loud scoffing sound.

'"Remember?" Oh. I see. You don't want to forget your dear Johnny Boy. Really? Must you be so delightfully obvious?'

'No!' Sherlock cried out, his voice hoarse from screaming. 'Leave my John alone!'

'What? Like you left my Jim alone?! No chance!' There was the sound of shuffling in the dark and then a knife was gliding across his skin once more. It was a feeling he had practically become accustomed to. 'Perhaps we should give you some more words to help you remember, hmmm?' Sherlock merely swallowed thickly and closed his eyes, the knife sketching words into his skin to form thick and bloody scars. His mind palace began to frantically delete every feeling, and every wave of pain and the nausea that followed.

Fuck up

'This one's so you don't forget how much of a fuck up you really are. Your father beat you as a child. Talking of your father, he's not very happy with you. You killed his favourite son. He wants some of his own revenge. I'll be sure to send him over after I've finished with you today.'

Pig

'This one is for that Lestrade fella. Filthy pig's put some very good friends of mine away in his time.'

Freak

'Your dear old daddy already marked you with this one but I thought I'd mark you with it again, just in case you'd forgotten how much of a freak you are.'

Monster

'Monster! You're a fucking monster! You killed Jim! You killed Jim and you left his body on the ground!'

Creature

'Sherlock, oh Sherlock. My creature. My beautiful, fucked up creature.'

Fraud

'You need to understand something. Your life was a lie. You're no genius. You are a fraud. I read it in the papers so it must be true.'

Fat

'This one's for Mycroft. Oh you should see him now, Sherlock. He's so plump. He's burst through at least two pairs of trousers. And he just keeps on eating. It just goes to show. He never really cared about you. Not if he's celebrating each and every day with cakes, and buffets, and dear lord all of those beautifully, wonderfully fatty wines.'

Damaged

'This one's for your dear old John. Oh, Sherlock. You've devastated him. You made him fall in love with you and then you went and faked your death. He's damaged beyond repair now. So lonely, so damaged, so broken. Oh, he's just so juicy, filled with sorrow and woe.'

Hag

'Let's not forget that stupid old hag of yours back at the flat. What's her name? Mrs Hudson? Stupid old bat, she is, letting a little boy like you into her life.'

Desperate

'Desperate. Hmmm. That Molly Hooper girl. She'll do anything she can to be a part of your life. Anything at all. I know she's covering up for you. Wouldn't it be an awful bloody shame if the truth came spilling out? Oh, don't look like that. I've got far bigger plans for you.'

...::-::...

The rare times he managed to fall asleep he dreamt of being back at 221B. He could smell fresh bacon and tea rising up through his nostrils. It made a nice change to the usual stench of his own faeces mixed in with blood and sweat. Here there was laughter. Lily was chasing after her pink mousy. He and John were lazing in bed, just simply holding each other for the sake of it. They were finally happy at peace with the world.

The trouble with dreams, Sherlock conceded, was that you always had to wake up. Every time he was awake he was alone and in the knowledge that everyone, bar Molly who had sworn to keep his secret, didn't know that he was alive. No one was looking for him. And why would they? He was dead to them. Their lives were probably moving on smoothly without any of the shit Sherlock usually brought to their lives.

I'm going to die here and no one will really mourn me, because they will have moved on, thinking I'm dead already. They will have already mourned.

Sherlock was convinced he was going to rot in the hell hole he'd been dragged into.

...::-::...

A pipe was being forced past his plump lips, bruising them badly, and down into throat, almost choking him. It was pushed further down his throat, leading straight down to his empty belly. And then the liquid came, the vile liquid that tasted like piss that had been weakened down. The taste almost made him gag there and then. It pooled down into his belly slowly but surely over a period of what must have been hours. By the time the liquid stopped flowing down his throat his belly was massively extended, to the point of excruciating pain. His stomach was making noises that went beyond a bit not good.

'Hello son.' The pipe was tugged from his throat and a hand that held far too much familiarity was pushing down on his aching belly. 'What? Cat got your tongue?' The voice sent shudders through Sherlock's spine and reduced him to a little boy, whimpering in the night. The hand pushed down heavily and Sherlock found himself throwing up two gallons of watered down piss. It tasted even more awful coming up than it had going down.

'Don't you see, son? This is symbolic. The moment you were born I have been nothing but pissed on. Time to get a taste of your own medicine, hey?'

...::-::...

After that his father visited him daily. He beat him and scarred him, and violated his body. It was like reliving his childhood all over again. Every time Sherlock's father turned up he was forced to once again drink piss till he vomited. It became something he dreaded more than any other method of torture.

...::-::...

He was genuinely happy when Sebastian Moran returned to him. It meant his father would take a backseat and he wouldn't have to drink piss flavored water. By this time his mind had deteriorated so much that he was becoming lost within himself. Sherlock Holmes the world's only consulting detective, was slowly but surely being erased. That man was being replaced by a frightened little boy who was silently screaming for his brother in the dark. Memories danced before his eyes before vanishing into a vaporised mist. He no longer dreamed of home and John. He no longer dreamed of happiness or escape. He no longer dreamed, in fact. Only people who had hope dreamed.

...::-::...

His manicured nails were ripped from him, one by one. Each time one was tugged away a shot of fiery pain traveled up his spine and caused his body to spasm.

'Croft!' he yelled out for his brother, tears brimming in his eyes. He just wanted his big brother to save him, to make the pain stop, to scoop him up in his arms and read Treasure Island to him. His brother wasn't coming. He was alone.

...::-::...

The white noise scratched at his ears. It reminded him of the time where Croft was trying to teach him the violin. It had started badly and Sherlock hadn't been able to piece one note together. Except this time it was so much worse. There was no violin and he had no control over the sound. His head became a throbbing and pounding mess and he threw up almost constantly, despite having very little to throw up.

...::-::...

'You're no fun anymore, Sherlock Holmes. Have I broken you?'

Sherlock blinked and there was laughter.

'Oh. So I have broken you? Good. Well, there's one last thing I need to do before I return you to your fat pig of a brother, and the filthy cop he's with.' Sebastian brought out the knife he used on Sherlock every single time. It was now stained in the detective's blood. He carved out a large smiley face on Sherlock's right shoulder.

'Perfection, don't you think?'

Sherlock blinked again but other than that he was completely unresponsive. He hadn't even flinched.

Sebastian bundled Sherlock up in his old trench coat, nothing more. Beneath that Sherlock was naked, covered in dried vomit, blood, and faeces. Some of his wounds had gone septic and were oozing puss. Sebastian let out a loud hum. It was safe to say that the detective had paid a fair price for the murder of James Moriarty.

He quickly scrawled a note out to Mycroft and shoved it into one of Sherlock's coat pockets. Perfect.

Failed in protecting either brother, dear me. You should have been there for Jim and you should have allowed this waste of space to die.

Sherlock's pain is your fault.

Jim's death is your fault.

Seb X

Bundling Sherlock up into the back of a van, gagged and blindfolded, Sebastian made sure to drive all the way over to the elder Holmes' mansion. He grabbed the traumatised and lifeless detective and tossed him over the large gates in front of the house so he landed on the ground with an ear splitting crack. One of the staff was sure to find him, if not Mycroft Holmes himself. What they'd find would be a horrible sight.

The detective was barely recognisable anymore. He was rake thin, so much so that he was literally just bones. His skin was pulled so tightly against him that it was almost translucent. You could see the veins pulsing below. His skin was covered in so much dirt, blood, sick, and faeces that there wasn't a patch of alabaster coloured skin left. His hair was long, matted and had grown all the way down to his shoulders, and was now stuck up in massive clumps where his blood had stuck it together. And then, of course, there were the words and the pictures carved into his skin in large, bulky writing. And just for good measure Sebastian had shoved a vibrator up the detective's arse and had put it on its highest setting so that he was shaking with arousal and making the most beautiful moaning sounds.

The physical changes, however, would be the least of their worries.

Wounds can be healed, but can minds be fixed? Especially a mind like Sherlock's? Sebastian Moran had his money on definitely not.

I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry. MJCF wrote the big torture scene with Sherlock and Moran and Daddy Holmes. I just wrote the beginning with John having a breakdown. Oh god. I feel so bad. *runs and hides*

We've decided that until things are settled and we have a bit of a regular schedule worked out, we'll update on Saturdays. So, I guess we'll see you all then.

Once again, sorry for such a dark opening chapter. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. *runs and hides under blankets*

TSA + MJCF