Sherlock wouldn't give them the satisfaction of his screams. He simply would not. His abusers fumed at his nearly complete silence-but oh, if only they could hear the savage cries within him. The punches he could handle easily, the ones with more force behind them sometimes drawing from him a grunt. Tears streamed down his face at the kicking, but no screams. His muscles ached and ached from hours of tensing, and his bones felt as fragile as glass. By his count, he had been here about 26 hours. His shirt had been ripped away after about 5 hours. His hair was matted with blood. For the past 27 minutes, he had been left alone. They left him where he lay: on his back, his left side up against the grimy grey wall. He had taken this time to observe his surroundings and any possible means of escape. In his weakened state, his prognosis was not favorable.
Sherlock would never admit out loud, but when that steel door slammed open once again, he was afraid. His body quivered with tension, his eyes squeezed shut, his stomach churned and his breath couldn't decide if it wanted to quicken its pace or stop all together. Silently he scolded himself and forced his eyes open to view the owner of the heavy sounding boots meandering their way towards him. The pounding of feet and the slamming of the door shut behind them helped Sherlock's breath make up its mind to quicken to the point where Sherlock became quite lightheaded. Through his blurry vision Sherlock made out combat boots with a pair of camo pants and a black t shirt covering a rather muscular dark-skinned man who, to Sherlock's dismay, was the most aggressive abuser he had had yet. With no word of greeting, the man stopped and stared down into Sherlock's swollen eyes. Without warning, the bulky boot came back—only to slam full force into Sherlock's temple, making his head bounce off against the wall adjacent to him. His jaw violently protested against his clenched teeth and his head spun with pain and confusion and pain. A grunt made its way through his bloody mouth, but still no cry escaped him. It only echoed throughout him inside, expressing every throb of agony with pure screams. His sensitive head wasn't given much time to recover from such trauma before the gruff man entwined his thick fingers through Sherlock's tangled hair and pulled him upward, his bare toes desperately reaching for the cold ground but finding no support. His neck strained and hands fought savagely for relief that did not come. He stayed suspended in what seem perpetual pain forever as the door slammed open behind his abuser and two more men entered the cell. They hastily made their way to Sherlock, each taking one of his hands. Dragged to the center of the cell, toes still stretching to find the safety of the ground, Sherlock's heart dropped when he felt splintered rope being tied too tightly around each wrist. The binding being done apparently, the tall man released his grip on Sherlock's agonized scalp. To Sherlock's utter horror, though, the situation he was left to much less preferable than his previous position. His toes, though they could brush the slimy floor, still did not reach far down enough for support. He was completely held up by the taunt ropes digging mercilessly into his already sore wrists. Sherlock's whole body felt stretched as his back cried out against the strain. His breath was rapid and shallow and distressed sounds filled the room, but still no screams. Oh no, compared to what was coming, screams would have been an exaggeration of his current pain. Once again doing something he would never admit, Sherlock whimpered when he realized what one of the three men now in the cell held in his beefy hand. Something he had never imagined he would have any rational reason to fear. A leather whip, about seven feet long, being unwound in the man's hands. Tears of pure fear squeezed down Sherlock's grimy face as the man slowly made his way behind him, the fall of his boots echoing through the room.
For a moment, all was silent. Then, suddenly, a crack accompanied by a flash of pain so unbearable that Sherlock could not even remember that he was human, that he had once felt warmth, that there had once been a time when he did not know such pain existed. Mockery from the torturers Sherlock could not understand through the throbbing in his ears bounced off the cold walls as another whip lash fell across Sherlock's back, the skin stretched and tight and shining in the dim room. Nothing still but moans came through his chapped lips with each crack of the cruel leather. When his torturers realized the whip would not draw screams from him, they changed tactics. Pipes, jagged edged pipes pounded against his broken body. Ribs cracked audibly and skin was caught and torn like tissue paper. Still, though, Sherlock did not allow himself to scream—biting his tongue to the point he feared he would bite it off.
How the next horror made him actually miss the miserably pain of the whip and the pipe and the punches and kicks. A knife, it seemed at first, was drawn by the third man. With what appeared to be a flip of a switch on the handle, the blade began to glow. Sherlock, through swollen eyes, could see the heat radiating off the steel. He resigned himself to his fate, head dropping to his chest. He could not take much more, life was not worth it. So when the knife was thrust up between his broken ribs, he did not scream because he knew the pain would bring him the sweet relief of death. However, this relief did not come. The heat, he realized, was not merely an accessory to make the death hurt worse—it was to prevent death by instantly cauterizing the wound. This would not kill him, but only increase his immense need to die. The knife remained where it was in his body, the smell of burning flesh making Sherlock vomit the bile built up in his stomach. The man held the knife there still. Sherlock's nerves felt raw against the searing heat of the blade. More pain following, worse pain, as the man slowly began to twist the knife. When Sherlock still did not make a sound, the blade was jerked from his ribcage and the cold air of the cell felt miserable against the wound left behind.
Practically unconscious, Sherlock did not hear the commotion outside the steel door. He did not notice the three men running outside to assist in the rumble. He did notice the pain and slight relief that followed the cutting of the ropes at his wrist, making his slack body fall into a pair of arms that slowly supported him to the ground. The cold floor felt unbearable on his tattered back, but he could not manage words to convey the thought to his liberator. He became somewhat aware of countless men surrounding him, not in combat boots, but in the shined shoes of non-military and torture occupations. Someone, the man Sherlock assumed who had set him down, leaned down and was trying to tell him something. Only a few words came through.
"Free…you're free…Sherlock…free. They won't hurt you anymore."
Sherlock's tired body sagged, then tensed as the thing that had built up inside him over the past day escaped from his being. A ragged, raw scream clawed its way up his throat and filled the air with the agony from within him. His body curled on its side and every muscle tightened as it ripped through him like cannon fire. The police surrounding him fell silent at the spectacle. But Sherlock did not notice any of this, he just kept on screaming.