John slammed the door on his way out cursing under his breath. He hated arguments with Sherlock, hated them. He tried his best to avoid them but Sherlock was so difficult and he'd crossed the line when he'd shouted at the poor widow at the hospital. If only he could be more tactful. Not be so obviously enjoying solving the horrific murder in front of the distraught family,
He began to shiver as he carried on walking pulling his coat closer into him. He had no idea where he was going. He just kept walking. He had planned to go to his girlfriends but remembered before he got to the end of the street that she broke up with him for forgetting one too many dates. He didn't mean to miss them. When Sherlock got so wrapped up in a case it was hard not to get involved with him. It was only when they solved a particularly "brilliant" murder- suicide (Sherlock's words not his) he noticed the angry texts and missed calls. He was beginning to get the idea that Sherlock wasn't great for long-term relationships.
The night got darker and John began to see more and more drunks filter onto the streets. Shouting and laughing, not having a care in the world, until they sobered up. John considered joining them.
"Just one night without Sherlock," he thought.
He stumbled out of the pub hours later. No matter how drunk he got, he couldn't get Sherlock out of his mind. He'd given up in the end and began trying to hail a cab to Baker Street not caring how Sherlock would react when he walked in. After a few minutes he began to realise he would have to walk home. He sighed and began to walk in the general direction of Baker Street.
Out of nowhere he felt coarse, rough hands grab him and throw him into the nearest alleyway, throwing him to the floor. As his back hit the hard concrete, his mind began to sober up at an alarming rate. He couldn't see the face of the man who was about to hit him in the gut, making him double over in pain, it was too dark. He felt the hands delve into his trouser pockets and pull out his wallet, it was near empty. He felt his phone being snatched away. John tried to get up but as sober as his mind now was his body was still drunk. His reactions were sloppy and slow. As he tried to speak all he could hear was his own drunk, slurred mumbling.
"You've not got much have you? I'd best find something else for you to pay me with?"
John felt himself being turned onto his front. Instinct told him to roll back over but strong hands held him down. The realisation didn't hit him until he felt the hands of his attacker pulling on his belt. It was too intimate. He tried his best to squirm away. In his mind he was screaming, fighting and kicking the man off him but all he could do was feel himself being pushed into the ground.
He undid the belt quickly and John began to feel more and more claustrophobic. His breathing was increasing faster and faster. He was dangerously close to hyperventilating. He could hear the blood pounding round his body. He heard the sound of a zipper.
As he felt his trousers and boxers pulled down John tried to relax himself, he knew what was happening. He was far too much of a practical man to pretend it wasn't. He knew the damage would only be worse if he didn't relax. But there was too much adrenaline flowing through his body, it was all happening too quick. He gasped as he felt his buttocks being squeezed before being prized apart. This couldn't be happening.
"Sherlock!" he cried but his voice only came out as a hoarse whisper. John tried not to focus on how broken he sounded. It was like he was in a nightmare. No matter how loud he tried to scream it barely came out as a whisper. No matter how hard he tried to fight, his body movements were slow like he was wading through treacle.
He felt his head being yanked back and a hand going over his mouth before he heard a cold whisper in his ear.
"You're going to love this."
With no further warning, no preparation he pushed in. John felt as if his whole body was being torn apart. He screamed uselessly into the man's hand, kicking his legs against the floor his whole body writhing. He'd never been in so much pain in his life, not even being shot compared to this. John couldn't stop trying to get away. He knew it was pointless. He knew he was making his injuries worse but he couldn't stop.
He could hear the man gasping and grunting on top of him. With every thrust John felt another stab of pain. He could feel the blood running down his thigh onto the ground below. This agony had to end soon it couldn't go on forever. He knew it but with every thrust he felt more and more humilitated.
Couldn't someone see them, hear them? Couldn't someone stop it? He'd face anyone right now even Moriaty if it meant ending this. He was being used like a piece of meat in the fog he could hear the attacker whispering in his ear. "So tight, faggot, you're enjoying this, whore." It went on and on. He could feel the tears streaming down his face, he hadn't cried since he was a child. He knew there was going to be no rescue. His mind had given up.
He felt his whole body go limp, jerking with every thrust, waiting for it to be over.
He began to feel the man speeding up and a loud gasp from the man above him and a sudden heat inside him. John tried his best not to be sick as he realised what it meant. He felt as if he'd been contaminated. He felt the hand around his mouth let go and his head smacked onto the floor. His attacker just laid there on top of him slowly breathing in and out. John closed his eyes. He just wanted him off him. His whole body ached and throbbed. He tried not to concentrate on the one part of his body which was causing him the most pain. He let out a low whimper as the man suddenly pushed harshly out of him.
He could almost hear his attackers smile as he stood up to admire his handiwork. John slowly heard him pull his zipper up and walk away.
He laid there, not moving. He could still feel the blood and he knew he needed medical attention. He reached out into the darkness to try and find his phone only to remember it was stolen off him. John tried to repress a sob as he realised his desperate situation. He needed to find Sherlock. He forced himself up, trying not to cry out from the pain. He shakily pulled up his trousers and pants. As he stood up, he could already feel his pants go sodden due to the blood. He stumbled out of the alley, shielding his eyes from the brightness of the streetlights. He limped down the street, it was deserted. As he got to the end he began to get his bearings and realise where he was.
He couldn't believe how close he was to Baker Street. He was there and at the door in less than a few minutes. Shaking, he struggled to open the door. At last he heard the door click and he pushed it open.