Like a Train Wreck

"I could do anything I want to you right now, Mr. Holmes. Anything at all."

…

It was not part of the plan, John could just tell. He watched with a clenched stomach as Sherlock stumbled and flailed miserably, reaching out, reaching towards John before the cabbie shoved him into the backseat. He was out of his chair before Angelo could protest any further, leaving his cane behind and dashing out the door.

…

The voice was around him, everywhere. It was blurry and confusing, bizarrely soft. Sherlock opened his eyes to find the world around him as dim and out of focus as the voice, the voice that was still speaking to him, with something like mock affection. He tried to speak but knew his mouth wasn't moving correctly, knew that his voice was slurred. The voice, the man's voice, chuckled and there was suddenly a hand in his hair as if it the person meant to soothe him.

But then it turned rough, the hand fisting in his hair and yanking his head back and he was forced to look into a pair of dark, cold eyes. The voice was still talking and he could pick up a slight Irish accent, Dublin, wasn't it? The rest of the man's face slipped in and out of focus. Short dark hair, dark eyes, and very normal, almost generic; the kind of man one would struggle to describe to the police; the kind of man who could easily disappear into the crowd. He wore a suit, expensive and freshly pressed and his words were slowly starting to make sense.

"I don't appreciate you interfering with my clients, Sherlock," the man said with an odd blank smile on his face, "Perhaps this evening will serve as a warning for you."

"Who're you?" Sherlock slurred, trying to turn his head but the man's grip on his hair was vice-like.

"Sherlock, you disappoint me," he replied with a frown, "Surely the world's only consulting detective can appreciate a good mystery."

The hand left his hair and Sherlock's head dropped onto his arm, feeling as if it weighed a thousand pounds. He realized he was face down on the floor, hard floor like wood. He brought his knees up under himself, attempting to stand but all he could do was hover there, leaning on his elbows and groaning at the exertion.

He could feel the man's appreciative stare behind him before there were hands on his hips. Sherlock froze. This was not right, this was very not right. The hands moved lower, groping his backside and slipping around to the front where they squeezed with no mercy. He cried out, squirming and attempting to crawl away. The man effortlessly yanked him back to his previous position and he could feel his weight over him, pressing against him as he made short work of Sherlock's belt.

"John…" Sherlock moaned despairingly, although he knew it would do no good, "John, help me…"

…

John hadn't stopped pacing since he was forced back to the flat. Lestrade was there to keep him company and make sure he stayed put. The inspector watched him as he went back and forth, worrying a hole in the floor. His phone sat on his thigh, ready to be answered if the team should find a lead.

John stopped, rubbing a hand over his face, pressing into his eyes wearily. "How can they not have found him yet?" he demanded, staring hard at Lestrade, "Is the police force so utterly lost without Sherlock's help?"

"I'm sure he'll turn up soon, Dr. Watson," he said for the hundredth time that evening. The questioning had gone on and on like this for hours and he was beginning to feel like a broken record.

The only news they had had so far was that the cabbie had been apprehended and taken down to the yard but Sherlock was not to be found. When submitted to immediate questioning, the cabbie refused to give out any information, nor the name of his said "employer". John had been ready to go down there and beat the man into submission but Lestrade had assured him that Sherlock always turned up safe and sound. Granted, this was the longest he had ever been missing.

The two men nearly jumped out of their skin when they heard the doorbell chime. John thundered down the stairs, Lestrade following close behind. Mrs. Hudson poked her head out of her flat as John threw open the door. He looked around but there was no one there and not a soul on the road. Just when he was about to give it up to pranksters, he heard a gasp from his landlady and looked down. His heart dropped into his stomach. There lay Sherlock on the front stoop, bundled in a dark blanket and obviously unconscious.

"Sherlock!" he cried, dropping to his knees and pressing his fingers to the side of his throat…still alive. Premature relief washed over him before he saw the note that was pinned to the front of the blanket:

"Thanks for the use of your boyfriend, Johnny Boy.

-M."

John's mind whorled around the words and what they could possibly mean. Lestrade was there in a flash, grabbing Sherlock by the legs while John lifted the top half of his body, pressing his chest against his head so it wouldn't loll. Mrs. Hudson was flitting around them like a nervous bird, saying that they could use her sitting room instead of carrying Sherlock all the way up the stairs.

They cautiously laid the detective on the couch and Mrs. Hudson bustled off, muttering something about hot tea. John and Lestrade both stood, looking down at Sherlock as if they didn't know what to do next. With a glance up at the inspector, John grabbed the edge of the blanket and gently pulled. They both gasped in horror, taking a step back from the brutalized body before them.

Sherlock was naked, his neck was bruised and bitten, the little crescent shaped marks caked with blood. On either side of his chest were four long shallow tracks of blood; inarguably, fingernails. John blinked rapidly, keeping the sudden and unwelcome prickling of tears at bay; this was starting to look more and more like…dare he think it…rape. With a shaky exhale of breath, he uncovered him the rest of the way.

He almost had to turn in the other direction, his heart pounding and his throat thick. He had seen the casualties of war, seen friends bleed out before him when there was nothing he could do…but this, this. This was almost more than he could bear. Marks, just starting to bruise in the shape of fingers on his hips and there was blood. So much of it, covering his thighs and staining the blanket.

"Christ," Lestrade managed after a moment of silence, tugging the blanket back over him and leaving the room to call for an ambulance.

John staggered back, falling into one of Mrs. Hudson's arm chairs, a hand over his mouth and feeling like he was about to be sick. The owner of the chair walked back into the room, balancing an eiderdown and a teapot.

"Don't come in here, Mrs. Hudson," John warned, "Go back to the kitchen until the ambulance comes."

"Ambulance?" she repeated worriedly, "What's happened to Sherlock? Is it serious?"

"More serious than I ever imagined…" John replied, just above a whisper, his eyes trained on the still body before him.

The landlady stood there, debating, and finally returned to the kitchen. John sat, propping his head in his hand and wondered why he cared so much. He was certain that this wasn't the normal doctor/patient feelings to have and he had only known the man for a day and a half. So why, why did it feel like someone had punched him in the chest with a red hot fist?

His thoughts were interrupted by the whooping alarm of an ambulance and a couple of cop cars. Lestrade responded first to the banging on the front door, leading the paramedics into the sitting room. They quickly grabbed Sherlock, hauling him onto a stretcher with as much care as would be required with a sack of potatoes.

"Gently, would you, for fuck's sake!" John heard himself exclaim. They looked at him in surprise before quietly apologizing and carrying him out to the ambulance.

John was right behind them and climbed in next to Sherlock once they had him situated. Just before the doors shut, he caught a glimpse of a tall man, climbing out of a posh black car, his brows creased with concern. He stood, anxiously twirling a black umbrella when he locked eyes with John. The man's gaze was calculating and skeptical, a slight, humorless smile curving his thin lips. Something about the way the man seemed to see directly through him reminded him of Sherlock and he wondered vaguely why he was there. A family member perhaps? The doors slammed shut and the whirring of the siren drowned out John's thoughts.

(A/N: Thoughts anyone? :D)