Uhhhhm, Hi there! I don't own Sherlock Holmes or anything, but if I did…(;
Hope you enjoy this story.
Trigger: Mentions of past abuse and rape, attempted rape.
They were running so fast that John only saw blurs passing by and Sherlock's back in front of him. They were after one of the most dangerous men in London; Sylvester Harper, the monster murdered his wife and three year old son after finding her in bed with a woman, he then went on a killing and raping spree, and started a very successful drug trafficking business. He was responsible for many of their cases and this was one of their only chances at catching the bastard. Suddenly Sherlock stopped, which caused John to run face first into his back.
"He disappeared, John! I swear I almost had him!" and If Sherlock didn't know where he had gone, nobody did. "He's got to be here, somewhere close. You stay here and I'll corner him to you." John was still trying to catch his bloody breath. He nodded his head and watched Sherlock sprint down the alley.
"Well well well, another victim to add to my extensive collection. John Watson, what a nice surprise." A cold voice spoke from the shadows. John tensed, every one of his muscles locked up. He knew that voice, knew it well.
"Sylvester Harper, I assume." John spat out the name like it was poison. The man stepped into John's line of view with a smirk on his face. "Never assume, Johnny. You know what they say about assuming." John's face was twisted in horror as he set eyes on one of the men that haunted his past, Harold Sylva. "Y-You, but you're… you're meant to be-
A sinister laugh bubbled out of Harper's throat and past his dry, cracked lips. "Dead? You know me much better than that, Johnny. Like the name change? I thought of it myself."
The soldier in him told him to stand his ground and fight. The complete terror he felt told him to run, get as far away from Harold Sylva as he could because this fucker was sick, he was twisted, and John knew it from experience. John could see it in his eyes; saw it in the way Sylva moved towards him like a serpent about to strike.
"You can't decide whether or not you want to run or try your luck and attempt to take me down, John." And good God this man was at least 6'6 and around 350 pounds, about 3 times the size of John. He felt the bastard grab him viciously around the throat, dejavu.
"You should have run." He felt a pinch in his arm and looked down to find a syringe lodged in his vein. He swung his head forward, his forehead connecting with Sylva's nose, making a disgusting crunching sound as blood spurted from it.
"I'm starting to think you really missed ol' Harold, Johnny." John slumped against the wall of a building next to them, he couldn't focus, couldn't think of what his symptoms were.
"Morphine, in case you were wondering. I've been informed by your father that you're a doctor, so you probably guessed. You moved away from us, Johnny, how could you do that? I missed you very much, you know. I missed those big, innocent doe eyes, looking up at me with fury." Sylva palmed himself through his jeans, groaning in pleasure over John's horrible past.
John felt like he was going to throw up his dinner, the only thing he'd eaten that day was about to be all over the cement.
"Y-You died. You're not real, you can't be real. I'm hallucinating again." He was helpless, looking up at a monster. This man was the monster in his closet when John was only a boy.
"I went into hiding, settled down with a wife… a son. He reminded me a lot of you, you know." That smirk turned into an unsettling grin and that grin is what finally made John's dinner make its way up and onto the pavement.
"Your own son..you ra… you did things to him too?!" John was livid, truly livid; he had never wanted to kill someone as much as he wanted to kill this bastard.
Harold Sylva had the nerve to look satisfied by John's question. "Your father may have helped a bit, Johnny. We could never replace you though, that tight little hole of yours, it was sorely missed. No need for you to be jealous."
John meant to get up and swing at Sylva, he really did, but somehow he ended up with his face hitting the pavement. Sylva was on him in an instant, straddling John's backside. The sinister cackling rang out into the air and John cringed.
He wouldn't wait for Sylva to use him and be finished; he wouldn't wait for the slapping of skin on skin to cease. This time he would fight, he wasn't that frightened little boy anymore. He wouldn't let this happen again, he couldn't, but if that were the case, why wasn't he moving? Why couldn't he get the message from his brain to his limbs, drugs be damned?
Sylva was ripping his shirt, tearing it to shreds with his knife. "Be a good boy for me, Johnny." Tears leaked from his eyes at the demand. It was happening all over again and he couldn't do a damn thing to stop it. "No, no stop! Don't fucking touch me, you-
A hand clamped over his mouth and hot, revolting breath hissed in his ear. "I'll carve your bloody tongue out, boy. Keep quiet." And just like that John Watson was a frightened little boy again, afraid of the monsters in his closet.
In one last attempt to save himself, he bit down on Harold Sylva's grimy hand, while the vile man was fussing over his bleeding fingers, John bucked and threw him off.
Scrambling to get to his feet and as far away from this nauseating bastard, John took off down the alley where he'd seen Sherlock run. He could hear Sylva screaming at him, demanding that he come back and fight. "You bloody coward! Get back here and finish what you started, Johnny!"
More mad, cackling laughter pierced John's thoughts.
John never stopped though, never turned around, not even as a gunshot rang out and the sinister laugh was silenced. Not even when he heard Lestrade and Donavan pleading with him to slow down, telling him it was over.