DISCLAIMER: The character mentioned in this story do not belong to me, I make no money nor do I profit from writing this. They belong to there respective owners and I merely just borrow them from time to time.
WARNINGS: This is a dark fic, with mentions of torture, rape and a very dark doctor. I haven't decided how long this will be yet so I'm going to warn against sexual situations just in case. Slash is part of the plot here as well, if your not into that, then please leave this page now.
A/N: This is my first published story on this site, however I have been writing fanfiction for quite some time now. Even so this is still a special moment for me and I'm glad I was able to share it with all of you. This story hasn't been beta'd, but I'm happy to allow someone to help with grammar and the flow of the story if they contact me.
Watson's POV, Holmes' POV
The Hunt is on.
Chapter 1: Baker Street was quiet as the vicious winter air blew down it; the only sounds to be heard was a faint cane tapping rhythmically on the concrete not too far away and the flickering of the gas lamps as the strong winds rushed down the abandoned looking street. Dr John Watson pulled his jacket around him firmly as he turned onto Baker Street, silently cursing the man who had borrowed his scarf as the wind bit around his neck. He chuckled bitterly to himself, 'borrowed' he thought, he's probably lost it in the pigsty he calls a bedroom. He shall have to have a word with Holmes about his cleanliness again, he allows himself a small smile thinking about the argument that will follow his words when Holmes returns from his walk.
Watson hangs up his coat, calls out a cheery hello to Mrs. Hudson and requests that a pot of tea be brought upstairs knowing that she will be leaving soon for her sister's house. Only once seated in his usual armchair by the pleasantly warming fire with a cup of tea did he realise that he hadn't heard Sherlock call out for him yet. Watson dismisses his worry by reassuring himself that whatever Holmes has been up too, he should be on his way home now.
As the grandfather clock in the hallway solemnly strikes midnight, Watson jumps. He has been pacing in front off the fireplace for around an hour now and with every second that ticks by, Watson's uneasiness has grown. He can't understand why he feels sick or even worried at all! Surely he is used to Holmes' quirky behaviour by now, and really, he is a grown man who has shown in the ring that he can handle himself. Maybe he is off with some mistress and has disregarded Watson's worry during the throes of lust, as Watson pondered this idea he was suddenly struck by a completely irrational rage but put it down to tiredness. Just as Watson was assuring himself that Holmes will be fine and has probably just come across some poor fellow who needed his assistance there was an odd screech and then a thump noise coming from downstairs. All of a sudden a sleeping Gladstone jumped up and barked at Watson twice then ran from the room. How peculiar thought Watson, Gladstone only barks when Holmes is being of a particular annoyance to him. More out of curiosity to see what has riled his dog up more than anything, Watson moved towards the stairs, but picked up his revolver on the way just to be safe. Gladstone was pawing at the front door, Watson almost turned back to his bedroom thinking Gladstone was just being a pain until the desperate whine came from the animal. As Watson looked back at Gladstone again he resumed his barking, John rushed down the stairs to silence the animal. Pulling on his coat and attaching a lead to the frantic dog he petted him gently whilst opening the front door, assuming the dog needed to relieve himself. Once the door was open enough for Gladstone to slip though he was straining against the leash that Watson was holding. As Watson strained to keep a hold on the crazed dog he opened the remainder of the door, once open he nearly dropped the lead in shock. A body that was oozing blood from many places including the head was lying on the doorstep, the previously neat clothes ripped to shreds and stained crimson and one arm struck at an odd angle suggesting broken bones. The most horrifying detail was that the body was recognisable, tears sprung to Watson's eyes as his whole body trembled as he choked out "Holmes".
Suddenly his doctor instincts kicked in, coupled with the need to occupy himself before he crumpled into a heap and became useless. Ushering Gladstone inside he ran to his study and grabbed his medical bag as quickly as his pained leg would allow and grabbed some blankets from his closet. Once outside he laid a clean, thick sheet on the ground and carefully rolled Holmes onto it after checking for neck and spinal damages. Using his newfound strength that couples with adrenaline he carried the limp detective into the hall where the light is brighter and a heater is placed next to the coat rack. Carefully peeling away the shreds of fabric that can no longer be called clothes, the Doctor quickly moves his eyes along the body making a mental note of where he is most damaged whilst trying to feel for a pulse. After a small flurry of panic and fear he feels a faint pulse beating through the nearly broken detective. Suppressing a sob Watson clears off the blood as most of it had congealed on his skin, meaning he has been in this condition for a while. Once the blood is cleaned off, the Doctor can see over a hundred thin but deep gashes covering the detective's chest and abdomen. Mindful of the broken arm and deep bruising that covers his sides and shoulders, Watson gingerly turns Holmes' slightly to see if his back is any better. Once on his side the Doctor can see that it fares no better as there are fewer cuts here, but they are much thicker and deeper. After cleaning and disinfecting all the cuts he notes deep purple bruising spreading on his skin and the need for stitches on a few particularly nasty wounds. Removing Holmes' trousers and pants as he has done many times before for medical examinations, he gasps, and lets out a strangled cry. Blood has been flowing from between his legs and the skin has transformed from a pale cream colour to purple with a few black blotches that show the outlines of handprints. Tears start to fall down Watson's face as he realises' what has happened to his beloved detective and only friend. Suppressing the overwhelming urge to cradle the unconscious albeit naked detective in his arms he continues the process of cleaning Holmes' wounds and stitching where necessary. After Watson finished securing the last of the stitches in a particularly deep head wound he just stared at the purple spreading over the previously white canvas, allowing the tears to fall freely as a demon he didn't know he had inside of him awoke and caused a terrible but controlled rage to build up inside of him. Gently running his hands through Holmes' damp hair he covered him with blankets and carried him to his bed. Once he was laid down and comfortable looking, the Doctor resumed his hair stroking. Watson's hand froze when he saw a slight twitch in Holmes' left hand, thinking he imagined it, but no there it was again. Keeping his hand in Holmes' hair he started calling out to him, "Holmes' can you hear me? You don't have to talk but just give me a sign that you can hear me!" He sat with baited breath waiting, but there was nothing. All off a sudden Holmes gave a strangled cry and Watson jumped away but swiftly returned and grabbed the hand that wasn't attached to a broken arm, whispering that it will all be okay, that he's safe now and that he is fixing him. Holmes' eyes flung open and Watson was shocked at the fear he could see in them, he was so used to seeing knowledge, mischief and something else he couldn't quite place dancing around in the chocolate brown eyes. Tears started flowing down the broken detectives cheeks as he started trembling, clearly not recognising his surroundings he started whispering in a voice that had clearly screamed for hours, "please don't do it again, please just let me go home." Watson tried to suppress his anger, but the control he had earlier had just shattered into a million pieces as he heard Holmes crying out like an abused child. After Holmes had passed out once more, he injected him with a strong painkiller, Watson grabbed his revolver made sure it was fully loaded and burst out into the cold night air. The hunt is on.