Title: Secrets Destroy

Author: YaoiGoddessNekoJin

Rating: M

Warnings: Slash, violence, language, sexual content, non-con

Disclaimer: Unfortunately, Sherlock and friends don't belong to me.

A/N: Alright, this is my first attempt at writing a Sherlock Holmes fic. Ever since I first saw the movie back in '09, I've wanted to try my hand at it, I just haven't actually started it until now. Anyway, in case you haven't already guessed, this fic is based on the Guy Ritchie movies. This story begins in the first movie and goes from there. Enjoy!

Chapter I

Holmes pouted sullenly as he crossed his arms and leaned against Watson's back. They were sitting in the middle of the prison yard after the fiasco at the dry dock. He knew Watson was angry with him, but it annoyed him to no end how his dear friend continued to prattle on about his meeting with the Morstans that Holmes had inadvertently ruined. 'For the greater good.' he thought indignantly. He rather despised Mary and, strictly based on association, her parents as well. Holmes had honestly been under the impression that he and Watson would live together at Baker Street forever. The thought that the man would meet someone had never even crossed his mind. In fact, he had been on the verge of telling Watson how he felt about him. Being that Holmes wasn't versed at all in matters of the heart, Adler didn't count because he had never loved her, it had taken him forever and a day to figure out the muddled chaos that some called emotion. Sighing in frustration, Holmes leaned further into Watson's back. The overwhelming warmth flowing off of the one he pined so desperately after encompassed him in a comfort so deep that his chest began to throb with a dull ache.

A sudden noise by the gate caught Holmes' attention. Obviously Watson had noticed it as well because he stood and sent Sherlock tumbling to the ground in an undignified heap. "Ow." he muttered, rubbing the back of his head tenderly. He glared at the brutes that were laughing at his clumsiness. Watson didn't even spare him a second look as he walked through the gate. 'Damn! It's her.' he thought upon seeing the woman that was smiling gently at his Watson. Picking himself up from the ground and brushing the dirt from his pants, Holmes followed Watson to the gate. Said gate was immediately slammed in his face. Holmes looked put off and glared at the guard as he was told that only Watson would be leaving right then.

"Watson!" he called as his friend began walking away. "You can't just leave me here." Said man turned back to Holmes.

"I can and I will." he replied coolly. Holmes found he was a little stung by the words. Obviously, his friend was still angry. Acting on pure emotion, which was something he had never done before, Holmes called out to Watson once more.

"Can't you see what that bloody wench is trying to do? She's trying to come between us! She's nothing but a harlot!" In a split second, Watson was back at the gate, reaching through and jerking Holmes into it by his shirt. His blue eyes were blazing and, when he spoke, his voice was low and deadly. He forcefully pulled his friend into the cold iron of the gate to punctuate every word.

"Don't. Ever. Speak. Of. Mary. Like. That. Again!" By the time Watson was finished venting his anger, Holmes had blood running down his face from a cut above his brow and a split lip. Watson jerked him close one more time and ground out, "I'm done Holmes. I'm done with all of your shit. I will not be working with you again. I'm finished with you and will wipe my hands clean of it all."

Sherlock new his eyes had to be as wide as a doe's. His chest hurt worse than any physical pain he had ever felt before. He looked into Watson's icy blue depths and realized that this was what it felt like when a heart shattered. As the doctor walked away, the she-devil herself approached the gate, grinning maliciously.

"I told you he was mine, Mr. Holmes. If you come anywhere near us again, I will destroy you." Mary said in a sickly sweet tone. She walked up to her fiancé and linked arms with him. As they left, Holmes could feel his eyes stinging in a way they had not for many years.

Long after Watson had taken his leave, Sherlock was still sitting on the bench they had previously shared, staring aimlessly into the distance. He was so distraught by the earlier events that he failed to notice one of the burly men coming up behind him. That was, at least, until he was roughly grabbed from behind, a large, meaty hand covering his mouth, stifling his breathing and eliminating any chance he had of calling out for help. The smell radiating from the man was absolutely putrid and Holmes felt his stomach churn in revolt. He was bodily dragged, kicking the whole way, into a small, secluded area where the brick walls shielded them from the guard's view. Holmes was biding his time and waiting for a chance to go on the offensive. That thought, however, was soon crushed as the man's hand moved to his neck and slammed his back against the wall, squeezing painfully. He was disoriented when his head impacted with the brick, a resounding crack echoing in his ears. The unforgiving hand around his neck grasped tightly, effectively cutting off his air supply. Sherlock struggled in a futile attempt to get away, feeling very much like a captured fish. His movements became slower until he no longer had energy left. The blood was rushing in his ears and his slowing heartbeat pounding in his head. 'This is it.' he thought grimly. 'I'm going to die here. Watson's still angry.' For some reason, Holmes couldn't stand the idea of dying like this. He had to at least say he was sorry. As darkness began to encroach on the outer edges of his vision, Holmes found that he was roughly dropped to the ground. The brute that was assaulting him gave a deep chuckle when Holmes, gasping desperately for air, attempted and failed to lever himself up.

"Look at that. The great Sherlock Holmes, as weak as a newborn kitten." he laughed. Holmes glared daggers at him from under the mop of dark brown hair that had fallen into his face. He coughed to clear his throat, then spoke.

"Screw you!" At this remark, the man grinned malevolently with a joviality that made Holmes' stomach churn in disgust and dread. He figured that it was time for him to take his leave and attempted to scramble, on hands and knees, out of the cove. A moment later, he heard a darkly amused chuckle before he felt himself being grabbed by the back of his pants. The ice cold tendrils of fear snaked through his very being. Holmes was easily lifted a few inches from the ground and jerked backwards. He grunted in pain as he was flipped over and his back connected forcibly with the ground. The ruffian over him smirked and lowered his hefty body down to straddle the smaller man's waist. He used one colossal hand and pinned both of Holmes' wrists above his head. He laughed in Holmes' face again, once more huffing putrid breath over his face, hot, moist breath creating unwanted humidity to gust in his ear.

"Now, I believe you've got that backwards, love." he hissed, referring to Holmes' previous comment. Sherlock froze, the sudden bolt of fear rendering him immobile. The man began to paw, in an animalistic manner at Holmes' body with his free hand. The feeling was dreadful and brought shameful tears to his eyes. Holmes began to struggle as he felt his clothes being ripped open. The effort was futile, however, as he was held fast in the man's grasp. Holmes attempted to take himself away from the situation and was successful for a while. He thought of Watson and the life they had at 221B Baker Street. He thought of the cases, the camaraderie, and the understanding and caring they shared. With a silent scream, he was ripped from his self-imposed dreamland by a searing pain that blazed a white-hot trail through his body. He squeezed his eyes shut, tears leaking from them and down his dirt streaked face as he heard the harsh grunts and felt the painful, rhythmic pounding that roughly jarred his entire body. His wrists were being held in a bone-crushing grip, being ground into the dirt and felt, what he assumed, could only be blood pooling in a small, but growing, puddle between his thighs. Holmes was mortified and turned his face into his shoulder to stifle his sobbing and cries of pain. The Neanderthal above him chuckled and, never ceasing his movements, leaned down and spoke harshly into Holmes' ear.

"How's it feel to be treated like the whore you are?" he paused to moan slightly before continuing. "Next time you see him, thank that friend of yours for me. It was awful nice of him to leave you here for my enjoyment." Holmes felt like his heart stopped in his chest. An overwhelming feeling of despair engulfed him as his thoughts raced through his mind. He wouldn't blame Watson, not at all. If there was anyone deserving of the blame in this case, as with most, it was himself. However, he couldn't help but wish that Watson was here to protect him; comfort him. With a burst of searing hot liquid that seemed to tear through him like acid, the man above him caught his breath for a moment before standing and adjusting his clothes. Before he walked away, he delivered a sharp kick to Holmes' ribs that left the smaller man curled up on the ground, pain emanating from every fiber of his being. Letting go, he sobbed uncontrollably into the ground, wishing with all of his heart that Watson still cared about him.

Watson and Mary were walking down the sidewalk arm in arm. Mary was talking animatedly about this and that, staring at her fiancé in adoration. However much Watson returned that feeling, he couldn't seem to tear his thoughts away from Holmes. Right before he had taken his leave of the prison yard with Mary, Watson thought he caught a flash of emotion that he hadn't known Holmes was capable of cross the man's face. At the time, he brushed it off as a figment of his imagination. Now, however, he could not stop thinking of that fraction of a second in time. He truly did feel bad about the things he had said to Holmes and the fact that he let Mary leave him behind. 'Oh well.' he thought. 'Holmes is more than capable of taking care of himself.'

By the time that Lestrade arrived at the prison yard, Holmes had already righted himself. He had pulled his jacket completely around him and buttoned it up to hide the fact that his shirt was a torn mess. He masked his face with his usual façade and made all of the customary jabs at the inspector in an attempt to conceal the emotional turmoil that was swirling like a thick miasma in his mind. Luckily for him, Scotland Yard's finest didn't clue in to his distress and he was able to finish the Lord Blackwood case without anyone being the wiser. He had convinced himself he was fine now, that he could put it all behind him, but, going back to Baker Street alone brought everything that had happened to the forefront of his mind and sent him spiraling out of control.

TBC…

A/N: Well, there you have it. R&R! If there are any blaring grammatical errors, please let me know. I wrote this while at work between paper and two different machines. Currently, I have bronchitis, but I just want to get this thing posted and haven't done a thorough read through like I usually do...I dun feel too good...

P.S: I'll be working on this and another Sherlock fic at the same time (hopefully) so updates may take some time. ^-^