The case of the missing emerald sabre was nearly over; Sherlock Holmes himself had figured it out early on but now the evidence was there to back his words.
It was the son; coerced by his fraternity 'brothers'.
Some brothers these had been though.
The evidence of physical torture and bullying was heart-breaking (not that Holmes was known to have one to break). But of course the young man was refusing the press charges… taking the fall himself. Including his own father's wrath.
Sherlock found himself at the boarding school, searching the den once more; his eyes half closed as he let his index and middle finger run over the leather bound books on the shelves… feeling for one that felt marginally different. Looking for the one that opened up to the secret chamber that he despite his best efforts remembered from his own time at this very institution.
Finding what he was looking for he drew a sharp breath. His entire body struggled against his will.
'It is literally just a room. Four walls' he chanted to himself inwardly. It even sounded ridiculously dumb to his own ears.
With his finger still on the book he twirled on his heels and faced the detective inspector; Lestrade and his own assistant; Doctor John Watson.
"I will need to have a look at the room first, alone" his voice sounded a tinge raspier than he would have liked.
Was his cold, unaffected façade cracking?
"Don't touch anything though, evidence. Remember" the inspector warned him; with these words giving him permission to pull the lever disguised as an early edition of J.M. Barrie's 'Peter Pan – The Boy Who Wouldn't Grow Up'.
He wanted to stall further but he was fearing his unwillingness would become too apparent. He had to bite the bullet and get on with it.
Tipping the book toward himself he started the mechanism that unlocked and opened the entrance; a bookcase turned outwards revealing the room.
That room.
And it looked exactly the same after all these years. It even smelled the same way; of oak, mildew, smoke and cinnamon.
Stepping over the threshold to the room he seemed to have to break through an invisible but yet physical barrier.
He felt as if the air in his lungs had been punched clean out of him.
Again…
To his own frustration his bottom lip quivered ever so slightly. Unwelcome images of well tucked away memories popped up and flashed before his eyes.
There were things he never could fully delete; despite his skilled attempt of creating and maintaining the well-oiled machine that was his brain.
Some things even he had no control over… and it was shameful for him to admit to.
Sherlock couldn't breathe. It felt as if something was physically stopping him… he felt the ghosts of clammy hands around his throat.
He lost his usually graceful footing and stumbled. When he reached for salvation he nearly knocked over a side table. Hearing something clank against the dark oak surface he instinctively looked. Seeing what he had disturbed became the final nail in the casket the room had become.
…
"Should I do it?" the young man, Richard, had said with a laugh as he held the pointy end of the gilded letter opener against a young Sherlock's temple.
…
It was almost a physical transformation that happened; of Sherlock shrinking into that young man he was back then… back when…
He looked longingly towards the exit of the hidden chamber.
…
It was Sebastian who took him there. Then he had no idea; no reason to think there was any sinister intent. Oh he should have known! He should have been wiser! Why wasn't he? There must have been obvious deductions he had missed…
Sebastian had invited him for a drink that night. Sherlock had tried several times to get out of it; he wasn't particularly interested in alcohol… but Sebastian he could be very persuasive.
Sherlock had hated every minute at the bar, but somehow his 'buddy' had managed to get a few beers into his system and Sherlock wasn't taking to it too well.
So Sebastian put his hand around his shoulder and the two had staggered back. Sherlock remembered wondering why they had to visit the den first rather than going straight to his room, and vaguely remembered something about a book on the book shelf and the bookcase moving…
But he sobered up quickly then; several young men grabbed him and pulled him into the chamber. One held a hand over his mouth to stop him from screaming for help.
Sebastian had watched. He just stood there… and Sherlock had desperately tried to reach out for him.
The image that haunted him most was Sebastian hanging his head, shaking it in obvious shame and then he scuttled off.
Leaving young Sherlock at the hands of the brutes…
…
He was shivering heavily. The memories that overtook him made him nauseous. He physically felt each and every rough touch, heard every word, he relived every emotion…
Turning his head to see the pool table he completely lost control of his own two legs.
…
He seemed to be light as a feather and just as brittle in their hands. He tried to kick and buck but they only held him tighter. He couldn't be sure how but somehow he found himself pressed against the end of the pool table. The green felt scraped against his chin and wrists.
One of them put a piece of heavy duty tape over his mouth to free the hand of the one who had been holding his hand over it until now.
"Perhaps we can get some silence for once" a voice he recognised as Simon's snarled. Sherlock had not yet been able to identify any faces.
His ankles were taped to the legs of the table and his hands to the sides; rendering him helpless… defeated.
The guys relaxed now; now that they had immobilized him.
"Not so cocky now, are you?" Robert stepped into view; crossing his arms over his chest. "Oh that's right. You can't come with a smart remark now" he leaned forward and patted Sherlock's cheek over the tape. The glue was pulling on his skin and it stung. His breathing was laboured as he had to breathe through his nose now and all the struggling had blocked it.
Tears were burning behind his eyes; but he did all he could to hold them back. He did not want to give them that pleasure.
He realized now he knew every single one of the boys… they were his class mates.
"So, do we stick to the plan?" Richard had whispered to Simon. Simon nodded.
"We're going to have fun with you" Richard stepped towards Sherlock and shook his shoulder briskly.
Instant nausea washed over him. He felt his guts physically twist in his stomach.
"Who has the scissors?" Richard asked into the room, sounding all too excited. Silence ensued.
"Seriously?" he snapped.
Sherlock drew a sigh of relief then; desperately grasping at the straw that the missing scissors would be his salvation…
"I want to see the stripes, damn it! Don't spare me that satisfaction. He earned his stripes" Richard was nearly spitting.
"Richard, calm yourself" Robert put his hand on Richard's shoulder but he slapped it away furiously.
"We've got plenty of time. We can do this properly, all right. You don't need the scissors" Robert still tried to calm him.
"I want revenge!" Richard looked like he could burst a vein any minute now.
Sherlock's eyes were wide with dread; and he was constantly having an internal monologue trying to calm down himself. It was all he could do right now… his only defence.
He had mercilessly been thrown to the wolves.
"Because of what that faggot did I'm getting expelled. My life is ruined!" Richard was spitting; he was that wound up.
Sherlock blinked confused. It wasn't exactly him that had been paying off the professor to raise his grades. All Sherlock did was expose this fact.
"I bet you're happy about that, smug bastard" Richard looked into Sherlock's bewildered eyes and drew a deep breath and tried to soothe his rage enough to continue what he had in mind.
"Get his trousers off" He ordered towards Simon who didn't hesitate to move forward to undo Sherlock's belt and pulled his pants and boxers down to his secured ankles.
It had become an unbearable task to hold back the tears now; and his nausea hit a point where he was sure he would throw up any minute now.
Richard saw the letter opener on the side table and grabbed it. He threw it towards Simon for him to catch
"cut his shirt open, I want as much skin as possible to play with".
Simon didn't hesitate this time either… he struggled to pierce the dull blade through the fabric but it gave way. Exposing even more of him to the wolves.
Sherlock's hands balled into fists, he tried once more to wrestle free of the tape… but it was too strong. Stronger than him.
…
Sherlock found himself on his knees; tears trailing down his cheeks. In his hand he held the letter opener that he to his horror had no memory of grabbing. His hand was clenched around the handle so tight his knuckles turned white.
He didn't want to remember more, but his head had another agenda… and back under he was dragged.
…
Richard fondled the riding crop that was displayed on the wall as part of the polo themed wall mount. He lifted it off the hook and without warning slammed it onto the pool table in front of Sherlock's face.
Sherlock's body jumped, startled. This was going to be a world of pain.
"Annoying little brats should be spanked" Richard mocked as he walked behind Sherlock.
"Where should I start, gentlemen?" he spoke to the room. The other young men were standing close to the walls; watching Richard's desperate power play.
Sherlock could tell most of them were taken aback by the severity of the situation. It had gotten out of hand for them… and that didn't bode well for him.
"Should I start at the shins and work my way up? Or should I start with the back?"
Robert coughed uncomfortably. He was chewing his bottom lip.
"Got a problem?" Sherlock heard Richard snap. Robert quickly shook his head.
"I think he learned his lesson, you scared him straight" Robert attempted to speak up. His voice was failing. He obviously knew he was in danger of ending up on the whipping bench himself.
"Straight?" Richard cackled, practically spitting with laughter. "Trust me, this fairy needs a proper lesson"
Without warning the crop hit Sherlock's back; just below the shoulder blades. The air was knocked out of his lungs instantly.
He was left no time to catch his breath before the next hit; just below the one before… and so hit after hit followed.
Tears were streaming down his face; his fists were clenched hard and his entire body tightened in attempt to shelter itself from the worst of the pain.
With each hit he memorised one of the young men's full names and faces. Trying to focus his brain on anything but the pain, the fear, and the fear of pain.
Richard only stopped when he crop whacked over the back of his shins.
It took Sherlock minutes to recover and realize the whipping had stopped and that there wasn't one more coming he had to prepare himself for.
Richard harshly put the riding crop down on the felt in front of his face. Letting it rest.
Sherlock was gasping for breath; through his nose… his battered skin was raising and throbbing angrily. His teeth chattered behind the tape and he had to hold his tongue back so he wouldn't bite into it accidentally.
…
Sherlock was physically shaking now; hugging his own shoulders. He felt cold to the core.
His skin felt tingly just as it had then…
…
"Now what should we do next?" Richard playfully put his finger to his chin; mocking.
Next. As if this wasn't more than enough.
"Let him go, all right? He's had enough" Robert's voice was a bit more certain this time. Richard's eyes were burning as he locked them with Robert's.
"I decide when he's had enough!" His fist banged into the pool table and Sherlock jumped again. His body physically panicking.
"Just, don't kill him. You've got enough problems… I don't want to be here for that. I'm out" Robert made it for the door; refusing to look at Sherlock.
"Fine, go!" Richard spat.
"So, how did you like that, pansy?" he turned his anger back toward Sherlock; grabbing him by his curls and raised his head up from the table. "Do you enjoy being spanked?" his spit landed on Sherlock's face. Richard forced his head to nod.
Sherlock's head was filled with smart comebacks at this point; so much so he almost appreciated the tape over his lips. It was apparent to him why Richard enjoyed this humiliating approach, as well as the remarks about his sexuality.
"You know, I could kill you if I wanted to" he leaned his face close to Sherlock's so they were cheek to cheek. He put his hands around his throat, squeezing but only tight enough to still allow him to take shallow breaths.
"But that's going to spoil half of my fun. We're having fun, aren't we?" he released his grip and planted a kiss on Sherlock's cheek.
The damp feeling of the spot his lips had left on his cheek lingered too long. Practically forgetting his hands were tied he attempted to move them to wipe it away. But alas.
He was a psychopath. No surprises there. He had made that deduction the day they met…
"Simon, fetch me that letter opener. I want to see how much of a nancy-boy he is".
Simon was nervously pouring himself a glass of whisky to settle his nerves. But he obeyed and handed it to Richard before taking a swig of the brown liquor.
"Nothing you haven't tried before I'm sure" he chuckled towards Sherlock who was clenching by now; realising what Richard had in mind.
He spit on the handle and rubbed it.
"I'm kind, lubing it up for you am I not" he winked. Kind. Now that was a delusion if there ever was one.
"Should I do it?" the young man, Richard, had said with a laugh as he held the pointy end of the gilded letter opener against a young Sherlock's temple.
Sherlock prized himself with the fact that the handle was quite slim and smooth, and it seemed like it couldn't get stuck up there. He had to accept what he had coming… he had lost the battle.
Richard put his cold hand on Sherlock's angrily red and throbbing backside; prying his clenched buttocks apart.
"I thought poofters enjoyed this, now relax why don't you" his laugh was bone-chilling.
Sherlock felt the butt off the letter opener against his anal opening and held his breath. He was staring at the other boys in the room who were all incredibly busy with other things. Clearly uncomfortable.
But not doing a thing to stop it.
The metal entered his rectum as his reluctant anus gave way to Richard's relentless pushing.
"Now don't drop it, if you drop it I'll have to spank you again. But then again… you like this, right? This is what you are" he wriggled the hard object that was lodged inside of Sherlock's body.
That was the end of all dignity. He had lost. Nothing was sacred now.
…
Sherlock was sobbing helplessly and threw the letter opener away from him in disgust. He was covered in a cold sweat.
He didn't get to see that all the commotion had alarmed John who had come in; seeing his friend a shivery, sobbing mess.
"Sherlock, are you all right?" John asked bewildered… But Sherlock heard nothing.
…
Robert suddenly rushed back in; panting for breath.
"Out! Professor Hendrickson is on his way!" he had been running so he was stuttering.
All the boys scuttled to get away. Richard got up from his kneeling position.
"I'll be back for you" he ruffled Sherlock's hair and they left; locking the entrance to the chamber… leaving him in the darkness alone; battered, bruised, violated and lost.
The hours passed. He heard muffled voices from the den, but no matter how he struggled he couldn't get a hand or a foot free. His screams were too muffled to be heard.
Every move he made came at the cost of the handle left inside his body shifting and threating to tear something probably. Until it dropped from his body; making him panic… remembering Richard's warning.
But no one came back for him. He came to the conclusion that they had forgotten about him.
He lost track of time… eventually he would pass out; to wake in a cold sweat. There was a limit of what his body could handle.
After a few days his brother; Mycroft became concerned that he hadn't heard from his annoying little brother. He had searched the school but no one had seen him. Not even that Sebastian fellow who seemed to be friendly with him. Though taking a glance at him; he was hiding a shameful secret…
Looking at ancient blueprints of the building Mycroft found a couple of hidden chambers and after a few tries he discovered that horrid sight that was his naked little brother passed out; strapped to a pool table… marked for life in more than one sense.
He picked him up and nursed him back to health… but the brother's never spoke of the incident again.
But it was a lesson that should shape Sherlock's future forever. A lesson in human behaviour at it's nastiest.
And that no one could be trusted…
It came at the cost of nightmares, panic attacks, and the urge to throw up each time he saw any of those young men. He found that drugs seemed to soothe his symptoms; at least until he could park this somewhere to never be disturbed again.
Until now…
…
"Sherlock?" John tried to bring him back to the present. He carefully put his hands on his shoulders and kneeled down to his level.
"Sherlock, I'm here?"
Coming back he was confused; so he pushed John away from him. Acting as if his life was still threatened.
"Hey, hey… it's okay" John continued to try to wrap his arms around his friend.
"You're safe, I'm here" he cooed.
John had no idea what had caused or triggered this… but it was a reaction he knew all too well from himself and his fellow veterans.
"Let's get you home" he whispered softly.
Sherlock looked up at him with big wet eyes; speechless like a little lost boy…
"Inspector… not a word of this to anyone, okay?"
The inspector entered the chamber just then, his eyes wide. He had seen Sherlock Holmes in many situations… but never this way.
"Of course… can… can I help?"
"What about the case?" Were Sherlock's first words… he had managed to miss the elongated box in the corner holding it…
"We're going home. Doctor's orders. There's more important things in this world" the soldier said bravely. Sherlock was still struggling with the words. He was still under the haze.
But the lost boy had been found…