A/N: So, before anyone sinks their teeth into this, I just want to warn you all that this story contains mentions rape. Yes, it contains a male character raped by a female OC, who I shall despise forevermore. Be warned.

...

"Sherlock! SHERLOCK!"

Lestrade rubs his forehead in dismay- that self-consulting, trench coat enrobed fool has taken it upon himself to go and find the serial killer/psychopath/suspected molester and rapist they had been hunting down for a week. Sherlock had traced her to a cemetery in the dead of night, and ran off before Lestrade could orchestrate a plan.

Flashing his torch round frantically, the DI hopes that his friend texts, calls-hell- shouts out and away their location- anything! He's too worried that something will happen.

Stumbling and cursing, he soon realises that he has lost Donovan and Anderson, as well as the rest of his team.

Great. Even if they were idiots a lot of the time, as Sherlock correctly pointed out on an almost daily basis, he would still appreciate some back up against a woman who is fully psychopathic with a fifteen page criminal record of killings and sexual offences.

Suddenly, just as he leans on a derelict tombstone for some support after tripping and stumbling –again- on his ankle, he hears a blood-curdling, honest to God scream, full of terror and fear than he's ever heard in his many years in the police force.

"Shit," He mutters, and breaks into a run. "SHERLOCK!" He yells, "I'm comin', mate!"

He continues running, not caring about the possibility of an ankle break- he's only concerned with finding and saving Sherlock from whatever evil has hold of him.

"SHERLOCK- WHERE ARE YOU?!"

Another scream, weaker this time, rings from an old mausoleum right up the back. Feeling dread for his friend, the Detective Inspector charges towards the door, which is shut tightly and refusing to budge from its hold.

"Crap." He swears again. "I'm comin', Sherlock!"

He continues to try and push the door open, but no luck. Sensing things are getting desperate: he jams his hand into his pocket and fishes out his gun, which treacherously attempts to slide out of his fingers like an eel as he aims the weapon at the lock of the door.

He swiftly pulls the trigger without a second thought, praying that he wouldn't have to lay Sherlock to rest in the cemetery here- the bugger was growing on him, despite his maddening, swaggering arrogance and ice cold heart.

The bullet hits the lock, and there is a loud metallic shriek in a chilling, discordant harmony with Sherlock's own screams but the DI just shoulders the door open, and what he sees chills him to the bone.

Sherlock is lying there, sobbing grievously. His clothes from the waist down are ripped away, leaving him with no decency. The man is shaking, and his pale face is streaked with snot, tears and blood- streaming from his nose, not his head, thank goodness.

And not a trace of his attacker.

"Jesus Christ," Lestrade breathes. Thinking quickly, he radios for backup, ordering them to keep their eyes open, barking commands to the inept Anderson, before kneeling on the dirty floor of the tomb and yanking off his jacket in order to cover the consulting detective's exposed crotch, feeling great compassion for the man who had been reduced to nothing.

She will pay hell for this once he catches her, he swears, as he tries to comfort the currently demoralised and forever deflowered Sherlock.

...

Author's Notes: So, sorry this is a bit short, but I hope you enjoyed this story. There will be longer chapters on Sherlock's recovery, and I'm attempting to write Johnlock, so I hope this goes well! And I hope I have not offended or triggered anyone with this story. If so, then I apologise in advance.

And last but not least, I'd like to thank I'm Nova for beta- reading this for me and ensuring that this is relatively presentable! Thank you, my friend!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to BBC.

Winter Winks 221