John glanced over at Sherlock curled up on the tiny sofa, and noted for the third time how pale and thin he looked. It had been a tough case; enough twists and turns that Sherlock had barely slept or eaten for the entirety of the case, and now John could see the ill effects it was having on the lanky man. Each victim had been tortured to within an inch of their lives, and had then been dosed with insulin to send them into hypoglycemic shock, before dumping them in a coffin and burying them, the final act being to send a letter to the police force to telling them where to find the body. Sherlock had surmised that it was a vigilante, as each victim had some sort of criminal record, usually for a petty crime.

"He's insecure. Working with a silent partner; he lives for the violence, she provides the insulin that finishes the deed. Siblings I think; both feel that an injustice was committed against them, and they're trying to restore what they see as balance."

"How the hell do you know that Sherlock?" The tall lanky consult shrugged his shoulders at Lestrade's question.

"It's obvious, isn't it?"

They'd tracked down the sibling duo, Giles and Rosie Clarke, with the evidence mounting against them, and both had been returned to the jail from which they'd escaped two years previously. Lestrade had closed the case and promptly sent John and Sherlock back to 221B for some much needed rest. John sat on the armchair, feeling his eyes droop as exhaustion tightened its grip. He momentarily debated whether to wake Sherlock up and send him to his room, but realised it probably wasn't worth it. He grabbed the Belstaff off the hook on the wall and draped it over Sherlock before heading upstairs to his own room, collapsing on the bed, still fully dressed. Sleep claimed him before he could contemplate changing.

John woke up four hours later, his gut churning.

Something was wrong.

"Sherlock?" He called softly, moving quietly through the flat.

Something was terribly wrong.

John moved to the sitting area; no Sherlock. The bedroom was next checked, along with the bathroom.

"Where in the hell are you?" Muttered John. He looked at the sofa, finally noticing the blood spray on the cushions, and the note left on the pillow Sherlock had previously been resting on.

John pulled out his phone, and speed-dialled Lestrade.


"Drink this," said Mrs Hudson softly, handing John a steaming hot cup of tea. He glanced up at Lestrade.

"Are Giles and Rosie still in custody?" Asked John quietly.

"I've checked and double-checked. They're in processing now. This isn't them," assured Greg.

"This is how they operate though!" Exclaimed John, dropping the teacup to the floor. Mrs Hudson squeaked then moved to the kitchen to grab a sponge to clean up the mess.

"We'll find him John. We always do."


Sherlock awoke in a very dark room, and tried to look around, taking stock of what happened. His head felt fuzzy, his mouth dry, his senses confused as to what was going on. A bright overhead light flicked on, and he winced as his eyes struggled to adjust. He was tightly strapped to a chair, no room for movement.

"Hello?" He called raspily, finally making his lips work. He squinted, looking to see if he could see anyone with him.

No answer.

He felt his breath catch in his throat as a door on the far side of the room opened then closed again. He tried to listen for footsteps, tried to deduct who was standing there.

"Hello? Anyone?" Called Sherlock, his voice sounding stronger.

Still no answer.

It was a standard interrogation and interview trick. Open the door, make it seem like someone is coming, then close it again; it gave him false hope. Hope that someone was coming.

He heard footsteps behind him, and he tried to swivel his head around to see who it was. He heard liquid sloshing around in a container, and warm hands untied his wrists. He flailed out for a moment, and heard a masculine grunt as he made contact with flesh. He was quickly blindfolded, then his arms stretched out on the arms of the chair. They were strapped down tight, and though Sherlock wanted to be strong, he could feel himself trembling in fear, his heart racing, similar to the thrill of the chase.

All he wanted right now was someone to save him.

He could distinguish two sets of footsteps; heavier ones that he assumed were masculine, and lighter, easier steps that he thought were perhaps feminine. The liquid sound moved from behind him to in front of him, and a plastic sheet was laid over his lap. Next thing he knew, the liquid was poured over his arms, and he felt the tendrils of pain start to pull at him.

Acid.

They were using acid to try and break him.

He could feel himself panicking and he desperately wanted to scream, but he knew he couldn't do it for long.

He knew this wasn't going to be easy.

"What…. What do you want?" He uttered through gritted teeth.

"Nothing dear Sherlock," replied the masculine voice.

"Nothing at all," added the feminine.


He'd fallen asleep, the pain having settled to an almost reasonable level. His arms ached, the skin peeled off in several places, and most wounds were weeping clear fluid and blood.

He had to survive.

A loud crash awoke him from his slumber, and he sat up, startled. He hissed in pain as the flesh on his arms shifted, and he slowed down his movements. He felt his eyelids growing heavy, and his head tilted back. His torpor was interrupted again as heavy metal music was played through a speaker system, the volume distorting the sound.

Sleep deprivation.

He sat up, battling the fatigue in his body, and desperately tried to stay awake. It wouldn't have been a problem if he hadn't just finished a case and was already exhausted.

He just had to hold on.

The bright light went out again, and Sherlock was pitched into darkness.

"Hello?" He called. He knew it was pointless though; no-one had answered yet. The blinding light flicked on, and Sherlock felt like his already pounding head would explode. There was rustling behind him, and he twisted his head, still trying to see. Someone laughed; more of a girlish giggle if anything.

"What do you want?" He asked.

"I've already got what I want," answered a male voice. Sherlock received a blow to the face for his question, and stars appeared in front of his eyes before the entire room was lit up.

He was centre stage, strapped to a chair, unable to move. The only other occupant he could see in the room was a young woman, around twenty-three years old. She was standing in the corner, observing. Sherlock finally took a moment and looked down at his arms; they were pink and glistening, and as he looked at them, he felt a bubble of panic rise in his throat. The pain was getting to beyond manageable, and the blow to the leg by a crowbar wielded by the male in the room didn't help. He tried to stay quiet, but by the fourth blow, he was openly screaming.

The attack stopped after twelve blows, and Sherlock let his head hang, panting heavily. He couldn't even think straight enough to diagnose himself.

All he knew is that the pain was beyond excruciating.

After a few moments respite, Sherlock felt his restraints being pulled off, and he thought about fighting back.

He would wish he had.

His arms were raised above his head, and his hands secured on a length of chain; he was hanging like a piece of meat in a butchers. His feet barely touched the floor, and he could feel the injured skin on his arms tugging painfully. He glanced over at the young woman in the corner, and she didn't even flinch. He heard something being removed from a box, and then a lash across his back.

And another lash.

And another.

Sherlock screamed throughout the process, up until his throat felt raw and bloody, and he couldn't speak. He knew he was in serious trouble, and hoped that he would be found sooner rather than later.

He didn't know how long he could hold out.

When the male had finished, Sherlock could hear him putting away his torturous tools; he sounded meticulous.

"Why?" Asked Sherlock. The man didn't answer; he just delivered a swift kick to Sherlock's groin. The pain was enough to make him pass out. It wasn't for long though; a bucket of water over Sherlock's face quickly brought him back to the reality.

John.

Save me.