I'll offer one final warning: this is a very dark story. There is torture, rape, and murder in the most brutal of definitions. With that being said, I have over 30k words already written and the entire story already outlined, so there is little chance of it going unfinished. I welcome all comments. Enjoy and I'll see you again next Thursday.

Darkest of Secrets

It was just a walk. Harmless. A brief outing to get some air in my lungs. Why? I didn't see the van. With the music chiming happily in my ears, I didn't hear the door open. I didn't hear the men storm around me. I didn't notice them until they grabbed my arms and wrenched me into the trunk; until they shoved a cloth in my mouth to silence my scream; until it was already too late. And that song continued to play mockingly in my ears.

"You may want to call an ambulance, John." Sherlock said without looking back at his friend.

"What's happened?" He asked, quickly returning to the detective's side. And he froze.

"She's alive, but I doubt that'll be the case much longer without proper care." He didn't move as John darted around him. Immediately, he reached for her neck to feel for a pulse, but, before he'd more than brushed her skin, the woman's eyes snapped open. And he felt fear. A medic, hardened by war, yet, the instant he saw the wild, animalistic hatred in those nearly emerald eyes, such a surge of pure, instinctual panic struck him, that, without conscious thought, he flung himself away, only barely evading her flailing leg.

Taken aback by the sudden attack, John stumbled back, gaping at the woman he'd believe to be nearly dead only seconds prior. Lips pulled back in a scowl, shoulders hunched forward despite how the left seemed wrong – dislocated, he guessed – she rose to her feet and took a few steps back. He knew the effort it must have taken to merely open her eyes, but to stand – to attack… and yet, there was no delay in her movements as she seemed to glide over the stained concrete, the rattle of her shackles the only noise about her.

As sudden as it had come, consciousness fled the woman. With no more warning than a brief narrowing of those piercing eyes, her body collapsed. John only just managed to catch her, and quickly laid her down, for a moment still frozen in shock.

"An ambulance, John?" Sherlock reminded, crouching beside them. He let out a small noise in affirmation and stood, retrieving his phone.

Sherlock wasted no time for such remedial routines John held as gospel. Instead, he immediately reached for the shackles binding her wrists and ankles, quickly working them open with the kit in his jacket. He kept his eyes carefully trained on his work, all but ignoring her barren form until she was free.

"Lestrade's on his way." John stated, an unnerving detachment in his voice. Sherlock understood the man's distress at the woman's condition – he wasn't sure there was an inch of flesh void of injury and gore on her – but now wasn't the time for it. He quickly shuffled out of his coat and laid it over her.

"Stay with her." He instructed as he stood and started out of the room.

"Where are you going?" He asked too quickly.

"I doubt there'll be anything left behind, but I need to check for other survivors, as well as anything that might reveal who's behind this." He replied quickly as he left.

John looked down at the barely moving form. He could hear the chilling rattle of her uneven breaths, couldn't help but smell the blood and filth coating her skin. How long had she been like this? What would it take for a woman – any human, at that – to harbor such hatred? He looked at the tangled locks of hair roughly tied back at the base of her neck, how a handful of locks disobediently settled on her cheek. She was beautiful once…

"Damn it." He cursed to himself, seething quietly at the knowledge that men had done this. Human beings had taken one of their own and destroyed her in a way so brutal he wanted to be sick.

"I can hear the sirens." Sherlock said as he returned. John nodded, noting with discomfort the tension in his friend's expression. He was almost afraid to ask.

"Any more survivors?" Sherlock hesitated before answering.

"No." John couldn't bring himself to ask how many dead he'd found. "Best give them a warning before they come in here." He advised, gaze locked on the stone walls before them. John nodded in silence and headed out to meet them.

Once John was gone, Sherlock let his eyes fall back to the barely breathing woman beneath his coat. How old? Twenty-eight? Twenty-nine at the most, attributing much of the wear on her face to the horrors she'd been subjected to here. Much of the blood had come from the countless wounds marring her body, but not all. Would it match any of the dozen dead in the neighboring cells? While he was sure some would, he hoped some might belong to whoever could be held responsible for this.

Not for the first time, he wished he could still his frantically working mind, if only that he wouldn't have to replay her torture over and over in his head. There were simply too many wounds, old and new, to establish any reliable timeline. He stepped back as the rumbling of a gurney raced toward them.

The medics, a young woman, blond hair tied back professionally and an older man with a light grey goatee, spared him no more than a fleeting glance before rushing past him. He heard the ruffle of his coat being tossed aside; and he heard the simultaneous gasps as both froze in shock. John hadn't given a thorough enough description.

"I know." The doctor murmured. "Let's get her out of here." They worked in silence. Sherlock didn't watch. He didn't want to. How many times had he briefly noted the disappearances? Spared only fleeting ponderings as to a possible connection? If he had given it even a second of his full attention, surely there wouldn't be a slew dead and one surely wishing for the same. Such thoughts wouldn't help them now, though. He merely wanted to find the one responsible and see them to proper retribution.

Strides long and slow, he left the dilapidated storage, the medics mere seconds behind him. Lestrade would surely be waiting for a full overview of what awaited them within. Now wasn't a moment in which he would relish the opportunity to overshadow those around him. No; he would keep matters brief and take his leave. There was too much work to be done for him to deal with the hindered minds of those charged with solving the blood-chilling dealings they'd stumbled upon.

"Easy, hon; we're going to help you." The blonde's voice held a note of panic, instantly catching Sherlock's attention. The woman was struggling, rage clearly powering her limbs as she nearly overthrew both John and the EMT as the other medic darted into the ambulance. One of Lestrade's men raced over to help, but her movements grew frantic the instant he neared. Panic. She was near panic at the mere sight of the uniform.

Finally, the medic with the goatee returned from the ambulance, syringe in hand. She seemed not to notice as he approached her, gaze locked on the policemen even as the older man quickly injected what he assumed to be a tranquilizer into her arm. Within seconds, she began to still, and the uniformed man quickly retreated. Vainly fighting to stave off the effects of the sedative, she just managed to turn away. But then her body went stiff.

"Moriarty!" Instantly, Sherlock's blood ran cold; heart racing. She'd nearly growled it as she shouted. Both he and John instantly looked in the direction she'd appeared to see him, but there was nothing. Still, after only a second's pause, both shot forward. They were surrounded by a ghost town of ancient mills and warehouses. Had he ducked behind a corner? It couldn't really be him, though. Moriarty was dead… He'd seen the bullet tear through his skull.