Warning: Fairly graphic rape in this chapter. Skip to chapter 3 if you don't want to read it.
Happily, Lestrade called Sherlock after John left to tell him about a case involving drug trafficking. Sherlock eagerly pursued it for the rest of Friday evening and into Saturday morning, glad for the distraction. The case had lead him through the Tube and over the rooftops of London, and now Sherlock was striding up to an abandoned warehouse in one of the rougher areas of the city. All the evidence pointed to the warehouse being used as storage for the perp's drugs, all Sherlock had to do was find them. Sherlock usually didn't care if a case brought him to a dangerous area of the city. There was danger everywhere, he reasoned. He could get hit by a car outside 221B. A bolt of lightning could strike…statistically improbable, sure, but possible. Anyway, it was the middle of the day on Saturday—an unlikely time for crime to be committed.
Sherlock entered the building and peered around, looking for signs of fresh entry. He prowled the perimeter, his keen eyes darting from the floor to the ceiling. A bootprint there, a disturbed mound of dust here, Sherlock delved further into the warehouse, mentally ticking off points of interest as he went. He was so absorbed in his observations that he wasn't aware of the attacker until a meaty arm clamped around his throat from behind.
"Don't bother trying to scream." Hot smoker's breath brushed past his ear. Sherlock had no such intention. He drove an elbow back into the guy's gut, gurgling when the man grunted, barely flinched, and tightened his hold, constricting Sherlock's air. It was like elbowing a warm wall.
"What's a posh thing like you doing in here? This is a rough area, you know."
Sherlock made a breathy sound and the man loosened his grip slightly and forced Sherlock over to a large wooden crate.
"Let me go." Sherlock growled. He struggled again, trying to execute a baritsu move, but his vision was getting fuzzy around the edges and his strength was waning fast.
"Nope. You're way too pretty to let go."
The word rape shot across Sherlock's mind and he tried not to tense up too much in the man's arm.
"My wallet's in my pocket." He said, keeping his voice steady. The man snickered.
"Not your wallet I want."
Wrong answer. Sherlock made a breath noise again, and when the man loosened up on his neck a little more, Sherlock spun out a baritsu move, catching the attacker off guard. Sherlock whirled and looked into his face for the first time. He was tall and on the stockier side. Despite that, his skin was sort of sallow and his cheeks were caved in with the malnourished look of someone who spent a lot of time on the streets. Hollow. Dark rings circled his eyes and it was clear by the smell that he didn't wash much. Despite Sherlock's strength and baritsu training, the guy was just too big and brawny. Sherlock landed a few solid punches that only seemed to enrage the man. He punched Sherlock sloppily across the side of the head with a sickening crack and stars blew across Sherlock's eyes. The man bent him over the crate and Sherlock struggled, writhing when the man groped up his thigh and reached into his coat pocket, taking his phone. A crunch, and Sherlock knew the phone was gone. He blinked, trying to get oriented. A trickle down the side of his neck told him the seriousness of the head wound and he struggled again when he felt his coat get swept aside. Big hands on his waistband and Sherlock kicked back. He received another painful smack on the head.
"Stop moving."
His trousers were yanked down and his pants soon followed. Sherlock clenched his eyes shut, his heart slamming and his breathing fast. It seemed this was going to happen. He could barely think straight as his vision swam from the head wounds. He blinked and shook his head, feeling dizzy. He willed himself to relax, down there. A hand painfully grabbed the back of his neck, holding him firmly to the crate. There was rustling, then the guy spat into his hand. There was an agonizingly long moment where Sherlock knew the guy was rubbing his saliva onto his cock. He clenched his eyes closed and for the first time since he was a small child thought of actually saying a prayer. The absurdity of the notion struck him dumb before a hard hot cock shoved between his cheeks, driving a scream from Sherlock. No preparation, and only saliva for lubrication. For the next few moments everything was just pain. Sherlock couldn't think or even hardly breathe as the man thrust in and out, tearing the flesh. Sherlock winced when the man climaxed inside him, blessedly quickly.
"Good boy." The man breathed.
Sherlock cried quietly into the crate, yelping as the man pulled out of him. Footsteps crunched and faded and he was left alone. Sherlock lay there for a few moments, trying to get his bearings. Everything hurt and he felt filthy and vile. Thoughts were a dull roar in his head, his mind reeling from the psychological and physical blow he'd just been dealt. His mind replayed the incident in his head unbidden as it tried to make sense of everything. He lay there, alone, for awhile until he felt himself calm somewhat. He needed to call someone—Lestrade popped into his head. Mycroft? God, he'd really rather not. Though if he called Lestrade, Mycroft would probably find out anyway. For a police officer, Lestrade was bloody horrible at keeping secrets. John? God no, John couldn't see him like this. A wave of agony washed over him as he thought of John. His lover and his best friend. God, John would hate to see him like this. All sniveling tears and trembling limbs. Sherlock firmly pushed that thought aside before it could get too far and decided to focus on standing.
Everything hurt even more when he moved. He wiped a hand over his nose and eyes and reached back, touching his bottom. He felt liquid and shivered. He brought his hand up, saw semen and blood on his fingers, and vomited. His phone was, predictably, smashed on the floor. Sherlock straightened once his stomach emptied and tugged his clothing back up, fixing his outward appearance as best he could. He needed medical attention, he knew that much. He couldn't go to Bart's though—he and John knew way too many people there, and Sherlock was sure as hell not going to tell John about this. No, Sherlock would go into his mind palace and delete it like he did the solar system and John never needed to know and they could go about their lives like normal. Simple. Sherlock hobbled towards the door, his arse burning and his whole body wobbly and sore from the rush of adrenalin and the stress. He'd get to a phone and call Lestrade, then figure it out from there.
Sherlock had never been more grateful to see his brother's black limo as it pulled up to the payphone outside the convenience store. The back door opened from inside and Sherlock slipped slowly in, barely able to keep the pain off his face as he lowered onto the seat. His trousers were damp and stiff and they pressed uncomfortable and cold onto his legs.
"Jesus." It was Lestrade who occupied the backseat of the car. Mycroft was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock was grateful for the extra room the limo provided and he lay down across the plush leather, glad to have the pressure off his backside. "Did you get a look at him?" Lestrade asked, clearly trying to look closer at Sherlock without invading his space. Sherlock put a hand over his eyes to block the bright light from the window. He realized he must look like hell but he didn't care.
"Yeah." Sherlock muttered hoarsely. He'd remember that bastard's face clear as crystal for the rest of his life.
"Here." A bottle of water was pushed into his hands and Sherlock drank it down.
"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked.
"Arranging with his private doctor…Sherlock—"
"—No, Lestrade." Sherlock said, cutting off what was sure to be stupid questions about how he was feeling or platitudes meant to reassure him. The idea of either was horrible and Sherlock, for once, didn't feel like being snarky. "Thank you, but not now."
Lestrade fell quiet and the rest of the trip was made in silence.
The limo dropped them at a slate-grey, unassuming building. Mycroft's doctor was professional and discreet, patching Sherlock up and taking the required samples in a clean sleek office before taking his leave. Mycroft stepped into the room when the doctor finished. Sherlock was staring blankly at the wall.
"Sherlock—"
"—Eight stitches on my skull. Severe bruising across my abdomen—no internal bleeding, miraculously. Bruises on my arse and thighs. A torn sphincter and psychological damage. Waiting for the results for an ID on my attacker and to see if there's an STI."
Mycroft didn't say anything and Sherlock looked away from the wall, directly into his brother's eyes.
"Don't tell John." Sherlock said quietly.
"Sherlock." Mycroft paused, worried creases at the corners of his eyes and in the set of his mouth."How are you, really?"
"I've just been sexually assaulted by the most repugnant excuse for a human being in existence. I feel peachy."
"Why don't you spend the night with Greg and me—"
"No."
"Sherlock, don't shut off from this." Mycroft said. He rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock shoved it off.
"Don't tell me what to fucking do, Mycroft. You got me the doctor—and I thank you for that— now leave me alone." Mycroft stepped towards the door, then paused again.
"Greg is requesting you speak with a sketch artist."
"Yeah, fine, whatever."
"Someone will take you back to Baker Street—"
"—one of the smarter things you've said today—"
"—and I'd really like one of us to be there with you, Sherlock."
Sherlock glared mutinously at the floor. "Do what you want but stay out of my way. And be gone by Monday." John was coming home on Monday and he had to be back to normal by then.
