Things get rather graphic in this particular chapter. You have been warned.

Disclaimer: Not ours!

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He must have fallen asleep again because the man was back, kicking him awake. John curled into himself and tried to breathe through the constant onslaught of agony.

"Shut up, you fucking maggot," the man hissed, driving his steel toe boot into John's back.

John's entire body seized up and his lip began to bleed as he bit down on it.

The sound the whip made as it cut through the air chilled John to the bone.


Sherlock rummaged through John's room. Every time he picked something up, he took care to place it exactly as it had been before. He sat down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. He knew that John was alive. He felt certain that he knew who was behind the entire plot. He had figured out so much.

And it only made him angrier.

He had so much to go on but he was no closer to finding his best friend. A year had passed and he constantly discovered something, but he couldn't get a location no matter how hard he tried.

He knew that Jim Moriarty was to blame. Only the evilly brilliant consulting criminal could come up with a plot challenging enough to put the consulting detective at his wit's end.

Sherlock stood abruptly, cursing under his breath. He cursed Moriarty for dropping off of the face of the earth. He cursed himself for not being able to find John. Angrily he punched the wall, a satisfying pain starting in his knuckles and shooting through his entire arm.

He took several deep breaths and leaned his forehead against the wall, closing his eyes as his shoulders began to shake.

Everyone was beginning to doubt that John was still alive. Their doubt only drove Sherlock's determination harder. He would go nights at a time without sleeping, staying up until the sun rose as he tried desperately to find his friend.

Though there was nobody in the room, he leaned against the wall and started speaking. "John, I know you're out there. Don't give up on me. I'll find you."


The man finally left the room and John was enveloped by darkness. Tears slowly rolled down his cheeks as he curled up on his side and stifled a sob. Why hadn't Sherlock found him yet? How long could he keep doing this?

A sudden wave of nausea hit him and before he could move, he began to vomit. There was nothing in his stomach after the second heave but his body continued to spasm weakly.

"Poor, poor John," a voice crooned.

John froze. That voice...

"It's okay, honey." There was the distinctive sound of a zipper coming undone and liquid sloshing around in a bottle.

Suddenly John was yanked to his feet by large, rough hands. He cried out and trembled, but otherwise didn't speak.

"Always the tough soldier. That's okay. We'll remedy that." The voice turned cold. "Hold him down."

John was shoved against a wall so brutally that his head bounced off the cinder blocks with an audible thud. Too stunned to cry out, he stood there, dazed and supported by the man who had put him there.

There was the sound of liquid again and John didn't have time to move before it was splashed into his face. A violent scream ripped from his throat as he tried to close his eyes against the chemical agent that burned him. The hands released him and he sank to the floor, crying helplessly.

"Not so tough now, are we?"

A hand grasped his throat and pulled him up again. He fought to breathe but the grip was strong. He wheezed and struggled weakly until the darkness overcame him.


When he awoke again, John couldn't breathe. He quickly realized something was on top of him, pinning him against the concrete floor.

There was a panting sound in his ear and agony ripped through him as the...the thing on top of him jerked against him.

Burying his face in the concrete, John tried to detach himself. He pictured Sherlock's face, but the more time that passed, the harder it was to remember Sherlock's face. He sobbed at the thought.

Sherlock was slipping away.

The animal on top of him climaxed and rolled away with a satisfied grunt. "Good job, Johnny boy." He slapped John's ass and chuckled as he left the room.

The door slammed shut, the sound reverberating through John's aching head. At least he couldn't see the bastard's face.

He never thought he would be grateful to be blind.

To Be Continued...