A/N: In which John gets angry when Garrett claims what he thinks belongs to him.
(Non-con/Violence within)

Chapter Four

Escalation and Anger

Of course, when they got the warrant, the penthouse was empty. It wasn't like they expected him to be there. The text was enough to implicate Garrett Turbine as a suspect or a person of interest in the double murder they were investigating, and no one knew where he was. He was simply gone. And John, well, John was pissed. Because the first thing that was said in his range of hearing came from Anderson.

"Well, he must have took off with him. Once an addict and all…"

That was the wrong thing to say in hearing range of the ex-military doctor. Because at this moment, he felt less like a doctor and more like a soldier. And he rounded on Anderson before Lestrade could even respond to the rude comment from Anderson.

"The only reason he was a fucking addict is because the mother fucking bastard held him down and pumped him full of drugs. So don't you dare act like Sherlock is at fault for this. He was a kid. He didn't choose what he did. And he fucking got away with it because of his rich daddy. So, Anderson, either keep your fucking mouth shut until this case is over, or so help me, I will break your fucking jaw."

Anderson paled. Quickly, and stepped back, gloved hands raised. John was vibrating. He'd just found out his seemingly emotionally stunted, almost emotionally vacant, friend, flatmate, whatever he is, became that way because of what someone else did to him. Everything was done to protect himself. He shut himself down. He used his mind to catalogue and save himself from the crushing pain of what had been done to him. Lestrade wasn't sure what to do but stare wide eyed at the blond, normally quiet and mild mannered man.

"He grew up alone because he was different, and then he destroyed him. And you want to stand there and assume you know everything. Unless you're willing to sit through the terrified flashbacks and nightmares I had to go through last night, shut…the…fuck…up. Until you hear him begging to not go back to that again, shut your mouth. You and Donovan enjoy giving him grief all the time. You honestly think you're the first people to call him a freak? He's spent his life because people like you can't understand how his fucking brilliant goddamned mind works."

John turned on his heels and stormed off, desperately trying to figure out where the arrogant arsehole would have taken his dear Sherlock to, and what he planned to do with him.

-Another Place-

"Sherly," a voice whispered. Sherlock had to be dreaming.

No. Reality crashed back into him. He'd stepped into the hallway, John paused to talk to Lestrade and then…then the floor was coming at him as white hot pain exploded in the back of his head. He vaguely remembered someone yanking his scarf off his neck and then spinning and moving fast. And then…blank. He must have passed out. His head was thundering against the inside of his skull. Finally he opened his eyes to let in the searing light around him, and saw a particular blond haired fiend.

"Garrett, what…" he said, his wits still slowly collecting about himself.

"I'm sorry, Charles got a little…overexcited when he used that billy club on your skull. You might have a headache for a while. But I'm more worried about relieving it," he said, holding up a syringe in front of Sherlock's face.

"No."

Garrett blinked. "What do you mean no? Your head has to be pounding, loverboy."

"I'll manage."

"Oh, you're going to play this way?" he asked, putting away the syringe. "Fine, I won't offer again. But you will beg for it before we're done. And until you beg me, you aren't getting it."

"I won't beg."

Garrett smiled, placing himself on top of Sherlock's pale thighs. Only then did the world's only consulting detective observe he was without a stitch of clothing. It didn't take his mighty powers of deductive reasoning to figure out what Garrett intended. He sent a glare at him.

"Garrett, I'm asking you to reconsider. I have friends now. It isn't like it used to be. And I have made promises I do not intend to break," he said, his grayish eyes staring into the deep blue above him.

Garrett's face twisted briefly. "We'll see, Sherly, we'll see. You're mine. You were mine from the time I saw you sulking across the campus dragging on a cig. I marked you then, and I'll mark you now. You are fucking mine and no one else's, Sherly. And I'm not giving you back."

Sherlock scoffed, causing Garrett to rear up on his knees and stare. "Yeah, well, back in Uni, my brother was not the British government and my best mate was not a short ex-military man with an even shorter fuse. I think you shall find them a team to be reasoned with, Garrett."

"They'd have to find you first, Sherly, and if you haven't noticed, we're not in my penthouse."

Sherlock's eyes widened almost imperceptibly. Damn, he wasn't counting on him moving him. He guessed he had more than two working brain cells these days…that was…unfortunate for him.

"Now, Sherly, how about we resume where we left off. Me, fucking you into the bed, you, begging me for drugs," he said, sliding down between Sherlock's legs.

"I will not beg for them, no matter what you do to me," Sherlock said, looking up at the ceiling. He forced his heart to slow because he realized with crashing reality, he didn't remember ever having done this sober. He'd always been high, and remembered next to nothing of what Garrett and the others did to him except in the flashback he'd started having recently.

"No," Garrett's voice, punctuated with a hard punch to the jaw. Sherlock felt it creak. "No escaping into your head, seen that too many times. You keep your eyes on me, or I'll go do something nasty to your so called 'friends'."

Sherlock's head snapped down and he locked eyes on the man he once trusted with everything he was. He swallowed. No, this wasn't going to be nice at all. Garrett's hands hand made their way down and were circling his entrance around and then pulled away.

"You know what, I was gonna be nice. Even use lube on you. But now, I think dry and rough it is, Sherly," he said and before Sherlock had a chance to react, in one swift move he'd buried himself all the way in him.

As much as he told himself he wasn't going to make a noise, he let out a surprised and pained cry and arched against the bed. His hands fluttered against the bed where they were locked into twin handcuffs, and his feet struggled to pull free of their own bonds to shove him off, anything to get him off. But no he sat there, grinning as tears surfaced and watered down his face and his adam's apple bobbed, unable to breathe past the sharp, stabbing pain that shot up his back and down the back of his thighs to settle into the arches of his feet like some sort of horrid foot cramp. His mind, always working even at a time like this, wondered briefly if there was some reason that the sciatic nerves would be activated with pain of a forced penetration like this… He shook the thoughts away. He'd have to wonder, because like hell he'd ever experiment on this question.

Finally, he was moving, and he felt the wet slide of blood and knew something internally had given, and despite the new sting, at least the unholy burning friction eased off with the addition of some type of lubrication, although a quite macabre one. He caught his breath as he set a shallow rhythm, moving center on to ensure there was no pleasure given to the man under him, only sating his own need.

"Sherly, look how nice you look, eyes all red and watery, pretty black curls sticky with sweat…and then the lovely white legs will be coated with blood when I'm done with you. Isn't that nice?" Garrett said, punctuating his words with sharp snaps of his hips, and his fingers digging painfully into Sherlock's thin hipbones. "Look, you're not even enjoying it, are you? How can you not enjoy me, Sherly?" he said, reaching down to fondle his unresponsive nether region.

"M-mind…over…m-matter…" he muttered.

"We'll see, Sherly. I've got a few friends for you, too, just like old times, shall I invite them in?" he said, leaning over to whisper in his ear. Sherlock shook his head before he thought.

Garrett laughed until his thrusting became erratic and he spent himself inside the body beneath him. Despite his desire for quiet, Sherlock whimpered at the stinging burn the salty liquid gave against the torn walls of his body. He couldn't handle this again if what Garrett said was true. After all this time, would he? Could he do something like that? He was angry because Sherlock refused the drugs, so anything could happen. But he wouldn't take them. He'd have to force him again.

Finally he pulled back and forced his legs wider apart, straining against the bindings. "Oh, lovely. Got that pretty good, eh, Sherly? Musta hurt like a bitch with the amount of blood you got leaking out of yer pretty little arse. Ah, are you ready for your fix, sweetie?"

"No," Sherlock said, fighting back waves of nausea as he go up and came over and unhooked his left arm.

Sherlock watched for the opportunity to take him on, but he didn't get it. He clamped the cuff to the right side of the bed, then repeated the same process at his feet. Then he moved back and swapped the cuffs on hands, then feet, flipping him over to now lay spread on his stomach. He looked over his shoulder and glared at him. Garrett smiled then adjusted the feet until there was more play at the chain holding his ankles down so he could actually pull his legs together out of the awkward positon. He nearly sighed in relief only to have Garrett yank his head up by the hair and smile.

"Jerry's dying to meet you, Sherly. Hope you enjoy him," he said, kissing him on the brow. "He likes whips, and I told him to have at since you're such a naughty Sherly."

He left then, the door closing and Sherlock was alone for a moment. He tried to collect himself, but heard the door open and close again, and then heard the telltale sing of a whip through the air behind him and he flinched hard when it contacted with his back.

"Oh, I love the sound of a leather on skin, don't you, mate?" said a man with a thick cockney accent.

Sherlock swallowed and tried to bury his face in the pillow as the whip sang and sang. It took ten hits before he was whimpering and begging to stop. At twenty he started to scream. By twenty seven, he'd lost his voice, and at thirty he really thought he was dying. His body from shoulder to the back of his knees was covered in bleeding, raised welts now. But Jerry wasn't done. Of course, not, Sherlock thought as he felt the bed dip and his legs pried apart. Oh, whipping him wasn't bad enough, and then he jerked as he felt something hard and smooth against him, then forcing inside him. He jerked against the bindings when he realized Jerry was using the handle of the whip on him. Somehow that was even more degrading…

"Oh, lovely how you bleed, now, let's finish, he said, and moved up closer. Sherlock screamed again, somehow finding his voice, when he roughly forced himself inside along with the handle to the whip. "That's it, just the way I want it," he muttered and seemed to have wrapped a hand around the base of his own cock and the whip and was thrusting slowly and shallowly with both at the same time.

Sherlock was about to come unglued, the pressure on his wounded back and legs was immense because the man had to weigh at least sixteen stone or more. But more than that, the hard leather wrapped handle had no give and was worked in deeper than the man's more than ample cock. He choked on his own spit when he finally came, pulling out and staring much as Garrett had, playing with the whip for a while until he was satisfied. He then was gone, leaving Sherlock in a whole lot more pain than he started with. Unfortunately, his back and legs were the least of his worries at the moment. He was hoping the bastard hadn't perforated him with the damn thing. That would be a miserable way to die. Granted it would technically be septic shock killing him, but still. That was also possible from the wounds on his back. He sighed into the bed and heard the door open.

"Oh, Sherly, look how pretty. I'm gonna take a picture now. Here, I'll give you a modicum, just a modicum, of decency," he said, and sure enough, a towel landed across his stinging bum. "Okay, look at the camera."

Sherlock turned his head to the side, and there was a flash as the phone snapped the picture, followed by another, he guessed as he took a picture of his back. Holy hells, it burned like fire across his body.

"Are you sure you don't want to beg me for something, Sherly?" came a voice near the door.

"Fuck off, Garrett," he growled hoarsely.

"You will, Sherly. You will. You're next friend won't be as nice as Jerry. Vince tends to like to break things," Garrett said, and Sherlock heard the smile in his voice.

Mind palace, he thought as he retreated from the pain throughout him. Mind palace.

-New Scotland Yard-

John's phone beeped. A message from…Sherlock? He didn't open it, just got up and went into Lestrade's office where he was sitting with Anderson and Donovan going over the evidence.

"Message from Sherlock," he said softly, and handed the phone to Lestrade. He did and didn't want to see what he said.

Anderson looked quite smug, and so did his female companion. At least until Lestrade gasped out loud. "Oh, fuck, John…" He handed the phone back and John sat down hard.

"Oh, oh God," he said, blinking at the photo and message.

"What is it?" Anderson said, not saying what he was thinking, for fear a certain ex-military doctor might punch him this time.

"Message. From Garrett, has Sherlock's phone. Says this. 'Sherly got some backbone. Won't take my offers of old time relief. Rather adamant, good job there, doctor. But how long will he last before he begs me for some? Jerry had a good time with him. I told him that Vince is next, he likes to hear bones break,' and there's a couple pictures. Of Sherlock," John said woodenly, and handed the phone to Donovan beside him, blinking.

One was Sherlock's face, obviously tied onto a cot of some sort, his arms stretched out, and jaw purple. His hair was slicked with sweat and blood flowed from his lip where he'd obviously bitten it. His side was dripping blood from what they could see. The second was higher, and was of his back and legs, a mangled mess of bloody, ripped flesh. A towel was draped over his rear, but the amount of blood around his hips was enough to tell the tale of what had happened to him, and John's stomach turned.

"He wants him to take the drugs, but he wants him to beg for them, and he's going to torture him until he does…" John whispered and looked with pleading eyes at Lestrade.

"I'm calling Mycroft back," he said, grabbing his cell and ringing the elder Holmes. There was a pause. "Mycroft, Lestrade. We have an idea on Sherlock. Garrett has him, but…well, John will send you the message he got from Sherlock's phone. Can you trace his phone? Hopefully the bastard will forget to take the GPS out. Oh? Okay." He hung up.

"That man is a sneaky son of a bitch, I do not ever want him opposite of me. He made sure Sherlock's phone had an untraceable GPS chip put in under the case. He's been in process of tracking it, and should have it soon enough," he said.

John shook his head. "Greg, not soon enough, not if in less than four hours, he's already done that to him."

Greg nodded. "We just have to get a location, John, that's all."

"I'm going to fucking kill the bastard, Lestrade. Just fair warning," John said, standing and walking out into the front waiting area.