6
Broken Genus
The camera used in the video shook as it was taken off the tripod and moved closer to the semen dripping out of Sherlock's rear. His right cheek was gripped and spread, followed by the American's voice with, "Mycroft, if you want in on this, give me a call." The camera was turned, showing the face of the speaker, a smirk on his features. "You know how to find me."
The video ended with the American grinning at the camera.
Lestrade's eyes were enflamed, an incredulous look over him, while John's entire face was red, his fists clenched. A million emotions flooded through him, not one he dared vocalize, less he became uncontrollable. Rage built inside him as his eyes focused on the grinning face of the American, his mind running over every possible scenario that would lead him to both Sherlock and those in the video. The scenes he played were those even POWs would have found merciful.
Lestrade had made a few audible comments, which the blood pounding in John's ears drowned out. It was not until Lestrade's arm knocked into him as he reached to the laptop that John had paid any attention at all.
"Did you catch that?" Lestrade asked as he touched the pad on the laptop, scrolling the video back a bit.
All formality left him and John came out with, "You mean where they violated and ejaculated inside my best friend? Yes, I'm fairly certain I caught that," he snapped, his head jerking to the detective inspector, jaw clenching.
Lestrade held his hand up, cutting him short.
"No, listen."
He hit the spacebar to replay the final line:
"You know how to find me."
He looked at John, furrowing his brow as he scrolled back to play it again. They met gazes as the speakers echoed:
"You know how to find me."
He did it one more time, their expressions mirrored each other.
The ire that had built up in the soldier during the video viewing had begun to redirect itself.
Even with all the information against the group, knowing what they were capable of and willing to do, Mycroft had seemed disinterested in assisting his own brother. Now realizing that Mycroft had a way to contact the group all along, and decided to stand-by as his own flesh and blood was subjected to such events, any respect that John had built for the eldest Holmes flickered out.
It made his absence from the police car that much more prevalent.
Before Lestrade could stop him, John had exited the car, steps in haste as he was off to find Mycroft. The detective inspector was after him after slamming the laptop close. He came up on John's heels right as the man approached the government official standing by the black vehicle they had arrived in.
"You've had their contact all along?" John's voice came out tight, a clear attempt at not shouting as Mycroft turned to face him, his phone at his ear.
Peering down at the soldier's taught expression, Mycroft spoke to the person on the other line: "Do excuse me. I have a matter to attend to." He brought the phone from his ear, ending whatever call he had taken. He pocketed his mobile before standing straight, looking at John as though he was an inconvenience. "Is there a problem, Doctor Watson?"
Inhaling in an attempt to compose himself, John came out with, "You've had the contact information of the group who took Sherlock all along?"
Mycroft stared at him, his eyebrows moving upwards. "Might I ask why you believe such absurdity?" The reaction in John was apparent. "Doctor Wat—"
"Have you had"—John cut him off—"their contact information?"
Mycroft inhaled, standing straight as he looked down at the shorter man. "Yes." The comment caused an apparent physical reaction in the doctor. Before John could garner a response, Mycroft fell out with, "I can assure you that Sherlock understands the situation for what it is." Lestrade had to grab John's upper arm to keep him from lunging at the government official. "Unlike those who my brother had chosen to surround himself with, he has the mental capacity to grasp the issue at hand and is more than capable of taking on whatever befalls him to ensure what needs to be done is done."
John managed to break free from the detective inspector.
In an instant, John had Mycroft by the collar of his suit jacket, pushing his back against the car.
"You agreed that we would bring him home," John's voice was low, every muscle tense as he refrained from what he had wanted.
"As you would put it, Doctor Watson, it's for the greater good."
Seeing Mycroft's indifferent expression, John had to fight every fibre of his being wishing to treat the eldest Holmes as he deemed fit.
"Sherlock Holmes is the "greatest good" that has ever happened to any one of us. If you're trying to tell me you'll let your own flesh and blood go through that and do nothing"—he spat the last word—"then you might as well be with them."
With that said, he pushed off from Mycroft, staring at him and his apathetic countenance. Forgoing his instinct, he turned on his heel, footsteps heavy as he walked away.
Lestrade stared after him before turning his attention to Mycroft, whose expression was distant, despite wearing his usual mask. He inhaled, shaking his head on the exhale before following after John, failing to notice the flash of concern across the eldest Holmes' face.
A groan escaped Sherlock's mouth as his hair was pulled and more warm liquid filled him. His rectal cavity throbbed from the abuse, while nail marks and bite marks littered his lower and upper back. Even though he had made several attempts to escape reality while it was happening, he found his efforts failing. Each time he tried, he found himself in Mycroft's office, being guilt-tripped for what he logically knew was not of his own culpability.
At one point, John was there, shaking his head in disappointment. For reasons Sherlock knew naught, that had pained him much more than the brother he would never admit he looked to.
His head was dropped and it hit the mattress with a padded thud, forcing the pressure back to his dislocated shoulder. His rectum contracted as the liquid dripped down his perineum to his scrotum. The light of the American's mobile camera had become so frequent, he no longer grimaced at the photographs it took, so when the white flashed against the wall and piping, he paid it no heed, his eyes staring into nothingness at the wall to his left.
Though he refused to acknowledge it, he had become used to the abuse, almost to the point of tuning it out. Had it not have been for the occasional smack or the initial pain of penetration, he could have regressed to his Mind Palace indefinitely.
Something cold and wooden met his inner thigh and he found himself tensing as sharp points met the outside of his anus. At the thought of the object it entering him, which he came to realize was the broken leg of the chair he had shattered earlier, his breath caught and he shut his eyes. However, there was a momentary reprieve when a pair of footsteps approached.
"Care to give me a chance before getting my prick all splintered?" came the familiar voice of the Irishman, who Sherlock could have sworn left the room prior.
There was a snort from the American, who was clearly still by the camera and not the one holding the broken leg by his cavity.
"Finally decided to fist-fuck the bitch?"
There was the sound of laughter.
"Oh, by the Lord, no," came the comment with a chortle. "I just gotta take a piss."
There was the sound of shifting, followed up with, "Well, you got his mouth or his ass."
Finding himself waiting for the laughter signalling the witticism, Sherlock unconsciously tensed when it failed to ring throughout the basement. There was the sound of footsteps right before the mattress shifted.
There was a muffled groan as the Irishman inserted his partially flaccid length into Sherlock, whose body tensed. It took him a minute, but once he was fully in, he placed his left hand on Sherlock's back and grabbed his hip with the right. Another moment passed before warm liquid began filling him and, though he knew better, the detective tried to pull against the chain holding his wrists to the pipe. The moment he did, pain seared down his back and he stopped, shaking.
He tried to get his mind right, tried to focus on anything other than the humiliation, but his brain would not allow him. All he could focus on was the moment and the pressure mounting in his lower abdomen.
The few seconds felt like minutes before the man retracted himself, moaning in the pleasure of release.
Sherlock's jaw clenched as his face creased, his throat and eyes begging to release an unfamiliar emotion.
He saw the flash of the camera go off as the urine spilled out of him and he could no longer do it – could no longer hold himself together. His body shook, attempting to not vocalize the emotion he had suppressed for so long.
"Look at that: he does cry," came Dreln's voice next to his head.
The video camera was now in Dreln's hands, zooming in on Sherlock's reddened face.
"What's wrong, Sherlock? You think you'd be used to being a human toilet by now." The genius refused to open his eyes, not wanting to give the man any more satisfaction as his jaw trembled. "You know, I didn't want to say anything, but I'm starting to think you were right about your brother not giving a damn about you. I mean"—he shifted to move on the mattress, grabbing Sherlock's left buttock and exposing him further—"you think he'd respond to at least one of these videos I've sent. Holy shit, it's still coming out. Ugh, that's gross." He inserted two of his fingers and pulled, stretching Sherlock and gaining a muffled shout as the a bit more trickled out. "Then again, maybe Mycroft's getting off on all this. Fucking faggot."
He extracted his fingers. Yet, before he pulled back, he smacked Sherlock's cheek and grabbed it, giving it a harsh squeeze and beginning the formation of a new bruise.
As his body pushed out the final bit of urine, Sherlock inhaled, a vocalised cry escaping him.
It was as though that was what his mind was waiting for, his breath shaking as his cry bounced off the cement walls. When he tried to inhale, his nasal passages echoed in the unfamiliarity of inflammation and he found himself face-to-face with the camera once more. It was the first time he was waiting for the American to make a comment, but when nothing but silence followed, all he could focus on was the muted sounds from himself.
The silence from the other men in the room only seemed to cause his reaction to worsen, and as he was still trying to contain his emotional imbalance, all his brain could focus on was the eyes and camera on him, watching him falter – watching and recording the one reaction he thought himself immune to so long ago.