Alright. So I couldn't debate which ending I should put so I'm gonna put alternate endings after this one. Thanks for the favourites, follows, and reviews by the way! Keep it up. I'm also not really sure how the police system works so... it's probably not accurate. The next chapter (alternate one) along with this one may be really long so... yeah. I still need to edit... this was a really bad fic... I'm sorry. I might delete this whole thing afterwards if self-consciousness and anxiousness eats me up too much.
WARNING: Very slight rape attempt, torture, verbal and sexual harassment, violence and a very vulnerable Sherlock... may be triggering. It's not too graphic, but graphic enough for a very strong rated T. His dad is a giant douche bag.
I do not own BBC Sherlock or its characters.
EDITED
The back of his head throbbed painfully. A burning hot sensation that didn't seem to stop.
He blinked open his eyes, only to see darkness in front of him. Where was he? Oh... how splendid. I got kidnapped again? I must have been tricked into thinking there was a possible crime ahead of me. How clever... awfully clever. Using another kidnapping to lure me here. Brilliant... but appallingly stupid of me. Sherlock managed to push himself up with both his arms. Concrete floor. Drop of temperature. I'm in a basement. Suddenly the room exploded in bright light, causing Sherlock to force his head downwards and squint his eyes from the whiteness that surrounded his vision.
"I see you're awake."
What... No... That can't be... Footsteps approached the limp detective, and suddenly Sherlock felt the need to crawl away. He lifted himself up once again and widened his eyes as they regained their vision from the light, which now wasn't as bright as it had been. A heavy boot pushed down against his back, forcing him to the ground. Sherlock grunted, still in denial for who the man behind him was. But he knew, he knew who he was about to face. And God help him if he makes it out of here alive.
John's breathing pace quickened and his heart started to pound against his chest, almost to the point where he thought it had popped right out of him.
"Sir... are you all right?" The man at the counter asked, staring at John as he eyed at his phone in complete horror. John lifted his head and widened his eyes at the man in front of him, then dashed out of Speedy's in a second. Oh God... oh God... I've got to call Lestrade... send a search... track this text... anything... Oh God...
He paced back and forth, just outside of his flat. Panic rushed through his whole body as he thought of what to do. Maybe I should- Idiot what are you doing? Dial his bloody number and tell Lestrade! John pressed Lestrade's name on his mobile with his shaky fingers and held the phone to his ear. Come on... pick up...
"Greg Lestrade."
"Lestrade... Lestrade...!" John responded quickly, his voice starting to shake and crack in great panic. "Greg!"
"John? What is it? Why do you sound afraid? Are you okay?"
"Sherlock. He- I think he- he got kidnapped by his father."
"What?!"
"He went off chasing a van and... I got a text."
"That says what?"
"It doesn't matter- just- just... can't you track it down? Do anything?" John asked desperately. "He's... oh God..."
"Hold on, I'm on my way and I'm bringing my team."
And they both hung up. John paced along the side-walk, when his phone vibrated again before he got to place it in his pocket. He dared to bring the text to his face.
You call a bloody Inspector but you don't call his own brother?! Coming over immediately. Expect me.
MH
Sherlock gasped as he was forced onto his back, forced to face the man. Just as he expected, his father stood above him. Sherlock's breathing quickened as he crawled backwards, practically doing a crabwalk, trying to get away from this monster. Child abuser I understood but this... William raised the corner of his mouth in a smile and stepped forwards, slamming his foot down onto Sherlock's stomach. The detective gasped for air as he curled to his side, covering his head at the same time when he noticed his father moving over to his frontside. The man threw vicious kicks into Sherlock's stomach, his ribs, groin, anywhere he could hit.
Crack. Crack. Two ribs broken. One cracked.
"Please." Sherlock gasped as the kicking stopped suddenly. He lay almost motionless the floor, trying to catch his breath. The man circled him, causing Sherlock to hold in tears as he was forced to experience this again. "Please." He repeated, more clearly, gulping down a cry out of pain and sadness and fear.
"Are you going to be my good little pet." His father spoke rather than questioned, as if he expected the accepting answer. This man was now thinking of Sherlock as, not his son, but an animal that needed to be controlled. Not that he thought of Sherlock as his son any way. He knelt in front of Sherlock, who was closing his eyes, as if he were trying to force himself asleep. "You sleep when I say you sleep." The man growled, viciously forcing up Sherlock's head to face his. Sherlock opened his teary eyes to stare into his father's, awaiting for the next words to be spoken. The man released him and stood up again to circle Sherlock's body. He stripped him of the scarf and coat and shoes, and threw them to the corner of the room.
Dare Sherlock say it? "How original." He did dare to say it, sarcastic and mocking. The detective forced himself up once again and propped himself up against the wall, moaning as his chest ached appallingly. He got a better view of the room. It was placid, vacant, mostly. Except for a bed that looked ridiculously uncomfortable; the mattress was shedding of its cotton, there were no bedsheets, therefore revealing blood stains from God knows. A small cage was in the other corner of the room, It was meant for a small to medium sized dog. The only light that got inside was from a small crated, rhombus shaped hole at the door. Just by looking at it made the detective feel cold and closed in. A simple wooden chair stood beside the cage. And last, two large steel dog bowls were placed near the door. One empty, and one filled with water.
Torture, I guarantee...
Going back to Sherlock's sarcastic remark, the man turned his head to stare at his son. The younger man had a chill sent up his spine by the threatening look, but stood his ground and kept his arrogant expression glued onto his face. His father walked towards him and knelt down. "Brilliant... I-I have to say. Tricking... me here. But... Kidnapping? Torture? How- how dull. You- you're obviously... out of original ideas... if... if you ever had any." Sherlock croaked, breathing heavily for air. He eyed his father with a look of hatred before he spit on the older man's boots. William clenched his jaw but quickly relaxed it and sighed.
"That's all right. You'll learn soon enough. You'll become obedient soon enough." He quietly grumbled before standing up again. Sherlock stared up at his father and his father stared back down. Before Sherlock could react, he was being grabbed onto by his hair and dragged across the floor. He let out a yelp (which later turned into numerous yelps), partially from the painful pulling sensation on his scalp, partially from his ribs being in a painful position, but mostly from the pure terror he was experiencing as he father made physical contact with him once more.
He was forced and tied to the chair (which was dragged into the center of the room), arms tied to the arms of the chair and legs tied to the legs. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Why didn't you fight back? You've once fought a criminal with a broken arm, for God's sakes! Why won't you do the same to him?! Idiot. Idiot.
As Sherlock was too busy thinking, he hadn't noticed that his father left the room and returned with a medium-sized box; one of those toolboxes that are usually kept in the garage. He laid the box beside of Sherlock and the chair he was bound to. Lifting the lid, he pulled out pliers and held it in front of the detective to see. The younger one didn't dare to find out what else was in the box, he didn't want to know any way.
"See what happens when you're bad?" The man grumbled as he moved the pliers closer towards Sherlock right hand. Sherlock quickly curled up his fist, knowing where this was going. William made a face of frustration and reached over Sherlock's curled up fist with his other hand, forcing his fingers to lay flat forwards. "Now, be good."
"Please." Sherlock accidentally released from his mouth. Well, almost accidentally. Maybe his father would snap out of his psychopathic state. Stupid idea. Sherlock gulped as the pliers got tucked under his index finger nail. "What is the point of all this?" And with that question, his father paused and looked up at his least favourite son.
"The point? Well, Sherlock, why do you solve crimes without accepting pay? Because it's fun." The man simply admitted. "Now, don't ask any questions. Ask questions and I'll cut out your tongue." And they call me a psychopath. William eyed his son before gripping the finger nail tight once again, and yanking it back. Sherlock let out a grunt as he witnessed his nail fly right off. The bed of his finger was left with a pink, wrinkly and bloody top, no nail to protect it. The younger man breathed heavily, trying not to cry out as the man pulled out the nail of his middle finger. At the ring finger, Sherlock let out a whimper. At his pinky, he started crying. At his thumb, he screamed.
"Have you got his address? Did you track him?" John desperately asked, looking over the shoulder of an officer as he tried to trace down the text on the 'special' laptop of his. Words displayed over the screen; NO MATCHES FOUND.
"God damn it." The officer whispered. John stepped backwards and paced around the living room before a few other officers told him to try to keep calm and take a seat. He sat down in his brown-ish velvet armchair and watched as Lestrade walked up closer to him.
"Do you have any clue where he would run to?"
"He chased after a van. I'm assuming it was either someone bad or important to make him interested enough to chase after it." John quietly replied as he leaned onto his hand and massaged his temple. "Any witnesses?"
"Yes, actually. A woman, Jacklyn White, said she had being having a coffee at Speedy's and she saw him rush in and ask the man at the counter if he saw something about a woman and her van-"
"A woman and her van- oh." John lifted his head from his palm and looked up at the Inspector.
"What?"
"Sherlock got drugged before yesterday as well, he was returned by a woman the next morning who claimed she had found him in an alley, all loopy."
"Your point?"
"He asked me later on if I knew the color or brand or shape of the vehicle she was driving, and I said no." John replied, standing up from his armchair to face Lestrade eye-level. God Sherlock... I hope you're okay.
"You think she was someone he knew?"
"Probably."
"Well, anyways, the woman said he'd noticed something about the van and that's when he sprinted after it. She was the only witness."
John lowered his head in worry and closed his eyes. Sherlock, please don't get yourself killed. And suddenly his phone buzzed. He thought, it could either be really good news or really horrible news, as he pulled the phone from his pocket and slowly lifted it to his face. It was an image... that he couldn't exactly make out. John slid his thumb across the screen to open the text, and nearly screamed when he saw the image.
It was Sherlock, either fell asleep or fainted. His right hand was spread out on the arm of the chair, the tops of his fingers bare and bloodied. He sat in an unusual position, as if he were avoiding to make contact with something near his chest. Was something broken?
A few seconds later was when the next text arrived.
Do you miss him? He's not very obedient and he's awfully disrespectful. I'll have to fix that. You should have heard him screaming for you.
WH
Sherlock blinked open his weary and moist eyes, discovering that this really was happening and it wasn't a nightmare. His position was different from what it had been, he was curled up in- oh, of course. He was in the cage. His shirt was taken off, but fortunately his trousers weren't. It was dark, and it irritated him that he couldn't see the damage of his fingers. Not to mention it was horrendously cold in the room, freezing down to Sherlock's every bone. The cage smelt of urine, and that's when he realised that he must have wet himself as he was unconscious. Humiliation soon filled him, he could already hear his father's vicious words and laughter in his head. The detective stretched his head upwards, only to find himself hitting the roof of the cage. He couldn't even sit up straight without having to lower his neck and torso for himself to fit. Stupid stupid stupid stupid...
Hours had passed, not really, but to Sherlock it felt like a lifetime had passed. Claustrophobia was setting in, his heart rate quickened and he began to hyperventilate. John... Where's... John... I... John... Help... He closed his eyes, thinking that maybe he'd fall asleep, only to find himself remembering the worst situation of his childhood; The time he was locked in that hollow closet in the basement suddenly became the most horrifying moment in his life history. Sherlock started to thrash about. Which way is up? Get me out of here! No... I can't...
"John!" He blurted out without meaning to. He felt betrayed as tears started to slip out of his eyes without his consent. "Help!" He cried out, kicking a wall of the cage. "Please... Please... Please...!" He repeated the word over and over until he began to sob. "I'll be good... I'll be good. I promise... John!"
The lights flickered on and a click of the cage door was heard before Sherlock's locks of hair were fisted and yanked out of the cage.
The open space suddenly felt overwhelming. How long was he in there? What did he do? A kick was delivered to his stomach, but Sherlock found that far better than the experience in the closed in area. The younger man gasped for air as he was on all fours on the floor.
"You stupid. Ungrateful. Worthless. Piece of shit." The man slurred as he kicked Sherlock in the stomach repeatedly. The detective coughed up blood as he gave up on holding himself up and let himself fall to the floor and take whatever given. "You know, no one's gonna come for you."
Sherlock viciously coughed again.
"Nobody cares that'ya even went missin'. They're all probably glad you're gone. Mycroft don't care. John doesn't either. It pulled off a lot of weight from their chests."
No. He's lying. Obviously trying to make me more vulnerable.
"You deserve all of this. The beatings. The harassment. You're a dirty little whore that deserves this. Remember that. Nobody cares. And if John did, it's too late anyways. I already sent some buddies to finish him off." He was lying, obviously, but Sherlock wasn't so sure. He lifted his head from the ground and stared at the man who dared to see himself as a father.
"You- you're lying... I-I know you are." He's lying to make you more vulnerable. Don't listen to him.
"Sherlock, why would I lie about that? I'll even show you a photo after the work gets done. If you want." The man spoke in a calm voice that was surprisingly unsettling, yet convincing.
"I... I... No..." No. He can't be dead... That's- that's impossible... That's... Sherlock let his head fall and burst into a river of tears.
"Oh please, you should be happy for him. He's finally got you off his chest."
John... John... I'm so sorry.
Suddenly, his father burst into laughter as he noticed the soaking wetness around the crotch section of Sherlock's trousers. "Did'ya fuckin' piss yourself, pussy?" He shouted, glancing into the cage to see a puddle of liquid. Sherlock heated with humiliation and shame as he tried to hide his face from the man.
"I-I was unconscious... I... didn't have control and I couldn't hold it any-" He started, not having the chance to finish as a boot was slammed against his stomach once again. He cried out in a mixture of pain and frustration and anger.
"Shut up. You fuckin' made a bit of a mess too. Hope this brings back memories." His father growled as he rushed towards Sherlock, fisting his locks of hair and dragging him towards the entrance. Sherlock grimaced as his chest viciously pounded against the cement floor. He moved his hands to the grip on his head, trying to release it desperately as it started to feel like someone was physically carving into his scalp. William hovered Sherlock's head over the water bowl and forced it down. It was large enough for Sherlock's entire head to sink in. "No... 'Mummy' to save your ass now." He leaned into his drowning son's ear, it was under the water but he got as close as he could get. Sherlock's muffled scream was heard through the water, air bubbles floating up to the top. His lungs were burning on fire as they ran out of air.
"I fucking hate you. You ruined my life."
"Oh God..." Lestrade mumbled to himself as John handed over his phone, revealing the image. John paced to and fro in the living room, Oh God Sherlock... Hold on, I'm coming for you... Just hold on, before there was a knock on the door. John turned his head to Lestrade, who shrugged his shoulders. Now is not the time for a client. There was the sound of the door opening and someone walking up the stairs.
John nearly fainted from relief. Mycroft, stood in front of the door of their living room, twiddling with his umbrella. "Mycroft." The former army doctor whispered in a breath like the elder brother's name was Holy.
"My brother gets kidnapped by our abusive father and you don't think to contact me first?!" Mycroft nearly shouted at John, who was too relieved to even feel guilty.
"Sorry... Sorry... I was panicked... it was in the heat of the moment... Sorry."
"Enough. Now where is your laptop so I can log onto the CCTV cameras?"
An officer budded in from the kitchen, holding the authorities laptop. "Here." He spoke, handing it over. Mycroft lifted the screen and clicked onto one of the programs that John knew nothing about. He typed in a special code and... it was a street cam, on their street. Thank God Mycroft keeps cameras everywhere. He quickly clicked a few certain things to rewind the film. And there he was. Sherlock on the street, minutes before his disappearance. He clicked play.
Sherlock, spotting a van and eyeing it suspiciously. The cameras switched views to get a better look at the van. John's jaw dropped. A girl getting into the vehicle, and the van driving away. Sherlock sprinting after it.
The camera switched views again.
Sherlock ran through alleyways and streets until he went to a stop. He propped himself up against the wall of an alley and peeked out, looking at something that the camera couldn't catch. Suddenly a man came from behind him, a gun in hand. He grabbed Sherlock from the behind and slammed the handle of his firearm against the detective's back head. He drags Sherlock's motionless body off into the direction where Sherlock was staring.
"What- what street is that?" John asked almost immediately as Sherlock's body was dragged off screen. Mycroft thought for a moment, probably memorized the London A-Z as well.
"... Oh how stupid." Mycroft mumbled to himself. "Oh horrendously stupid of me."
"What? What is it?"
"Our father, back a few years before his arrest. Moved into this neighborhood. I didn't think he'd ever show up. So I've deleted almost every trace of him from my mind."
"Yes and?"
"The address is 1873 Astleview Way. Lets go."
"Shut up!" William shouted as he whacked Sherlock across the face. "Why do you think I put the gag in you?!" The younger man was near hyperventilation as he sobbed and screamed through the gag. The man switched on the blow torch once again and forced up Sherlock's other foot, that had been free from burns. He moved the fire closer towards the sole of Sherlock's foot, burning the layers slowly. Sherlock screamed through his gag and let the tears free fall from his eyes, along with sweat literally dripping from his forehead.
"Please!" He tried to cry out, but it only came out as a muffled scream. His father slapped him across the face.
"What did I say about speaking without my permission?" He held a lecturing finger before switching off the blow torch and placing it on the floor. He walked behind Sherlock and untied the gag from the back of his head. The detective's sobs and hiccups grew louder as the gag fell to the floor. William untied the ropes that were forcing the younger man to the chair. "You're gonna love this part." The man reassured in a threatening voice. He forced Sherlock to his feet, but only for the detective to fall flat on his face. His feet were stinging and burning red, any pressure felt like being crushed by a boulder. He was starting to really regret his decision to decline Moriarty's offer.
"Do I have to do everything myself?" William scowled, pulling Sherlock up and carrying him towards the wrecked bed. He gathered the rope and bound Sherlock's sore wrists onto the bars of the bed, positioning him onto his stomach. Sherlock didn't fight back, too exhausted, too tired. He closed his eyes for a moment, hoping he'd wake up from this nightmare. But instead, all he felt was the feeling of cold air hitting places it shouldn't hit. He looked down only to realise he was completely naked. He's not... no... this can't happen... And that's when the sounds of an unbuckling belt was heard.
"I can't wait to thrust into that tight virgin ass."
And suddenly Sherlock froze still. No... He's not...
"I almost got to rapin'im... You should'a seen'im crying and beggin'! If you don't do as I ask, I'll do the same to you, except I will succeed with you."
"No... Please. You- you can't." Sherlock stuttered aloud, his voice low and drowsy. This couldn't happen to him... God no... God no... "You can't! You bastard!" He continued, sounding for angry than afraid.
"What did I say about talking?!" The older man said, slapping Sherlock hard on the arse, causing him to flinch. "You're so pretty, Sherlock." He whispered afterwards, lowering his mouth against Sherlock's ear. The broken detective did his best to hold in cries of sadness and fear, burying his head into the foul smelling mattress and gripping onto the rope as tight as he can, preparing for the worst. A hand slid down his back and over his bum, moving to areas that he'd never expected would be touched by anyone. Sherlock let out a slight scream, which was slightly muffled out. He thrashed his lower body about, only receiving a firm hand forcing his foot out and a thumb pressing into the burning sole, resulting in the younger man to hiss. The man continued after Sherlock let his body go limp, kissing the detective's back, lowering down below. This body is just transport... Transport transport. Nothing but fucking transport... don't cuss, you idiot. William spit repeatedly from above over Sherlock's bare body, with his alcohol scented breath spread all over the saliva. "Worthless piece of garbage." He nearly got to making full contact with Sherlock's entrance before gunfire was heard followed by a chilling scream.
Sherlock's shoulders tensed and his crying became more intense. He sobbed into the mattress, hiding his face from what ever being was in the room. Suddenly, a hand was placed on his shoulder and he thrashed about, letting out a load of screams.
"Sherlock? Sherlock! It's okay! It's okay! It's John..." John pulled away his hand and knelt beside the bed, waiting patiently for Sherlock to show his face when he was ready. "You're safe now. You're safe." He soothed as the so-called emotionless detective bawled aloud.
Sherlock slowly turned his head to face his dearest Watson, who gave a sad smile when Sherlock laid eyes on him. His face was red and his eyes were weary. "John...?"
"Yes Sherlock, I'm here. You're safe now."
Sherlock stared for a moment and started to viciously thrashed his arms about, "Get me out of these... Get me out!" He exclaimed as he went into panic. "Get me out, please!" John quickly walked around both sides of the bed, untying his best friend's wrists from the bars. Sherlock sat up, cradling his hands. The army doctor took off his fairly long coat and wrapped it around Sherlock's bloodied body, covering up his privates and keeping him warm from the freezing cold room.
"John."
"Yes Sherlock? What is it?"
"You're alive." It wasn't a question. Sherlock's lip trembled and his eyes turned foggy. John pulled him in for a hug. Sherlock felt so small, so empty and light. So vulnerable. As if John were pulling a child close into his chest. As for Sherlock, John felt and smelt of home. Warm and cozy and comfortable and safe. And although it had only been a few horrendous hours, the comfort of being held by John in the end was worth it all.
"I... I knew he- he was lying. He- he told me you were dead." Sherlock whimpered as John released him from the hug, but still held him close.
That fucking bastard.
John nodded his head with a sad smile and turned his head to glimpse at the man on the floor next to the other side of the bed. Unconscious, John had shot him in the arm. And Lestrade went back for medics.
"Thank God." A voice from the doorway echoed through the room. Sherlock turned his head to see his elder brother walking towards him. "You idiot, do you have any idea how worried I was? I worry about you constantly and you go and get yourself kidnapped. Again." He spoke, relief breaking through his voice. Sherlock managed to pull a very slight half-smile from the corner of his mouth, though he didn't mean it at all.
After a few minutes of comforting, Mycroft headed back outside to hurry on Lestrade and the medics that didn't seem to be showing up. Right after Mycroft left the room, Sherlock turned to John with a serious facial expression. "John, help me up." He spoke, throwing his feet off the edge of the bed so they hung there motionless.
"Right, sorry. Can you walk?"
"No... He burnt the soles of my feet. I can try though, the left foot's not as bad as the right." Sherlock admitted, throwing his arm over John's shoulder. John mumbled something along the lined of 'Oh God' as he held back bile and lifted up his best friend, most of Sherlock's weight leaning on him. "And hand me your gun."
"What? Why?"
"Just- Please." Sherlock held out his hand as the other one remained around John's shoulder. John hesitated for a moment, but pulled the loaded gun from his carriage and handed it into Sherlock's free hand. He turned off the safety and eyed the firearm as if he were observing it.
"Why do you need it?" John asked, getting a bad vibe. Before he knew it, Sherlock aggressively pushed John away and quickly limped to the other side of the bed. Whimpering in pain as he did. "Sherlock!" John shouted, getting the wrong idea. Sherlock looked down at William, who was gaining consciousness and was groaning aloud. He aimed the gun to his father's head, and pulled the trigger.
The blogger stared in awe.
He sighed in relief and lowered the gun. And that was that. John's jaw dropped and his eyes widened, but at the same time, he was relieved himself as well. And as he could have sworn, he saw Sherlock smile over the corpse of his dead father.
Uh yeah. Thanks for reading. Review if you want! Sorry this one is kind of long. I apologise for any grammatical errors, I haven't had the chance to edit because I usually post from my phone.
I feel bad for doing this to Sherlock. I'd kill his Dad too sorry not sorry (I'm using this phrase ironically). I personally don't think he was abused by his father in the show or in canon but my little headcanon is that he was bullied throughout education years.
