WARNING: This chapter delves into mature content and sexual assault. Read at your own discretion.

An object at rest will remain at rest unless acted on by an unbalanced force.

An object in motion continues in motion with the same speed and in the same direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force.

~Newton's First Law of Motion*

The uncertainty, Lestrade decided, was the worst. It threatened to gnaw right through him like a rat, 1984-style. The only thing scarier than nothing was the possibility of anything. In the vast infinity of imagination, every fear and doubt appeared. And if his imagination could come up with increasingly horrific scenarios, he could only wonder what Montgomery was dreaming up.

While Lestrade dreamt without sleeping, John and Sherlock slept without dreaming. They took turns, one of them always staying awake, in case Lestrade needed to reach out to one of them.

He never did.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs sounded the alarm and all three snapped to attention. Sherlock and John were on their feet in an instant as Lestrade pulled himself into a sitting position.

He vaguely wondered if Monty and his men would just kill him this time. He wondered if he would even care.

The mental torment was devouring him slowly, as insidious as cancer. Would the battle scars on his soul even heal? Or, if he survived, would he have wounds that ran from now until eternity? Did he even want to live anymore, walking around with scars only he could see?

More than anything that had happened, more than anything that might happen, this indifference he had developed towards his own existence terrified him to the bone. He was trying to muster up the energy to continue fighting for survival but his spirit was evading him. It was like having the words on the tip of your tongue, just out of reach - he knew what he was grasping in the dark for the something that he needed, even if he couldn't quite identify it.

Montgomery and Co. lurched into the room with a crash of depravity. Monty's eyes were wild, cannibalistic. Something had whet his appetite and he was hunting something to quell his insatiable urge. He would devour anyone in his path.

He looked straight at Lestrade.

"Get up."

Lestrade didn't move.

He couldn't go forward. He couldn't go back. So he stayed still. Motionless. Inert.

Monty raised his voice slightly. "I said-"

"I heard you," Lestrade interrupted, his voice frustratingly calm.

"And?"

"No."

Whatever reaction Montgomery had been anticipating, it wasn't the one he got. For the first time, he didn't know what to say. He looked genuinely taken aback and flummoxed.

"I'll ask you one more time, because I'm a gentleman," said Monty dangerously. "Get. Up."

Lestrade didn't move.

He wasn't defiant. He wasn't taunting. He wasn't even fearful. He was just…there.

"If you don't get up now, I swear to God I will rip your arm from its socket dragging you out of here," snarled Monty.

Lestrade shrugged. "Okay."

Sherlock and John had been looking back and forth between the two men during the exchange like spectators at a tennis match. Montgomery seemed shaken, off his game. Lestrade seemed to be lobbing responses back half-heartedly, apathetic towards the outcome.

Monty, clearly unaccustomed to such concentrated ambivalence, resorted to school yard tactics to assert his dominance - physical intimidation. Puffing up his chest, he moved sharply towards Lestrade.

It was obvious that Lestrade was not going to put up any sort of fight. Protective instinct kicking in, John leapt to put himself between Monty and Lestrade. It was as unwise as trying to get between an addict and his fix.

The hammer of vengeance, in the form of Tweedle Dumb's foot, struck swiftly and without mercy. It came down on the side of John's knee, dropping the doctor to the ground. Pain flared through his leg, shooting up to his hip and running down to his ankle. The soldier in him ignored the screaming of his leg and continued to throw himself in harm's way to protect his friend. It was only the crushing presence of Monty's boot to his chest, pinning him to the floor like a frog to a dissection tray that ceased his efforts

From his vulnerable position, John stared up, his face painted with fury, frustration, and frigidity.

"Oh, I like this one," Monty said, the smarminess returning to his voice once again. He looked at Lestrade. "You didn't tell me your friend was so…spirited."

The cockroaches of fear scattered as the light of foreboding flicked on. Monty's low voice screamed his ill intentions. Lestrade clamped down on his tongue so hard that he was surprised he didn't bite it clean in half.

Monty pinned John's arms by his sides as he straddled the younger man's hips. "Maybe I should take him for a test drive instead," he crooned as he cruelly ran a hand over John's hair.

"Leave him alone," warned Sherlock icily.

"What's the matter, Sweetness, you jealous? I'll happily have a go at you too - when I'm done with this one."

As he toyed with John and Sherlock, Monty watched Lestrade carefully from the corner of his eye, daring him to react.

Monty raked his fingers roughly along John's chest. "I could break you in," he said appraisingly. "Hope you don't mind if things get a little rough - I've got a lot of pent up frustration to release."

"Go to hell," John spat out defiantly.

"I'll take you there with me. Unless, of course," Monty said, licking his lips salaciously at Lestrade, "someone makes me a better offer."

The town hall meeting inside Lestrade's head reached a crescendo. The voices were all shouting over one another, desperate to be heard. A decision had to be made, and now.

It would have been easy to stay seated, to remain silent, to do nothing.

It would have been easy.

But it wouldn't have been right.

Lestrade stood up.

Monty leaned back and studied Lestrade appraisingly. "You're noble or you're stupid. I'm not sure which."

Probably both, Lestrade thought.

"Get off of him," he said to Monty quietly.

"Oh I'll gladly hop off of him if it means I can hop on you," Monty said, equal parts creepy and lascivious.

He stood up, deliberately kicking John's injured leg as he stepped over the prone figure. John bit his lip and inhaled sharply through his nose, fighting the surge of nausea that the pain brought.

The malice radiating from Monty turned Lestrade to stone where he stood. He couldn't even flinch when the rough hands grasped his cheeks.

"Point of no return," Monty hissed. "Can't let you off the ride once it's started."

Knowing that he was signing himself up for his own execution, Lestrade barely whispered, "I'll go."

"Excellent." The smile slid off of Monty's face like melted wax. "But you'll pay for wasting my time." His voice grew ominous. "I'm going to turn you inside out."

"Greg, no," pleaded John vehemently, struggling to pull himself up. He mentally railed at himself for once again failing to keep his friend safe from harm.

Monty roughly turned Lestrade so that he was facing his friends instead of his tormentor. Monty's arm snaked around Lestrade's neck as he nuzzled his head into his grey hair. "I'll be the best you've ever had," he murmured hideously as he pressed his body into Lestrade's menacingly.

The world was starting to turn very fast and Sherlock was teetering on the edge of control. "Lestrade, you don't have to do this."

"Of course he doesn't have to," said Monty. "But he wants to."

"Shut up," snapped Sherlock, not hating anyone more in his life than he hated Monty at that moment. He tried to shut out the madness and focus only on his friend, the one who was about to do the unspeakable. "Lestrade. Just look at me. Please."

Lestrade's eyes never left the floor.

"Dammit, Lestrade, look at me!" Sherlock half-pleaded, half-ordered.

But he wouldn't. He couldn't. If he looked at Sherlock now he would lose his nerve. The only thing keeping him from curling up and dying on the spot was his determination to protect his friends. Monty was right - he did want to do this. He wanted to spare his friends the cruel indignity of losing oneself. They had already been through too much in the years since Moriarty. They had served their time in the prison of the mind. He wouldn't let them suffer again. He would shoulder their burden as well as his own.

"Nothing to say?" purred Monty. "That's okay. You'll be screaming soon enough. They always scream."

The slight hitch of Lestrade's chest brought a vindictive, triumphant smile to Monty's face. It damn near broke Sherlock. The madman knew he had won.

"Please," he said throatily, not caring how pathetic he sounded, "I'm begging you. Take me. I'll go."

"Or me," said John without hesitation, voice also cracking. "Just-just not him."

The part of Lestrade's heart that was still beating simultaneously pumped out gratitude and fear. His friends were willing to feed themselves to the lions for him. But he couldn't let them. The rest of him may be stained but his conscience would remain clear.

He shook his head, eyes still downcast. "It's okay," he said simply.

And just like that, Lestrade shot the bullet that killed them. The finality in those two words ripped through John and Sherlock, leaving them to watch the blood of helplessness pool around them, draining the life right out of them.

Monty dragged Lestrade with him towards the door as he cast a final sneer at John and Sherlock. "Don't worry - he'll be in good hands. And I'll return what's left of him to you when I'm done." He waved mockingly as he threw in one final shot. "But it might be a while - I intend to take my time."

As the door slammed shut behind them, Sherlock rushed forward to frantically twist the handle. It was an irrational hope against hope that the door would open and he could pull Lestrade back with him into the land of the living. To his dismay but not to his surprise, the door didn't budge.

Sherlock pawed at the locked door like a dog that was afraid his owner was never coming back. He pressed his forehead against it, rooted to his spot. For long moments the only sound was their ragged breathing and the tick-tick-tock of the clock in their hearts. When the first of the agonized, pleading cries penetrated the silence and assaulted their ears, Sherlock recoiled from the door as if it had burned him. He staggered back until he hit the wall. He sank, boneless, to the ground.

John groaned loudly from a different type of pain coursing through him as the sound grew unbearable. He desperately covered his ears like a terrified child in a thunderstorm, trying in vain to block out the sound.

Sherlock dropped his head into his folded arms. The screaming in the distance was rivaled only by the screaming in his head. He wanted so badly to escape the noise, to run away and never come back.

But there was nowhere to go.

* .