Okay, don't say I never give you guys anything! Its 2.30am but I promised you a chapter tonight, so here you go... one thing, there MIGHT be a small cliffhanger here too. Just a little one... :) More warnings for attempted rape and sexual abuse here.

Next chapter will be up by Friday :) I'll do responses to emails tomorrow :D

So, as always, thanks for the support! Love all you guys!

Thanks Rangergirl! Love ya!

Okay then... onwards!

Worthless.

Chapter Ten

He couldn't move.

That was the first realisation that Sherlock arrived at as he slowly came round. He moaned quietly, his head aching. What happened? Why was his head killing him? And why couldn't he move?

He opened his eyes painfully, tried to wriggle unsuccessfully, and then glanced down. Ah. So that explained that then. His wrists were bound. He was tied tightly to a chair. And it wasn't just his wrists. He was tied by his ankles too. He was held fast, completely trapped. He also had something tied around his neck. Either there to strangle or gag him, whatever was required. At least there was one good thing, he noted – apart from his pounding headache, he was apparently not hurt.

He struggled again, trying to loosen the ropes binding his wrists. It was useless.

He looked around, blinking, trying to clear his vision. Trapped in his own living room, in his best friend's chair. It really was quite an embarrassing situation.

He closed his eyes tightly.

There was something he should be remembering, something had happened...

His eyes shot open, and he flinched from the pain.

Oh God. The Butcher. In his house.

There was something else.

Mrs Hudson. Lying on the ground. Hurt. Dying.

He renewed his struggle with interest, yelling out his outrage at his hopeless situation.

"I'd calm down, if I were you." The voice was mocking, cruel. "You'll hurt yourself."

Sherlock looked up. His eyes narrowed as he took in the young man now standing in the doorway.

He was merely a boy. No older than nineteen or twenty, Sherlock estimated. He had unruly, long blond hair, but he had obviously tried to style it, though failing. He cared about his appearance then. He was wearing expensive clothes, but didn't come from money, judging by his ill-fitted suit. Not used to wearing designer clothes. Perhaps he had a high paid job in finance in the city? Or, more likely, had come into money by more unscrupulous means.

With the aid of a certain "sponsor."

Sherlock's eyes were drawn to the other man's shoes. They were very polished, even shiny. Looking at the marks on his fingers, he cleaned them himself. No. He scrubbed them. Often. Slight OCD maybe? He was certainly obsessed with his routines, Sherlock had already deduced that.

And right then, this obsessive stranger was looking very proud of himself.

And why shouldn't he? This had all been a trap. And Sherlock had fallen into it beautifully.

The young man smiled warmly.

"Sorry about the knock on the head," he stated. He was softly spoken, his accent posh. Some would say plummy. "I can get you a pain killer, if you'd like?"

Sherlock didn't react. He just stared at the boy.

The young man rubbed his hands together. For the first time, Sherlock saw that he was toying with his Jack Knife, enjoying the feel of it. Sherlock couldn't take his eyes off of the blade. "I guess that's a no then. How about a glass of water? You must be thirsty. You were out for a good twenty minutes. I was beginning to worry that I'd hit you too hard."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Still he didn't reply. He much preferred just to watch, and wait.

Wait for the opportune moment.

Because, there had to be a way out of this. There had to be.

The young man pointed. "You're bleeding."

Sherlock swallowed. He could already feel the blood dripping down the side of his face, from yet another wound on the top of his head.

At least it wasn't the fireplace this time.

He frowned. What had hit him? The heavy door stop? No. Not the right shape. A brick, from outside? No. Too heavy for the boy to swing with the power he'd shown. So what then?

He tilted his head.

"The picture frame," he murmured, almost to himself.

The boy's ears pricked up. "Huh?"

"You hit me with Mrs Hudson's picture frame." He glanced towards the door. "The picture of the Mary Rose, that hangs in her lounge. You were lucky you didn't kill me."

The boy blinked. "Who?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Mrs Hudson. The lady who owns this house. You strangled her downstairs, and left her to die."

The boy shrugged. "Oh. Her."

Sherlock could feel the anger sweeping through him. He fought to contain it. Losing his temper would not aid his predicament. He needed to ensure he was thinking clearly. No unnecessary concerns.

"Is Mrs Hudson alive?" he asked, calmly.

The other man shrugged his shoulders.

"You don't even care," Sherlock noted.

The Butcher smiled toothily. "Of course not." He stepped closer. "She's not a part of my game, she just got in my way. Too bad for her."

"Too bad for you."

The boy grinned. He was practically oozing self confidence. If Sherlock played him right, his arrogance could be his downfall.

"What's your name?" Sherlock enquired.

The boy laughed. "The Great Detective is supposed to know!"

Sherlock nodded. "Sorry to disappoint you."

"Vern," the boy answered. "My name is Vern."

"Nice to meet you, Vern." Sherlock inclined his head politely. "My name is -"

Vern laughed loudly. Sherlock cringed. It was the first true sign of the insanity hiding behind this young man's bright, staring blue eyes. And the sound set his teeth on edge.

Sherlock actually recoiled against his bonds when Vern suddenly flew towards him. Grasped the chair arms, he leaned over Sherlock, smiling broadly.

"I know exactly who you are, Mister Sherlock Holmes! I've heard all about you! My sponsor is quite a fan of yours."

Sherlock sighed. "Your sponsor?" He repeated. "Jim, you mean?"

Vern's eyes went wide. "You may call him by his first name. I would never dare. He's Mr. Moriarty, and he's a hero to me."

"Nice kind of hero. But then, he is psychotic as you are, isn't he?"

Vern didn't hesitate. He struck Sherlock hard, snapping his head to one side. He then wagged a finger in Sherlock's face.

"Don't you ever insult Mr. Moriarty to me again, Sherlock Holmes. That's your only warning. Understand?"

"Perfectly."

The young man turned his back on Sherlock then, clearly trying to control the hate and rage that lay just under the surface.

Nice check on his self-control, Sherlock. Or lack of it.

Sherlock took his time before he spoke again.

"So, what is the next game?"

Vern slammed his fist on to the table beside Sherlock.

"Wrong! You're not meant to ask me that!" He was babbling now, pacing the room. "You're meant to figure it out. You're the big, clever detective, aren't you? A consulting detective?"

Sherlock couldn't help but be startled. He eyed the man, slightly alarmed. This boy certainly was insane. In fact, he was holding on to his sanity by a tiny thread. What an exciting find for Jim this boy must have been. He could just imagine Moriarty's delight in discovering him. How he would have loved taking this boy under his wing, teaching him, helping him. Creating his own little serial killer. How many others were there? How many other kids had Moriarty got his claws into? It was sick, but, Sherlock couldn't help but think, God, it was clever.

Vern had waited long enough. He grabbed the helpless Sherlock by his hair and ripped his head back.

No. Don't. Not like this. Not like... him.

Sherlock swallowed.

Vern noticed.

"You don't like being grabbed like this, do you?" He asked, softly. "I wonder why?"

He shook Sherlock hard, like a rag doll. Sherlock was shocked by the boy's strength. He shouldn't have been. He was slight, but also very tall. And he had already overpowered four people, two of those being perfectly healthy men. He gazed up at his tormentor, unsure of what to say, should he anger Vern more. Vern could snap his neck like a twig, and Sherlock was very aware that, in that moment, he had no way of defending himself.

"Answer my question," Vern snarled.

Sherlock thought back.

Oh yes. He asked about my work.

"Sorry," Sherlock replied, swiftly. "Yes, I'm a detective."

The boy released him. He backed off slightly, leaning against their sofa. "Good. Glad you're paying attention to me, Mr. Holmes." He crossed his arms, and stared intently, at Sherlock. "You're not how I imagined."

Sherlock blinked, trying to compose himself. He really was in a lot of pain, and having a killer questioning him was not assisting his concentration.

"How did you imagine me?" He asked.

"Older."

"Sorry to disappoint you."

Vern's smile was of pure evil. He placed Sherlock's knife down on the table beside them. "Oh, I'm not disappointed." He leaned closer, running a hand over Sherlock's leg. Sherlock felt sick to his stomach but what could he do? He was strapped there, at the bastard's mercy. And still, he didn't know what the sick freak wanted with him.

He decided to ask.

"You threatened my friend, John Watson."

The smile widened. And Vern's hand moved lower. Sherlock was cringing, desperate to move away from him, but those damned ropes were too tight.

Get your hand off of me. Just leave me alone. Please.

"Yes, I know." His voice was husky, lustful now. "That was fun."

"Why send me that email?"

"To get your attention," he gushed. "I wanted to meet you."

His hand had nearly reached Sherlock's groin. The detective, his eyes now closed in disgust, was sweating.

"Stop," Sherlock breathed. "Stop it."

Vern blinked. He looked down at his hand, and then back up at Sherlock's panicked face.

"Am I bothering you, Detective?"

"Mildly," came the strained reply.

Vern smirked. And then, the wandering hand was gone. Sherlock couldn't hide the sigh of relief. When he opened his eyes again, Vern was back at the doorway, gazing down the stairs.

"I hope the elusive Dr. Watson gets here soon."

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. Of course. That's what he wanted. John. He knew John would come back eventually. All he needed to do was wait.

" John's out today. Won't be back for ages."

"Like I said, I can wait."

Sherlock's thoughts turned back to the poor woman, lying unconscious downstairs.

"Let my landlady go."

"No," he smirked. "Sorry."

"But she'll die."

Another shrug. "She's not important."

That rage. He could feel it again. He bottled it back down. He would use it later. He would get the opportunity. Something would come. He just had to be patient.

"She doesn't deserve to die."

"Who says?"

"I say."

Vern glared at that. "You're not all powerful."

"I'm not the one playing God," Sherlock hissed. "You are."

Vern threw back his head and laughed.

"I prefer to compare myself to Satan."

Sherlock grimaced. "Not too original."

Vern glowered. "No?" He held up a business card. Sherlock could easily see that it was John's. "Look at this. I'm branching out, mixing it up."

"Did Moriarty instruct you to go after John?"

"Of course not." He looked put out. "Mr. Moriarty doesn't tell me to do anything. All of this," he gestured, "this is all my own work. He funds me and gives me his suggestions." He paused. "I can still make mistakes. He doesn't."

Sherlock smiled. "He made one."

Vern glared. "He escaped your explosion, didn't he?" He pointed. "He outsmarted you."

Sherlock shook his head. "Not my bomb."

"It was your fault that it blew up!" Vern snapped. "John Watson was supposed to die that night, the whole plan was all laid out. You were going to be allowed to live." He clenched his fists, and again, Sherlock could feel the panic rising. "I'll put it right for Mr Moriarty. Today. It's the least I can do after everything that he's done for me."

Sherlock struggled again in his chair. "Leave John alone."

Vern was delighted. It seemed Sherlock betraying his feelings regarding John excited him.

"Nah," he replied, quietly. "I don't think so. He'll be back soon, won't he? Won't be too long now." He leaned over Sherlock again. "And then, he's mine."

Sherlock gave Vern a murderous look.

"If you touch him -" He began but Vern cut across him.

"Oh yeah, I'll touch him." He bared his teeth. "I'll do a lot more than that too." His smile was predatory. "Don't worry, you'll be able to watch, and encourage him though it." He grabbed Sherlock's crotch. "After all, you'll know exactly what he's going through, won't you?" He leered, beginning to pull at Sherlock's belt, making his intention clear, and revelling in Sherlock's now obvious despair. "Or, so I've read."

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want to see, he didn't want to know.

Oh God. He's undoing my belt. He's going to touch me. He's going to -.

Suddenly, it wasn't Vern standing over him any more. All he could see was Anderson.

He tried to compose himself, to concentrate. He knew Anderson's wasn't there. He had to keep control. He couldn't give up now. John. John was in danger. He had to help him. Warn him somehow.

"It's okay," Vern was purring, and Sherlock gasped as the sick man began to tug harder at his belt, and it came free. He then placed his hand down Sherlock's trousers, and Sherlock whimpered helplessly.

"I'm not angry," the hated man was whispering. "I like it that people think The Butcher raped the great Sherlock Holmes. The public don't know, yet, but the cops, I bet it's all they talk about. And, once the story gets out, the papers tell the world." He leaned forward, lowering his hand further, reaching right down. Sherlock knows what he's looking for, and Sherlock pressed back, leaning as far back into the chair as possible, trying to avoid that damned hand.

"Someone is blocking the Metro right now." Vern continued. "Don't know who or how, but they've been told. Mr. Moriarty saw to it, but someone is, very annoyingly, putting an embargo on the story." He smiled. "Won't last though. Soon, everyone will believe that I stuck my large dick in your little tight hole." He grasped Sherlock's manhood and Sherlock, unable to stop himself, cried out. Vern laughed. "And," he added, "I'll do the same to your boyfriend and then butcher him, right before your eyes." He licked Sherlock's cheek. "Don't you think, as plans go, it's perfect?"

"But you didn't." Sherlock forced out.

Vern shrugged. "Yeah, true." He removed his hand, and watched as Sherlock sagged into his bonds. "But no one ever will know the truth."

Sherlock took a deep breath. The hand was gone now. He'd survived. He had to hang on in there. He had to keep fighting.

"Why not just kill me?" He offered. "Like you say, everyone will think you raped me. Notoriety that will last forever. Eternal fame. All for you." He stared at Vern. "Kill me, right now. Not John."

The evil man smiled nastily. "But this is what you've pushed me too, Detective. To try out new projects, to keep things fresh, and exciting." He picked up the knife again. "I want someone to watch me work. I want you to watch."

What could Sherlock say? He didn't know what to do.

But maybe, there was one chance...

"And what if I were to tell you something only me and one other man knows?"

Vern eyed him, waiting.

Sherlock continued. "I mean, if I were to tell you a very big, dark secret..."

"Like what?"

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock replied; "Like who actually raped me?"

Vern raised an eyebrow. "Go on?"

"I'll make a deal with you."

"What deal?"

"I'll tell you who raped me, if you let Mrs Hudson get help, and promise to leave John alone."

Vern seemed to be thinking it over. Sherlock held his breath.

"Well?" He urged, impatiently.

"I'd be happy to take you up on your deal, Sherlock," Vern replied, after a beat.

Sherlock held his breath. Please.

Vern walked towards Sherlock, again playing with the blade in his hands.

"But there is one problem," he whispered. He put his lips against Sherlock's ear. "I don't give a fuck who actually raped you."

Sherlock closed his eyes.

Vern laughed in his face.

Last chance, all gone. It's over.

They both froze.

There was a noise, coming from downstairs. A key in the lock, and they was being turned. A door was opening.

Only one other person had a key.

Vern and Sherlock stared at one another.

They both knew.

"Sherlock?" a voice called. "Are you here?"

John was home.

Sherlock started to scream, to shout, to yell a warning to his friend. Vern was quicker. He crossed the room in a heartbeat, and stuck his makeshift gag into Sherlock's mouth, cutting off his ability to make any noise. Breathing had also suddenly become an issue. All Sherlock could do was stare, wild eyed, up at his captor. Vern looked dizzy with excitement. He brought a shaky finger up and held it against his lips. The message was clear.

Keep quiet. Be a good boy. Sit there and watch me brutally rape your best friend. Got a problem with that?

Vern grinned. And then, he moved back, didn't make a sound, and waited behind the door.

"Sherlock?" John called, the fear in his voice evident. "Sherlock, Mrs Hudson's been attacked! She's going to be okay, but I've called for help—".

John raced in, eager to find his friend, to ensure Sherlock was safe and well.

He stopped dead at the sight that greeted him.

"What the...?"

Sherlock tried to cry out, he struggled, pulling vainly at his bonds, and shaking the chair that kept him imprisoned from side to side. He moved his eyes towards Vern, hoping that John would see, that he would understand.

And he did. He realised. And he swung round.

Too late.

John was grabbed from behind, a rope tightening around his neck. He tried to fight, tried to focus on what was happening to him, focus on Sherlock, on anything. But, so quickly, he was finding it hard to breath. His air was being cut off so cruelly, so violently. He would pass out if this continued.

He was being pushed down, forced to his knees, by his unknown attacker. He was still being strangled. It hurt. Who was doing this? Was Sherlock there? Hadn't he seen him? He was aware of his hands being pinned behind his back, and he was being tied. He couldn't move, couldn't struggle.

Why was this happening?

At last, at long last, the pressure on his throat was easing. He took in big gulps of air, still so light headed and dizzy thanks to the ferocious attack. And now, here he was tied up and pinned down.

And terrified.

Vern stared down hungrily at his soon to be next victim. Perfect. So frightened, so helpless, so at his mercy. He was going to enjoy this.

He would put on a good show for his audience.

Vern looked up, smiling evilly at Sherlock.

Sherlock could feel his eyes watering. He could see John was trembling. He shook his head hopelessly at Vern. As if it would do any good.

"Sherlock?" John gasped out. "What?"

"Don't you worry, John." Vern told him, grabbing for him again, groping and stroking him through his clothes. "I'll take good care of you."

"No," the doctor whimpered. "Please, don't."

He wanted to shout for help, but he was too weak. Everything hurt, his whole body screaming in outrage at him. All he could do was lay there, useless, pathetic. He was going to be raped. Just like Sherlock.

And Sherlock was going to have to watch.

Vern tore John's head back by his hair, forcing him to look at Sherlock.

"You see him?" Vern taunted. "You want to know how much of a hero your fantastic Sherlock Holmes is? He lied to you, Dr. Watson! He left you open for an attack from me because he made this personal. Not me! He did it! He lied to you! This is all his fault! Look at him!"

Sherlock tossed his head once.

Vern, furious, shook John violently. "LIAR!"

John sobbed, and closed his eyes tightly.

He wouldn't listen. The bastard couldn't make him listen.

John gritted his teeth. He'd be strong. He wouldn't beg.

Vern scrambled for his belt buckle.

He wouldn't beg...

Suddenly, the door was flung open, and a flustered looking Lestrade rushed in. Vern snarled, leaped up, and moved backwards, pulling the stricken John Watson with him, the Jack knife now placed against John's bruised throat.

"Don't move, or I will kill him," Vern hissed to Lestrade.

Lestrade looked from the tied up Sherlock, to John, and then finally at the clearly very unstable man holding John hostage. The Inspector could see how desperate the situation was, and how much very real danger Dr. Watson was in, so he raised his hands, and stepped away from the door.

Vern chuckled. He began to drag John closer towards the exit. His grip on John's throat was so tight, he once again couldn't breath, and he clawed uselessly at his captor's hand. It did no good.

"You have nowhere to go," Lestrade told Vern calmly. "Let him go."

Vern laughed. He glanced at Sherlock, still bound and gagged, and watching him so intently.

"You think you've won?" Vern yelled. "I'm leaving here, and he's coming with me. Try to stop me, and I'll gut him like a fish. You got it?"

Suddenly, out of the blue, John threw himself back, throwing him and Vern into the wall. The moment's confusion was all Lestrade needed and he leaped at Vern, pushing him away from the bound doctor, and trying to bring the struggling man under control. In the melee, the Jack knife was knocked out of Vern's grasp and it went skidding along the carpet. Sherlock's eyes were fixed on that knife. If someone could get to it, they could free him.

And that's when he saw him. Anderson. Standing like a spare part in the doorway.

Sherlock yelled at him through his gag, and Anderson gazed back at him. Sherlock looked from Vern, to the knife, and back again.

By some miracle, Anderson understood.

He raced forwards, unnoticed by any one else in the room, thanks to the ongoing struggle between Lestrade and Vern. Anderson scooped up the knife, and then skidded to a halt in front of Sherlock. He stared down at the detective, the knife raised in his hand.

Sherlock stared back at him.

Hurry up, Anderson.

And then he dived behind Sherlock, and quickly cut through the ropes, setting the other man free. Sherlock didn't stand, or speak. He merely pulled open the drawer of the table beside him, and pulled out John's handy revolver.

Vern had apparently gained the upper hand. Lestrade was lying on his side, clutching his chest. Sherlock couldn't see how badly injured he was. He quickly looked at John. His best friend was crawling backwards, away from a now crazed looking Vern, who was reaching for John again. Whether to kill him, or whatever he had planned, Sherlock didn't care. The man had hurt John. There could only be one outcome.

Sherlock took a deep breath, aimed the revolver, and fired.

The bullet tore through the air, hitting Vern on the side of his head. Blood splattered everywhere. All over the walls, all over John and Lestrade. Vern had one second to look utterly shocked, and then, he was falling. He crashed down beside the Detective Inspector, and was dead before he hit the ground.

Lestrade reached out with a shaky hand, and felt for the man's pulse.

"He's dead," he announced, and then moved into a kneeling position, his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath, and digest what had just happened. John, meanwhile, trembling and still gasping due to his ill-treated throat, stared in amazement at Sherlock. He saw that his friend's hand was not even shaking, Sherlock was not in the least bit scared, or unnerved. And then, when he met John's gaze, the doctor was stunned to see that Sherlock was apparently completely calm.

As they watched each other, in that second, John knew. He knew, for absolute certain, that the butcher had not been lying to him. Sherlock may have just rid the world of not only John's would be attacker but also an evil murdering bastard, and all was fine and good with that. But, what was very clear, was that Sherlock had not just killed his rapist.

And that just left one very worrying question in John's mind.

If the Butcher did not rape Sherlock, then who did?

Glancing again, he saw his friend's gaze was locked on Anderson.

And then, he saw Sherlock, very slowly and carefully, almost subconsciously, aiming the gun in the direction of Anderson.

Time seemed to stop, for John.

He saw Anderson freeze, apparently startled, and then he turn deathly pale.

Just as John considered going to Sherlock, to tell him everything was okay and not to start waving guns around, John saw that Sherlock was actually pointing the gun at the police officer. He was staring at Anderson, as if he was no longer aware that there was anyone else in the room. He and Lestrade had, momentarily, been forgotten. John, for a split second, was sure that Sherlock was actually going to fire.

He saw Lestrade, out of the corner of his eye, taking a wary step towards Sherlock. He clearly had come to the same conclusion.

Sherlock was losing it.

That was when John noticed. Sherlock's eyes were glazed over, he seemed far away, as if he was in a trance. And his gun hand was trembling.

He's scared.

Scared of Anderson.

And, in that second, just as if a lightning bolt had crashed into him and making him see clearly for the first time, John knew.

He looked back, he remembered, and he knew.

How could he have been so stupid?

He heard Anderson telling him how afraid he had been, how much of an ordeal it had all been for him as well as Sherlock, and how sorry he was for not being able to help the other man during his attack...

He heard Lestrade telling him how Anderson had taken charge of the forensics himself, so that he could finally do some good...

He heard himself telling Anderson how brave he was, how proud they all were.

Suddenly, it all made sense. Horrific, but perfect, sense.

It was Anderson. Anderson had raped Sherlock.

Oh, my God.

TBC