Chapter 12

"Not that way!" Sherlock whispered harshly, pulling Sebastian back by his forearm. "Two guards are pacing the hall. Look at the shadow." He pointed at the two figured shaped shadows cast on the wall. They moved, overlapping each other. Sebastian breathed out sharply, closing his eyes, back pressed against the wall. "On my go, run down that hallway." Sherlock pointed to the opposing hallway. "It's dark. No one is guarding that side yet. There should be a door on your right; it will lead to a balcony."

Sherlock looked at John. "Follow me."

John nodded.

Two brief moments later, Sherlock ordered Sebastian to go. He did, stealthily, and he managed not to get caught. "Alright, go." Sherlock said, gripping John's arm as he made his way to Sebastian.

He halted when he saw Sebastian kneeling, gun on the ground, hands up behind his head. Jim had a gun pointed to the back of his head, a cynical grin on his face. He glanced up at John and Sherlock, eyes darting to Sherlock's hold on John's arm, expression changing.

"Oh, Sherlock." Jim sighed, mockingly sad. "You've disappointed me."

"Please," Sherlock begged, blue eyes full of tears. He looked up at Jim pleadingly, kneeling before him. He was naked, fingers gripping at Jim's suit desperately. "please don't."

Jim's fixed gaze bored into Sherlock's eyes. "Politeness is a feeble form of self defense."

A heavy hand came down across Sherlock's face, emitting a cry from him. He didn't move his head, kept it to the side. The sting from the slap stimulated his face in an uncomfortable way. It felt like a thousand tiny, microscopic needles were probing his cheek. Jim grabbed his face, a grip so tight that it was definitely going to leave finger shaped bruises on Sherlock's face.

"I loved you." Jim spat through his teeth, his rage could be felt. "I took care of you. I kept you safe. I kept your dirty little secrets to myself." Jim moved closer, leaning down to Sherlock's face. "And you betray me. All for what?" He laughed, humorlessly. He released the grip he had on Sherlock's face and began combing his fingers through Sherlock's hair, lightly tugging on it, making Sherlock wince. He was waiting for the pain. "For nothing." He let go of Sherlock's hair, forcefully shoving him to the ground. "I loved you."

"Don't hurt him." Sherlock begged, breathing heavily. "Don't, don't hurt him."

"John Watson?" Jim asked, a dark edge to his tone. "Of course not."

"Don't," Sherlock kept pleading. "James..."

"I won't hurt him, Sherlock." Jim said. "I'll break him."

"You can't, please, he-he didn't..."

Jim grabbed Sherlock's neck with his left hand, squeezing. "Is he forcing you to say these things?" Jim asked. "Is he threatening you? Does he know something that I don't? Tell me, Sherlock. Make me understand." Jim took a step back. "Did you fuck him?"

Sherlock made a strangled noise, curling in on himself.

"Doesn't matter." Jim snorted, loosening his hold. "When I'm done with him, you won't be able to have him anymore."

"Don't hurt him." Sherlock gasped. "Please, James. James. I-I promise you, you-you..." Sherlock swallowed thickly, mouth dry, face wet. "Do whatever you want with me. Just-just don't touch him."

Jim stopped and stared at Sherlock thoughtfully for a few seconds. "I admire your bravery." He said. "But words don't do anything for me, Sherlock. I'm more of a," Jim leaned in again, expression dark and taunting. "hands-on type of guy."

And for a moment, Sherlock swore he saw a hint of guilt in Jim's eyes. Blinking a few times, he realized his expression was just as blank as it was before. His expression was unreadable, and it terrified him. He knew Jim. He was his partner for years. In fact, no one knew Jim as well as Sherlock did. And right now, kneeling before him, begging for his own life, he can see a man. A stranger. A man he used to love, a man he used to was to admire, who he wanted to impress. Now he felt nothing.

The connection they had had broken. Just two frayed ends of rope that used to be one.

"I really wished I didn't have to do this." Jim said, shaking his head. "You know how much I hate to get my hands dirty."

Sherlock, still slumped on the ground, lifted his head. "He didnothing wrong."

Jim held his hands behind his back, cocking his head to the side. He stared Sherlock down condescendingly. "Is that so?"

"I forced him, them." Sherlock muttered. "Th-they didn't do it out of their own free will."

Jim blinked, gritting his teeth. He looked away. "A crime's a crime, Sherlock." He walked out of the room, leaving Sherlock bloody, beaten on the floor.

Scratches decorated Sherlock's pale skin, soon to be joined by the irregular shapes of black and purple bruises. Nothing was broken, nothing was severely injured. But it was painful to move. Jim's hands were lethal weapons. He knew how to sprain, how to almost fracture a bone. He knew the weak spots of the human body, where to attack and how to attack it.

Sherlock remembered Jim's hands being soft, gentle, caressing. They only ever touched him endearingly, unless he did something that Jim didn't like. It was then when he realized that he was no longer protected. He needed to leave, needed to get Sebastian and John out of there, needed to find someplace safe to escape to.

But Sherlock's leg muscles were pulled. He'd need assistance just to stand up. And in another room not too far off, he knew that's where Sebastian and John were being held.

For the first time in a long time, as ridiculous and logically unlikely as it may seem, Sherlock prayed to God for a miracle.