After Sherlock had surrendered to the sweet kindness unconsciousness bought Moriarty had cut the signal, leaving the three men alone in the dawn.
"Well, I believe he handled that rather well." Mycroft stood and fumbled with the buttons on his vest.
John heard the words but hadn't been listening and continued to stare at the screen, slowly becoming fuzzy with the tears threatening to pool in his tired eyes. He had never felt a greater pain then seeing his best friend in so much agony and suffering. John knew it wasn't all due to the physical pain that the Detective had passed out unable to face the world. Sherlock was terrified; he had been trembling with the memories that had haunted his consciousness for all the years of his life in constant torment with his father and now Moriarty. The consulting Detective's true personality was bleeding through his indifferent mask, a new terrified child had replaced the mad but brilliant Man.
If he did get Sherlock back, would it still be his best friend? Or would it be the man he has always been but without the mask that covered his past?
The soldier has seen dead bodies, children and women blown to bits, had to hold limbs to his comrades dying bloody bodies. He has seen men gunned down before his eyes, some of the bullets had been from his barrel.
But the deteriorating state of his friend was much worse to witness.
He would be better off dead then to return paranoid and injured for life. John thought selfishly to himself then realized the severity of what he had said.
He would be better off dead.
Why was John suddenly becoming so evil?
He shook the disgusting thoughts from his mind and just thought about how he would be there for Sherlock.
If anything Sherlock needed his support more now than ever before and John would commit the rest of his life if he had to for his Best friend, he owed him that much after all Sherlock has done for him.
I was so alone and I owe you so much.
~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~
Sherlock woke where he had slipped under, still chained to the cold wall now freshly coated with his own blood.
God, did his back hurt! He didn't dare move and have the possibility of opening all the freshly broken skin on his back.
The Detective stilled his trembling body as best he could to hear if any other presence was in the room but his muscles quickly took over and began to shake again.
He had heard foreign breaths. His mind went into overdrive trying to deduce by what he had heard whether the breaths belonged to a man or woman, smoker or non, old or young.
But nerves began to rack his body even harder sending him into a fit similar to convulsions.
Why was his body betraying him so? What was the cause of these involuntary out bursts that shook him to the core?
Was it the pain of the injuries? Perhaps it was the temperature of the room plunging lower and lower to freezing? He could see his breath come out of his nostrils in short bursts of smoke.
But a much larger part of him knew it was out of pure fear. A gnawing primal fright that made him visibly ill, he swayed in his chains and felt his stomach working against itself threatening to force any contents out of him.
No. Stop it. Come on transport listen to me. Don't you fucking dare!
But his "transport" had bested him and he vomited blood violently, it ran down his chin and chest before dripping to the floor.
Then he lost entire control of his body, his eyes rolled back and he shook madly against his will.
He was in the middle of a seizure.
Then he felt something at his wrist.
Alex was working hastily to get him out of his shackles; once his wrists were untied he felt his bloody body be placed on the ground while his ankles were un-shackled.
His entire body tightened and jerked wildly and twice he felt his head collide with the floor before something soft was placed under it.
Hands rolled him onto his side to finish the seizure, most likely belonging to Alex.
Then as quickly as it had started, it had reduced to only slight twitching of the limbs and then stopped entirely. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to be able to get up and move on his own, to prove to himself he was in control now. But he was held to the icy ground tightly, Alex was much stronger than he had expected. Sherlock shakily attempted to push away but arms like iron fastened him to the floor.
"Stay still, Mr. Holmes. It's alright. You just had a seizure so you need to stay still and breathe." Alex stripped off his jacket and laid it on the Detective's shivering body and gently rubbed warmth back into the cold body.
Alex looked down at the older man and frowned as he watched the Detective's ribs pumping hard against the skin to breathe deeply. The first stage of hypothermia was setting in. The others shouldn't be back for session two for another hour or so. Alex felt pity pull at his heart; it wouldn't be much if he could clean up the man a bit, possibly warm him up.
But first he had to warm the freezing man, he gently picked up Sherlock, careful to avoid disturbing any of his burns or cuts. The Detective whimpered slightly but quickly clamped out the sound. Alex pulled Sherlock gently to a sitting position and let the man, cold as ice soak up his own body heat.
The curly head draped over Alex's shoulder awkwardly from the man being so much taller than him. Sherlock began to shiver even worse as he slowly slipped out of hypothermia and settled at a warmer body temperature, still not normal but better than where he was and soon enough the shivering slowly lessened. Alex gave the older man a nudge once he noticed he had his breathing under control
"Sir, I should get you cleaned up before they come back. Eh?" Sherlock nodded tiredly into the Man's shoulder making Alex grin before lifting the extremely tall man to his feet.
He let Sherlock wrap himself in his own too small jackets, still thinking about modesty.
Alex thought it necessary to get anything done that the Detective be comfortable so he fetched the pair of pants Eric had stripped form the man a few days ago.
"Here you go, sir." Alex held the pants up to the older man folded up tightly, he took it gratefully and leaned on the wall to slip them on while Alex turned around and placed a washcloth in the bucket of warm water. After struggling into his pants Sherlock leaned against the wall taking in deep breaths to calm his frazzled nerves. Alex helped the Detective limp over to the nearest chair, those ankle shackles did a number on his legs.
Alex wrung out the cloth and gently wiped the blood from Sherlock back, but no matter how softly he massaged at the blood the man couldn't help but grimace and tighten at the sudden pressure of his open wounds. He worked swiftly not wanting to waste a second; he wasn't even supposed to do this and knew he would be in a shit load of trouble. But this was wrong. No human shouldn't be treated like this.
Alex dipped the rag back into the water and wrung it out again, but instead of cleaning the Man's face and chest he handed the Detective the rag to do it himself. It may restore some feelings of control, and it had the desired effect. Sherlock smiled up at the short man, just for a small second before slipping behind his mask and cleaning his face and blood stained chest.
Sherlock had just wiped away the last bit on his brow before the assholes walked in.
There were many more handlers than usual, and filing in behind them all was the King Gay himself.
~~~~~~`o-o`~~~~~~
John had been helping the other Detective's figure out the possible whereabouts of Sherlock but was quickly interrupted when he heard a signal beep from his laptop.
"Mycroft! Hurry up! It's him!" The other Detective's quickly prepared their equipment to track the video. Mycroft had rushed to his side, taken a seat and waited for him to open the attachment, immediately Moriarty's ugly face came into view. John heard the men behind him furiously typing to find the location of the signal.
"Hello, boys!" John felt ill at hearing his voice. It had only been two hours since the last session, if they kept this up Sherlock wouldn't last a month, maybe a week at best.
"Well, here we are for another session of Sherlock's punishment; he hasn't taken it so well." Moriarty sucked at his teeth distastefully. Sherlock came into view, much worse than before and still not in a thread of clothing.
Blood seemed to flow from every part of him, rolling beads of red trailing down his ivory skin. Dark black and purple bruises and welts were rising visibly against the light skin. His eyes were duct taped shut just like his mouth. John's eyes took everything in and noticed something that made his blood run cold, long, deep scars ran down Sherlock's protruding naked hips. Scratches only fingernails could leave.
If they touched him again. John sore on everything he loved he would tear the universe to bits if he had to too find Moriarty and whoever inflicted those wounds and in those famous words.
Skiiiiinnn them.
Sherlock looked straight into the camera and at John with pleading desperate eyes that told stories of raw emotion.
The soldier felt his heart break for the pain his friend was in. But he was quickly sucked back to real time when Moriarty snatched Sherlock's face roughly and forced him to look into his eyes.
John didn't breathe a word, not wanting Sherlock to get beaten for it.
"You know John, one way to hurt someone best is not physically. It is emotionally or mentally. Or even better both!" He had been speaking to John but had still stared into Sherlock's raging eyes.
"And one of the emotions I like to play with in particular is embarrassment. Humiliation. Anything along those lines is absolute joy! So I am going to do something, to fully humiliate Mr. Holmes here. In. Front. Of. You."
The soldier flinched at those awful words followed by a maniac cackle.
And his heart stopped all together when tears fell down Sherlock's face.
Author's note: Please tell me what you think. Personally, I hate this chapter, I think I did terribly but that is to you readers to decide. I love your feedback so keep it coming! I want to thank all the reviews, favorites and followers. You guys rock! Too graphic? Still want more? Let me know, give me suggestions, advice, ideas, or tips? Whatever you feel like! I find it very difficult to write because I think of my stories like a movie. It feels weird to put it down in written form and get the emotions correct, so please tell me if I am making the transfer efficiently. Thank you all!
Love, Lizzie.