-Specifically, for this chapter I've created my own section breaks because there are a LOT of them.

-As it turns out this chapter is probably just as bad, if not worse than, chapter 18, but the graphic section will be bookended with bolded breaks, so keep an eye out for those if you'd like to skip it (7th down). It does get a little intense so I am warning you all now.

-Big thanks to all my reviewers (DocRock06, yaonne-san, NightAssassin, KissingRain102, Druid Archer, ROSSELLA1, NerdPrincess07, and Illyria13…I think that's everyone, if not please kick me) and readers. This thing is almost over and your encouragement through out has kept me going. Here's to the New Year, closing books, and opening new ones.*

Chapter Twenty One—Blackened Pt. 1

Richard Harding leaned against the cool window, pressing his forehead and hands into the gritty surface of the dirty glass. His heart swelled somewhere in his chest and he breathed condensation onto the window. He watched as it gathered and began to drip down to the pane below. All was made ready. Nearly all of their supplies had been moved. And there was only one more crate to move. They would be gone before sunrise, and if all went according to plan, he would be rid of the extra baggage soon afterwards. He glanced at the celebratory bottle of wine by his feet and paused to think. Their departure depended on when Rousseau finished…he had time. So he left the window, leaving prints in his wake.

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"Tom? Tom Sawyer?"

Tom blearily opened his eyes to a stinging array of shadows and light. His head felt like someone had split it open. Even the slightest movement of it sent waves of nausea down to his stomach that couldn't be ignored. His body jerked into action, turning, getting stuck, held back as he retched himself empty. His arm ached at the awkward angle of the restraint and he moaned as he collapsed back on the mattress he just messed on. The strong stench brought him back after a few minutes of rest.

He opened his eyes and saw a small boy standing by the right side of his bed. The boy looked no older than ten and had a mop of brown hair on his little head. He was pale, his clothes were mussed with dirt, and his eyes were the most brilliant shade of green that Tom had ever thought he'd seen in his life. The boy didn't smile, but Tom thought that he seemed content in some way. He longed to reach out, to touch the little boy and satisfy his fears that he hadn't lost his mind.

"Who are you," Tom rasped.

"My name is Eli," the boy said.

"Eli," Tom whispered. "Eli…?" The name seemed so familiar, as if it were buried under memories from long ago, as if he'd always known this little boy and that he should know him.

"You have someone coming for you."

Those eyes…they looked so old and so young at the same time. How was this possible? How had this little boy gotten in? Didn't he know what was prowling around upstairs? Tom sobered a little and tried pulling on the restraints again, tearing open some cuts in the skin. But all he could care about was protecting the kid, getting him out of harms way, hiding him, something! He'd be damned if he was going to let this happen to someone else. No one deserved it.

"Kid," he groaned. "You can't be here…! N-no-you need to get out before-"

"We want what you never had."

Tom blinked and stopped struggling, his eyelids sluggish from the lack of energy. "…W-we?"

"All of us. We want what you never had."

He felt his brow crease in confusion. "What I…what didn' I e-ever-have?"

"Justice," Eli said.

Tom stared at the boy but he backed away, breaking eye contact. Tom called out to him when he saw the sadness, but the boy didn't stop. And in an instant it struck him that he didn't know this boy at all. The only thing he ever knew was his name. Seeing it on a page, in a room, not so long ago. The picture of the little boy with the same soft features lying in the grass, alone, and with a bullet in his head.

"Elijah…King."

The boy stopped and turned around, face expressionless. "They're coming. We need your voice."

And that was all he said before he was gone. Tom blinked furiously, shaking from the shock that he was either certifiably insane or that he had just seen a ghost. Seeing things was not a good sign...He yearned to return to the bliss he'd briefly known in his imagination, because that was surely better than seeing things that he wasn't purposefully trying to conjure up, but part of him knew that he wouldn't be able to return to his aunt after seeing what he had just seen. Did they really expect him to fight after everything he went through? Wasn't lying here after the fact painful enough? Now they wanted him to try and live, try and see this through? Who were they to ask that of him? But was what they went through any different? And hadn't he wanted a chance to make everything right?

This was his chance, then, wasn't it? But what good was he on his own? He needed help, and according to Eli he just needed to have a little faith. He tried hard not to let himself laugh at the idea.

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Jekyll fingered the bottle of serum in his pocket as they walked in small groups, distanced apart to avoid attention. He glanced at Mina across from him and studied her complexion, smiling to himself as Edward voiced the same conclusion.—She's ours again, Henry— He cleared his throat and lowered his voice as he spoke.

"I s-see you've decided."

Mina gave him a sad smile. "I am of more use in this form. And we have unfinished business that needs tending to. Death can wait."

Jekyll smirked and saw as Nemo gave him the signal from up ahead. He quickly ducked into an alleyway and brought out the bottle. "Quickly done now, Edward."

Hyde chuckled with anticipation. —Try not to scream too loud, Henry—

The serum burned on its way down his throat. The bottle fell from his fingers and he clamped a hand over his mouth, hunching as his body started to jerk in all directions. The thrill started to peak, and once it did, Henry had lost all control, falling into the nothing that had become Hyde's home.

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Smell, sound, sight, and sensation were in such sharp focus. Hard to breathe…take a breath without the pain. Gasping. Not enough air. Things expanding and contracting. Changing. Twisting. Popping. Scream to make the pain dull. Stopped as soon as it started. Deaf. Only for a moment. Heavy ringing. Eyes clenched shut. Liquid seeping from between the creases, reaching his nose, his parched lips. Clarity. And clear as day, morning that was coming. Mycroft is suddenly aware of himself and that he has just wept blood.

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Watson was beginning to think that leaving his cane back on the Captain's ship was not such a good idea. But he could ignore a little pain for a while longer, if it meant finding their missing agent and Holmes' brother alive. They hid across the street from their destination, each settled into position, ready to spring into action. It was clear that their enemies were still in the residence. One sat at a desk by an upstairs window. And another sat by a fire on the first floor. Although a similar situation would have screamed a trap to him, this, for whatever unnamable reason, did not.

"Go, Skinner," Quatermain commanded.

And the soft patter of feet leave them, crossing the street with a lock pick in hand. Watson glanced back at Sherlock who was watching intently. He reached out and clapped a hand on the detective's shoulder, grasping it hard. Sherlock didn't seem surprised by it and refused to tear his gaze away. Being a soldier, he knew the odds of finding their companions both alive and well. Although he was a fairly decent doctor he also knew that he would be horribly under-prepared for whatever fallout became of this raid.

"We will find him, Sherlock," Watson whispered, encouraging confidence in his friend but also desperately trying to find some for himself.

Holmes stayed silent.

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Skinner hurried across the street not really feeling the cold air whip past him. He glanced through the keyhole of the front door before picking it. Abandoned house, sparse furniture, dirt and whatever else kind of filth on the floors and stairs. Skinner inserted the pick as if it were incapable of producing a sound and set to work on the tumblers. As he made it past the first two his thoughts turned to Sawyer. His last memory of the boy was of that determined face of his. He wondered if he'd ever done anything that pushed the kid to do what he did. He didn't have an answer, so he did the next best thing. He prayed. Rodney Skinner started to pray.

I know you ain't takin' time wiv blokes like me, but you owe it to the kid to see 'im through. I know an innocent when I sees one. He didn' deserve what you threw him and 'e cer'ainly don' deserve this. You do what needs doin' 'cause people like me know you can fuck up jus' like us. Now make it right. Make. It. Right!

But he stopped cold in his tracks when he heard something God awful, something that made his insides drop out from beneath him. It startled him so badly that the pick snapped in his hands. If that wasn't proof that there wasn't someone watching out for them, Skinner didn't know what was. He could do nothing else but turn around to the group, helpless, and for the first time in his life, petrified that he had somehow just made a grave mistake.

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The distant sound of a shackle being released woke him up. He opened his eyes slowly, settling his gaze on the man who stood at the foot of his bed. Then his gaze lowered to his feet which were free of the restraints. Bloody cuts, darkening bruises, and angry red marks were left as reminders. But he ignored the sight and looked back up at Harding with hard-set eyes. It came as a bit of a shock to have cold water thrown in his face and over his body after the staring match they had.

Tom coughed and spluttered as he tried to shake the water out of his eyes. Although he started to shiver he managed a glare up at the bastard who did it. All Harding did was leer down at him as he tossed a pair of rumpled pants and a dirty shirt onto his chest. He circled around the bed and reached behind his head to release the restraints on his wrists. Tom couldn't help the flinch when the man got too close, but he did restrain himself from jumping at the man in blind anger when he was released.

"Time to go, Thomas," he said. "Now, get up."

Tom clamped his jaw shut, dragged his aching arms down to his sides and balled his hands into fists despite the pain and discomfort. "No," he hissed.

Harding whirled around and lunged at Tom. He managed to throw his arms up in time, but Harding batted the away as if they were an afterthought. Tom was grabbed by the remnants of his shirt and thrown across the cement floor. He grunted as he landed in a heap on his stomach. Almost immediately after he tried to get up he felt a strong kick in his side that took the wind out of him. He collapsed back to the floor but was shoved onto his back with a foot.

"Here I've come to clean up the mess that YOU MADE," Harding shouted. "I give you fresh clothes and release you and you DEFY ME?" He paused to laugh. "This is rich! I've clearly underestimated you, boy. You are as stubborn as a bloody wall."

He reached down, grabbed Tom's hands and dragged him across the floor back to the bed. Tom tried to struggle but wound up squirming instead. "Let go," he said. "Let go a me you son of a bitch!"

"Do try to sound more convincing, Thomas!"

Harding grabbed the pants he threw at Tom earlier and wrapped his wrists together, around a leg at the foot of the bed. "The hell do you want? You got what you wanted you sick fuck!"

"And what of you," Harding asked, leaning down.

"Let me go and-"

Harding grabbed Tom's face, palm closing over his mouth. "I'm having none of that you foolish little boy! Do you want to know why you scream?" Tom struggled but Harding kept him down. "Do you want to know why you feel pain instead of pleasure?"

Tom moaned through the hand covering his mouth, trying to find the resolve he gained not too long ago. He tried moving his legs but the pain in his lower half made movement nearly impossible. Harsh breaths came and went through his nose because the fear was not helping him. He needed to be smart about this and he needed to come up with something fast.

"I've been the foolish one," Harding said, trailing kisses along the length of Tom's jaw. "You need to understand. You need to know. There is a kind of thrill that goes along with it," he said, making his way down Tom's neck. The hand over his mouth loosened, but the fingers remained, gently trying to coax their way past his lips. Tom, however, kept his teeth firmly shut. "Of having someone at your mercy…"

Tom could feel him going down his chest, leaving a warm trail amidst the cold that had been poured over him. Cold or not the trembling in his body was starting to get to him. His skin, thanks to Harding, was more sensitive now, looking for warmth of any kind. And it was distracting him from finding a way out. But the touching needed to stop. This was worse than before. It wasn't rough and sudden like the first time, it was slow and careful, as if Harding were reminding him that he had all the time in the world to take as long as he wanted with him. Not for the first time did his mind scream out that this was wrong, that it shouldn't be happening, or that he should be able to do something…anything to make it stop!

He planted a foot and tried to shove the man off of him but searing pain erupted from between his legs. He silenced the brunt of the shout that almost broke free. Instead of control he got a cold sweat, a strong wave of disorientation, and tremors that weakened his rebellious thinking to practically nothing. Harding paused, resting his hands on Tom's hips.

"You need to stand a little pain to feel the pleasure. I didn't understand that at first. And no one else did until I tried to teach them. But with you I can see we need to do something different."

Tom looked down, confused and a little scared because he really had no idea what to make of this change in the man. What did he want? "What," Tom asked.

"You did very well the first time," Harding said, throwing the remnants of the torn pants off Tom's legs. "And I was careless earlier. But you need to learn."

"N-no, stop," Tom panted. "What? Learn what?"

"Love is nothing more than an appreciation for the flesh," he hissed, lowering his head. "And your walls of defense are just as weak as mine."

Harding grabbed Tom then, wrapping him in the firm embrace of his fingers. Immediately Tom started to protest, loudly at first. But as Harding started to stroke him in an agonizingly slow manner, Tom's protests started to die into whimpers of discomfort. He closed his eyes tight and tried to block it out but the man was there. No matter how much Tom wanted the League there to make it stop, because he simply didn't have the cards anymore, it wouldn't. Nothing had stopped the unthinkable before. What was to stop it now? The worst, though, was that the friction Harding was creating between Tom and his own hand generated heat, an odd and twisted form of comfort that Tom desperately tried to ignore.

And the worst part was that he was suddenly exposed to a different kind of heat too quick for him to process. Tom's eyes snapped open and shot down at the feeling of something hot and wet on him. He couldn't help the twitch and sudden jerk that his hips gave, which made it all the more humiliating. Harding simply smiled and moaned approval as he slipped his lips deeper around Tom. Any control or plan was quickly abandoned as he squirmed and prayed that Harding would stop. The moans of discomfort turned into sad wailings and pleas for his attacker to cease.

"You see? You want this just as much as I do. But I haven't even shown you the best part."

"No," Tom cried. "Please, no."

"Yes," Harding said, grabbing his chin and forcing the tearful boy to face him. "Yes, yes, yes. You will come for me, boy. That's the only way you'll understand what we are."

Harding lowered himself back down and Tom felt the hot wetness again, but this time with pressure, and before he could make another sound, a blinding pain shot through his body as he felt a finger invade the wounded space between his legs. What happened next was not out of choice. His body overruled his rebellious mind, which by this point had neared the limit of being tamed. It was mercy that he had been granted because he could no longer feel, only watch as a bystander. His body let loose a scream that tore his vocal cords to pieces.

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What they heard, though it hadn't been that loud, broke through the quiet of the pre-dawn morning. For Nemo, it brought up painful memories from a long long time past. In his minds eye he was running up the road to his home, sounds of gunshots echoing in the distance. There was no smoke, no damage done to his home. But the bodies of his family, of his children lying in the halls, on the ground, and in rooms that once held happy memories, had broken the foundation of his heart.

He left that day with nothing more than his own imaginings of how they died, what they had been doing, or whether they had suffered much. He heard their screams in his nightmares, calling out to him, as if he alone could stop the small army that it took to decimate his entire livelihood. This scream, by a young man who was just about to come into adulthood, brought back the horrible tension that had built up over the years. It validated everything his imagination had been plaguing him with, and would, no doubt, for years to come.

Quatermain tense in front of him and his hand holding the rifle steady shook as he turned around and gave Hyde the signal. Nemo didn't contradict the sudden change of plans. Seeing how the hunter's heart had been run through as his had was enough. They had waited long enough.

"It's t-too s-soon," Watson stuttered, half-heartedly. "What if-"

"I don't give a damn," Allan growled. "We're going in now! MOVE!"

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Howell sat with his back to the door when it was broken open. His laid his hands on the arms of the chair, out and open, surrendering his one chance he had left at living. All that mattered to him was living long enough to write to his family. There was no doubt in his mind that he'd go down for everything that man had done, but it was better than being stabbed in the back and left to die. Howell preferred to know when he was going to die. And Bromley's betrayal now had a different meaning for him. Both his arms were taken and twisted behind his back. Subsequently he was shoved, face-first into the crate that his feet had been resting on moments earlier.

"Where are they?" someone hissed in his ear.

"Base-ment," he said through gritted teeth, though before he was done speaking he was released.

He looked up to see four men descend into to the lower level and listened to the commotion upstairs. Then he realized that the front door was wide open. But then a weight settled between his shoulders, pushing him back down. And the voice in his other ear erased all thoughts of escape.

"You run, you die. You stay righ' where you are and I keep Hyde from rippin' you limb from limb."

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Hyde destroyed every door on the second floor landing, even the one that had been holding one of the missing scientists. Hyde stopped inside the doorway so Mina had to peer around him to see what had stopped him dead. Rousseau, nearly unrecognizable, lay slumped against the far wall, a knife plunged into his chest, his own hand curled around the hilt. The blood dripped from his mouth and though it made her very hungry, she was able to put it aside out of danger to herself and pure curiosity.

Rousseau wheezed as his eyes darkened, but he dragged his eyes up and beckoned to them. Mina stepped around Hyde, ignoring his growl is disproval, and approached the dying scientist. Through her own senses she could see Rousseau as the man he once was, before the experiments. The broken glass of a small vial littered his lap. He held out a second vial of clear liquid to her. She knelt and took it, fingering the glass and the heat that the contents produced. Her eyes widened when she realized what he had just given her.

"No'singk…like zis…shou-shouldt…live."

"You've found a cure," Mina whispered.

"Temp-orary-…Save…ze English-man. Not…not-not…late. Not. Find o-one…s-sa-ve…"

The scientist shuddered and gasped for breath. Mina knew he was on the brink of death, but did not pause to watch him slip away. She flew out of the room and was on the stairs when she heard what could only be described as a loud howl of pain. An older man, exactly how old or who she couldn't tell. But she still did not pause in her descent. It spurred her on because she refused to believe that she or they were too late for either Sawyer or Mycroft Holmes.

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Ahead of him, Sherlock jumped down the stairs, bounding past Quatermain and Nemo to the room that clearly held his brother. Watson spared a brief glance at the room with the open door that they passed and immediately wished he hadn't. He paused, frozen in place at the sight. But it was Holmes that focussed him, shouting at him to help with the locked door. Together they managed to break it open, but what lay at the end of the room was just as horrifying.

Sherlock stumbled forward, calling Mycroft's name, taking hold of his bloodied and clammy face. Seconds passed, and the stillness remained. And immediately the detective descended into a fit, shaking and mumbling. Watson ran to his friend, slipping in the mess of blood next to the body, but grabbing a hold of Holmes nonetheless. He reacted violently at his friend's touch and Watson fought hard to keep a firm hold of him. He knew he should check the body, but his mind refused to let him catalogue the validation of immense emotional pain that Sherlock was feeling. Abruptly, he managed to twist out of the doctor's hold and throw his back against the wall. He leaned into it but raked his hands through his hair before he clenched patches of it tight and howled to the heavens with anger, sadness, and regret.

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What does it take, for someone to believe in God? What does it take to shake that faith, to break it? And once it's broken is it beyond repair, too far below the surface to reach? Prayer was not something that came easy after so much time and heartache. It made things more difficult, harder to focus on. And prayer took time. It took effort and strength that some couldn't afford to waste.

Allan bounded down the rickety staircase into the dark basement with Nemo trailing behind. Holmes and Watson flew past them to the left, to one of the two doors that remained closed. Light from the coming morning was starting to seep through the dirty windows, but they didn't illuminate much. Through the open door on the right Allan could barely make out the legs of a body that was partially hidden by the dirty iron-framed bed. His body froze, momentarily, eyes fixed on the bloody and bruised ankles that stuck out.

Allan didn't need Nemo behind him to give him the push he needed. He went of his own accord, after the startling sound of Holmes and Watson breaking in the other door. The sight of the boy alone would have been enough to turn any remaining hair on his head white. But, thankfully, survival mode kicked in and before he knew it he had laid down his rifle and shrugged off his coat. His eyes watered but like the stubborn old man that he was, he pushed them back for another time. Fear was steadily building in his chest as he noticed the blank emotionless face, as if he didn't know they were there, that they had finally come for him.

"Tom," Allan choked out.

No response came. He threw the coat over the drenched boy to help preserve heat and whatever dignity remained for him. Allan couldn't help the hand that gravitated towards the far-too-warm cheek. He was afraid the boy wouldn't recognize him, flinch away, or go into a fit like he'd done before when he was sick, but none of that happened. Tom stayed perfectly still, but his eyes slowly closed, tears flowing as if through some broken dam.

Whether the grimace was from physical or emotional pain, Allan didn't know, but he did know that the boy needed a doctor, now. "You'll be alright, son," he said. "We've got you-We've got you now, I swear-"

The hunter wanted so much to just take the wounded boy in his arms and convince him that it was all over, but deep down in his gut he knew he couldn't do that because he'd be lying. Someone shouted in the next room over, reminding Allan that they already had a doctor with them, two once Hyde took his leave. And the boy needed one before anyone could think of moving him.

Allan's head whipped around, and just in time to warn Nemo as Harding sprung from the shadows behind the door with a lead pipe. The captain ducked and spun, kicking out. Harding stumbled but he recovered well enough to make another swipe with his weapon. Nemo missed the pipe by inches as he righted himself. His sword rung against the hilt as he pulled it out to block another strike.

Metal on metal clanged behind him as he turned his attention back to Tom. Allan's hands worked furiously to release the boy's. Once he did he threw the pants away and made a grab for his rifle. Nemo had gained the upperhand and hacked Harding's weapon to pieces. Allan turned around just in time to see Nemo deal a significant slash across the man's arm. He watched with a blooming of satisfaction as the man cried out, falling to the floor under Nemo's close blade. But the captain did not deal the fatal blow, and that made Allan see red. He would have sprung up and finished the job himself, but the red vanished when he heard something vaguely familiar and disturbingly new.

"No," Tom gasped, grabbing hold of Allan's knee, desperate. "Don' kill…Don't. Please!"

THIS CHAPTER…ugh. Darkest one yet and I had no idea I had that left in me. It's a little difficult to describe things when some are happening at the same time, which means you have to pick and choose between some things. The big question, I guess, is whether or not I actually just did that…But I refuse to spoil anything….but then again the act of refusing to spoil something does in retrospect spoil something…fuck. IGNORE ME.

I decided to do a little bit of a different take on things and just make it a collage of nearly every character. And it was fun, working in shorts like this because to me it feels a bit like a movie would. But anyway, one more chapter and an epilogue to go. I kind of can't believe that it's almost done. But then again I am anxious for Harding to get what's coming to him, and don't worry, the bastard will.

-Rainsaber

Ps. I would actually like to hear from everyone what you think about this chapter, so review if you can, please!