Disclaimer: I own nothing! I claim nothing! I'm just borrowing the characters for my own pleasure and the pleasure of whoever reads this!


Chapter Two

Trapped

Sherlock blinked. Once. Twice. His eyes shifted from pitch black to a dark blue green and back again between the blinks. He smirked. No, the thing, the creature inside him, smirked, an ugly, distorted form of the look Sherlock wore so well.

He examined himself, the new flesh and bone that concealed him. Strong, fit, intelligent. Not too intelligent, obviously.

Joints popped one by one as he settled into the skin. He rolled his shoulders and wrists, cracked the bones in his neck.

A near perfect specimen, one that pleased him greatly.

He'd already read the man's greatest fears, buried in the back of his mind. Surprisingly, he had no problem with murder. He didn't care about what happened to him, or who he killed or what he saw. His biggest fear, was that he would be left alone. That he would push away everyone who cared about him until there was no one left. Not even...

What's this?

Sherlock's face distorted into a manic grin. "So, the little human has tried to hide things." His voice was a mixture of gravel and the body's own. That would adjust as he settled into the skin.

He pulled up memories, names, almost like reading a book on how to destroy a person's - this person's - life.

The most important people, so easy.

John Watson. Retired army doctor. Once had a psychosomatic limp. Currently married to, ooh, an ex assassin who still had her claws. A little girl popped into his mind as well. Their daughter. Amelie. So young, sweet and innocent. This fool loved his god daughter so much.

Let's see if I can't give the man something to truly limp for. The wife and daughter would follow suit once his attack on John had been made.

Martha Hudson. Landlady with a very interesting past. The husband, he remembered. Currently burning exquisitely in hell. Abusive past. A few cruel words and actions, and she would break. Oh how he loved when the elderly suffered. Weak, pathetic old woman.

Gregory Lestrade.

Oh, A Detective Inspector for the NSY. A rough man, hard life. So much doubt in this man. this body fears in Lestrade finding out his crimes. A friend. A source of entertainment. Cases.

Best destroy that. Can't leave him with anything even remotely fun, after all.

So few people. It would be even more gratifying when he left his man a hated husk after destroying everything.

Wait.

A blink, and the dark blue eyes faded, revealing the true black.

Unusual. The mind was trying to hide something away from him.

When a body was possessed, the mind fell open like a book. This felt different, as though the pages had been glued together, hiding some of the contents.

It made him curious.

The seam where the seal had been made was messy. Done hastily. Even more intriguing.

He heard a blood curling scream echoing through the mind as he tore apart the bindings.

A slew of information came flooding forth. Most importantly, a name.

Molly Hooper. Pathologist at Bart's. Last encounter involved getting slapped. No further contact. Some interesting feelings and thoughts for this one. Not just a friend, but he tries so desperately hard to ignore. Several feelings are ignored. He had hoped that they would go away.

The one who matters most.

Poor, poor mortal. I'm going to destroy her and make you feel every second of her pain.

Sherlock - the creature controlling him - smirked as he heard another scream, desperate, beautiful.

"Leave her alone!"

As if he would listen.

The first thing then, was to destroy her. Everything else would fall into place.

Kind, sweet little Molly. I can't wait to see you bleed and scream and struggle until you've given up on everything. It will be so beautiful.

... ... ... ... ... ... ...

His mind Palace was in shambles when Sherlock finally awoke. He was trapped in his mind, in the house he had created. Any and all attempts to leave failed. But he could somehow feel his limbs moving without his permission, shifting and stirring.

His head pounded. Then he looked up, and saw a black smoke traveling along the ceiling. Forcing each of the doors open. His blood ran cold.

He tried to seal off certain sections. His friends, his family, nothing held. He couldn't control anything.

Even the door he'd kept sealed for months, since his last encounter with Molly, burst open, revealing so much before him. The apparitions he made to represent everyone in his life wandered, distorted and ugly in comparison to the light he tried to capture in each of them.

The one representing John scowled, his features set in hard lines. He glared whenever Sherlock asked for advice from him, much like he would from the true John Watson. Where his John would answer, help, this one just sneered, and turned from him.

The Lestrade of his palace looked disgusted, disappointed, almost murderous. He dared not go near him, and Lestrade guarded the corridors that contained his previous case files, as if barring him from any more investigations.

His mother and father were terrified of him. They hid themselves from his view, though he searched. He wasn't certain that they even remained within the walls of his palace anymore.

His brother just gave him a blank look, when he passed by the room that represented his office.

Redbeard cowered and snapped when he attempted to go to him for comfort. He left the dog alone and continued, a childhood ache of loss reopened.

Moriarty strolled close behind him, no longer chained in the deepest, darkest corners of his mind. He threw taunts and jibs at Sherlock as they walked. Redbeard let him pet him.

He was worried, when he couldn't find Molly. He thought that, like his parents, she was gone. Until one of Moriarty's quips alerted him of the truth.

"Oh, don't tell me you've figured out where she is. She's comfortable there, best room in the place."

Moriarty's cruel cackling followed Sherlock down the stairs.

She was in his room, chained, in the strait jacket, dirty, ragged, and terrified. She was cut and beaten and bruised, and as he entered, she cowered away from him and began to whimper softly.

A voice, gravelly and gruff, resounded above him.

Doesn't she looked beautiful?

Sherlock had no response.

Until that day, he would have told anyone who believed in heaven and hell and demons and gods that they were poor, gullible, excuses. Churches were wastes of space and priests were money grubbing, hypocritical men using their gullibility to line their pockets.

Now, he prayed to a God he wasn't certain he believed in that something would change, before the captivity and cruelty of his own mind destroyed him.


Whoopsie XD

Thanks so much for the reviews, MorbidByDefault, Rose of Zakarisz, Aquitaine85 , chibisiam, Zora Arian, GirlatTheRockShow182, Brytte Mystere, and Anna 'God Of Something.

And thanks to Liathwen for being a speedy beta XD

Until Next Time!