A/N: Sherlock Whump chapter. Seriously, do not read if you are squeamish. I'll mark graphic portions that people might find really disturbing. Contained will be some severe Sherlock humiliation scenes, including forced feminization, forced cross-dressing, forced infantilism, and forced drug use. This guy is seriously messed up. I mean, I'm surprised at the fuckedupness of this villain (okay, so fuckedupness is my new word, I made it, there you go, all mine, and I like it).

But after all this Whump, we'll find out who Sherlock loves and then afterward, we'll get to some VERY FLUFFY feels when we hit the Johnlock sections. After the depths of the darkness, there will be light, and that light has the name of John. You know, three months ago, I was not aboard this ship. Now I will go down with it, *le sigh*.


Chapter Three: Daddy


Sally was sure there was a rave going on inside her skull. Really, flashing lights, thumping beats, all of it. Then she remembered. Oh shit. She had gotten the call to connect to Lestrade, so why was she sitting up instead of in a nice hospital bed? She swallowed and opened her eyes slowly, wincing as light entered her blinding. Damn, damn, damn, she thought as her eyes slowly adjusted to the influx of light. Finally, she managed to get them open and pulled an aching head up. First, where was she?

It was an open room, with high windows. Some sort of warehouse, then, she thought. She was secured to some sort of metal chair. She jangled and there was a cuff on each hand and one on each ankle. Okay, so no picking the locks this time, and no breaking the chair since it was metal. The cuffs were above crossbars, so no tipping the chair and slipping them off. Shit, this asshole thought of everything. She sighed and looked around to see if she could find Sherlock, but from what she could tell, she was alone. Not good. Sherlock was the only think keeping this bastard from killing her.

There was a crash nearby and she watched as the pudgy bastard was dragging a table into the room. She opted to stay quiet. Maybe he wouldn't realize she was awake. She watched with interest as he proceeded to dress the area, eerily similar to the way he'd dressed the other scenes. She knew it was too soon for him to kill, it took him a week of abuse before he got to that point, so that meant he played out these things with the victims multiple times? Before long, there sat a table with chairs, the table and chairs covered with lacy cloths. The table was dressed with a fine tea set and china plates. A platter with small cakes and biscuits sat in the center. He had a hotplate that he connected to some sort of portable generator that he was heating the teapot on. He had also, while she was out, pulled in a large recliner or rocker that had seen better days. He covered it with a sheet and dropped a crochet throw on it. All the time he set up, he hummed to himself.

He left and returned with a couple of the dolls and she watched as he arranged them in two of the seats. There was something eerie about the faceless dolls. He left again and this time she heard more noise, muffled yelling that she recognized as Sherlock's voice. The drugs must be wearing off again. She certainly hadn't been given anything, she thought morosely. If she had, her head wouldn't be splitting.

She looked up as the man brought a stumbling Sherlock into the room. His hands were secured behind his back, and the guy was dragging him by his upper arms. He was gagged this time, eyes wide and wild as he looked around him. He still wore the ridiculous outfit the guy had put him in before she left, but he appeared to have lost the shoes, his feet clad in ripped black socks. He was struggling against the man that held him, but his moves were still weak, so obviously, he was still drugged somewhat.

"Now, now, Doll, come now, I wish you wouldn't struggle so, I don't want you to get hurt," he said softly, but there was an edge to his voice. Something dangerous.

Before Sally could stop herself she yelled, "Sherlock, calm down before…"

Just then, the psycho bastard struck out with a booted foot and there was a loud crack that resounded, and Sherlock's eyes went wide, breath stuttering. She couldn't see exactly what he'd done, but she knew breaking bone when she heard it.

"Now, look what you made me do, lovely. Tsk, now," he said, sorrowful tinge to his voice as he dropped Sherlock into one of the dressed chairs.

He quickly wrapped rope around his lap, weaving it intricately around his legs, lap, waist and back, securing him to the chair. She could see him now, and his ankle was at an odd angle. Shit. That made escape attempts pretty much impossible. He reached up and removed the gag and Sally watched as he struggled with his breathing, glaring daggers at the guy.

"Daddy doesn't like to punish you, but you know I have to when you misbehave, Dolly," he said, looking at Sherlock with misty eyes. "It hurts me so much more than it hurts you!"

"Now, let's have some tea," he said suddenly with a grin and poured tea into the delicate cups.

Sally realized how thirsty she was, and could imagine with as much drugging Sherlock had taken he too would be dehydrated. She would give anything to have a cup of tea at that moment.

"Her," Sherlock croaked, his voice rough.

"Lovely, what do you mean?" he asked, frowning at Sherlock.

"Give her tea. M'b ehave." He kept his eyes on the table in front of him.

"Oh, you'll behave if I give her something to drink?" he said, grin spreading. Sherlock nodded.

He fixed a cup and brought it to Sally. It was warm, but not too hot to drink. He held it to her lips and Sally was not about to pass up any chance at hydration, so she drank it. He was surprisingly capable of feeding her the drink. She was grateful to Sherlock, but her gut clenched at the thought of what he'd have to do to "behave" for this guy.

"There now, I gave her a cuppa. Now, you'll drink your cuppa like a good doll?" he asked, getting a nod from Sherlock.

He approached and let him sip the drink, carefully avoiding spilling it. Sherlock swallowed, but his eyes darted about the room as he did so. Despite how much he hated the idea of doing what he said, Sally already had a concussion from the bastard, and he didn't want to see her die from dehydration before his eyes. He knew Mycroft had to be looking, but this bastard was careful. His stomach flipped though as he thought of the bodies of the three children. He was a sadist; it was obvious from the bodies. And the first day and he already had a broken ankle.

"Oh, you are such a dear. You know, I found the fact that your real daddy was so mean to you so sad, you know," he said, sipping his tea, holding a manila folder. Sherlock frowned and shook his head. It still had a large quantity of cotton in it.

"Dunno whatcha mean," he muttered.

"Oh, this, M gave me," he said, holding up the folder. "Ten years old, huh?"

Sherlock's head jerked up then. Sally could see the instant reaction, the tension shooting through his body, the spasms wracking his hands that were tied to his sides. "Where…did that come…" he stuttered, but Sally could tell it was more than just the after effects of the drug he'd been under.

"Tsk, I wouldn't have been so rough with you. Really. Not the first time, you'll see later. I'll be gentle and loving, and if you're good, you won't get hurt, I promise. But this, goodness me, what a mess you were. Two broken ribs, shattered orbital bone, see I wouldn't hurt your pretty face, lovely. Let's see. Surgery, too, he broke you but they fixed you. See I broke my other dolls, too. That's what happens when they're too young, that's what M said. That's why he told me to find you instead. You won't break…well, at least I hope not. But I'm ready this time. I kept a suture kit and ten blood bags, so if you break, I'll try to fix you. I'm not a doctor though, so might not work…" he seemed to be talking to himself.

He smiled and flipped pages again. "Oh, goodness, spent a week in the hospital, did you? Surgery is so hard on a child, especially that kind. How long were you off regular food?"

Sherlock glared at him but didn't say anything. "Now, Doll, you know what happens if you don't cooperate," he said, looking over at Sally. "And you said you'd behave. Now don't make me punish you for lying to me. You really don't want that."

"Three weeks," he said softly.

"There, Doll, was that so hard to tell Daddy?" he asked, leaning forward to give him another drink of tea. As embarrassing as it was, he took whatever he offered him.

"Now, what else…oh, your mom didn't leave your dad? How did that work? They let you go back to her too…" he mused. "Why's that?"

Sherlock's throat worked. These memories were supposed to be locked away, and now that his head was clearing up somewhat he really didn't want to talk. "M'brother moved us to a flat in London," he said quietly. "Money stopped it."

"Ah, so your daddy paid off everyone involved, did he? That's why M said this was so hard to get ahold of. No one knew what happened, did they?" he said, grinning at him. "Nothing public."

Sherlock nodded, and had a biscuit shoved into his mouth roughly. He nearly spit it back out but thought better of it. Better to play along and get what food he could. Before this, he'd already gone three days without eating because of the case.

"So tell me, lovely, what did that real daddy do to you?" he asked, leaning forward and placing elbows on the table. Sherlock's head snapped up and he shook his head.

"Please, I don wanna do this," he begged. "Don wanna, please," he almost moaned the words.

The man stood up and walked around to Sherlock to stand behind him. "You said you'd behave, and you aren't. That means I have to punish you for lying. I warned you once already, Doll."

Sherlock shook his head violently as he tied a gag back on him and walked away. There was a few tense moments and he came back with what Sally realized was a riding crop. Oh this wouldn't be good. Sherlock's eyes widened at the sight, more than a little aware of the damage a riding crop did. He had a syringe in the other hand and deftly injected Sherlock in the arm through the fabric of his dress. He blinked as his head started to fuzz but it wasn't as strong as whatever else he'd been using.

"Just a little hydrocodone, love, don't want you passing out during your punishment, but don't want you struggling too much. Now, this hurts me far more than you, but I have to be a good daddy, and take care of you, my lovely," he said and untied the ropes. Sherlock was free but his arms lacked the strength to move much.

He yanked him up from the chair and threw him down again on it, laying him over the seat. He pulled his hands, wrapping the rope around them and tying them to the chairs as his arms hung over, the chair seat digging painfully into his ribcage. He frowned, not sure how he ended up into this position. He looked up and saw Sally staring at him. He blinked several times, chewing against the gag for a minute until he felt the layered skirts and petticoats lifted and pinned to the back of the dress. When did that happen? He thought dully. He gasped as the bloomers were pulled off him roughly, cold air assaulting his legs and backside. That couldn't be good, he thought sluggishly. His mind was having trouble processing that when the first smack hit the back of his thigh.

Sally watched as he threw him down across the chair and secured him. She was positioned where he was now looking straight at her. She saw the confusion on his face as though he wasn't entirely sure what was going on as the man pulled off the black bloomers and tossed them to the side and pulled back with the crop, landing with a really loud, echoing smack, making Sherlock yelp and jerk against the robes holding him down. The sound was muffled by the gag. Again and again, and she had to look away. She counted at least twenty hits with the thing, all hard and loud in the open room. Then she heard a choked sound and turned back.

oooooooooooooooooooooooo GRAPHIC SCENE – SKIP if you are sensitive to triggers with noncon.

Sherlock's mind was a spinning world of stinging pain. He'd never realized exactly how much those damn things hurt. The pain had cleared out a lot of the cotton, and despite the dose of hydrocodone he'd given him, it still hurt. But perhaps that was just his resistance to drugs that did that. Finally, he stopped, and he felt like fire was burning across his buttocks and thighs. He felt the drip of blood down the back of his legs and knew the skin had been split with the violence of the attack. Aside from the initial yelp of surprise, though he'd managed to avoid giving him the pleasure of hearing him scream. He refused. He would not…then he choked thickly as he felt hands running across the searing flesh.

He wanted to ask what the hell he was doing now, but he didn't have to ask because at some base level he knew, he knew because this was so familiar, too familiar. Again, the choked sound escaped him through the gag as hands kneaded the bleeding flesh on his thighs. He shook his head then and tried to tell him to stop, but the hands didn't stop.

"Shh, I'll be gentle with you, I won't break you, I promise, I promise," he said, and he was leaning over him, breath heavy in his ear now. "I'm so sorry, I was going to wait, I really was, but I just can't, not with you so beautifully laid out…no, definitely can't wait…" he murmured, hands traveling up and down his back under the satiny dress and camisole.

He tried to escape to his mind palace, desperately, that place he'd crafted so he could run from sensation, from the world, but the doors were locked, and he knew it was either the drugs or the fear, but either way, the result was the same. He couldn't escape.

"Now, I want to hear you, Dolly, no one else can, and I told them I thought you'd scream, will you?" he muttered in his ear again, untying the cloth to fall out of his mouth. "Daddy will be so gentle, I'll even prepare you, I bet your other daddy didn't do that, did he? No, because he broke you. I can't let that happen," he said, and Sherlock choked back a cry when he was invaded by questing fingers, pushing and stretching, sending a burning sensation throughout his body that was somehow worse than the searing flesh on his thighs and buttocks.

"S-stop, please, n-no…" he begged, shaking his head. The position was awful; he had no support except under his ribcage, his head and shoulders dangled over the side, arms pulled down so his wrists were secured to the chair legs.

"Shh, I told you, I'll be gentle, see, I'm helping make it easier, aren't I?" he said softly. When there was no reply from Sherlock he scowled and jammed his fingers hard into him getting a yelp.

"I said, I'm making it easier, aren't I? Answer when I talk to you, Dolly, or Daddy will get very angry…" he said into his ear again.

"Yes!" he said quickly this time, tears finding their way from his watering eyes now.

"Now, look at that," he said, holding his hand in front of Sherlock's eyes now to see it was bloody. "You made me make you bleed already. Now that's not good, I promised to be gentle, and look…what…you…made…me…do."

Sherlock swallowed, half happy his hand was out of his body, half distressed at the edge to his voice. He couldn't predict him. Not at all. Even with full faculties, he was sure that this man was simply too insane for him to predict. "M'sorry, please, m'sorry!" he said finally, hoping to ease his sudden anger at him.

Sally was wide eyed. This guy was nuts. Completely and totally nuts. At Sherlock's apology his scowl faded and he smiled, running hands through Sherlock's hair, sending a shiver down her spine as the blood on his hand was spread through his hair.

"Good Dolly, good," he said softly, then there was movement and rustling, and Sherlock felt hands on his hips now, rubbing big circles on them slowly.

At first he wondered what he was doing, then he cried out, eyes rolling up at the sudden intrusion as he slammed into him, back arching as pain shot up his back and down into the very arches of his feet. He kept still, then, leaning over, fully seated into his body, rubbing his hands over Sherlock's satin covered back. He slumped down and whimpered, unable to control the sounds coming from him. The drugs had lowered his resistance, and while they dulled the intense pain, nowhere near enough. He shook his head as he began rocking against him, slow and his passage only eased by blood from the dry entry. Sherlock knew that it hadn't done much when he "prepared" him. That was a laugh. Sherlock knew the mechanics of this, even if he'd never actually participated in such things.

Desperately, he tried to keep his mind on those thoughts, thinking, but the pain, it just wouldn't leave his brain alone, and the memories were surging. Memories of someone else over him, pressed into a desk, wood biting into his stomach, legs too short to reach the floor, breath on his neck, just like this, but with the smell of stale bourbon. The same sensation, blood running down his legs, dripping, sending his head reeling with dizziness. There had been no drugs then, no and that was the day his mind palace was built, the first time, then more of a cellar, a place to lock himself, and now, here, the drugs denied him his escape. He wondered vaguely who was sobbing…then to his own horror he realized it was him.

Stinging and burning release came and he gagged violently, stomach recoiling at both current and remembered sensation. He felt awful as his body rejected the tea and biscuit he'd just eaten, eyes burning with hot tears. Before he knew it, his hands were free and he was being lifted upward. He felt the skirts falling back down over his bare backside and legs. Pain shot from his ankle as he tried to walk, but he was really being dragged toward a large chair closer to where Sally was tied. Oh, Sally, he'd forgotten about her. And he couldn't at the moment care, though. He was in too much pain.

"You are so light for your size, lovely, really," he said, dropping him painfully into the seat. Already, blood was soaking through the back of the red dress, and he knew why he had chosen red.

oooooooooooooooooooooo END GRAPHIC SCENE

Sally was having trouble breathing at the moment. She watched as he dropped him into the chair and then left, and she wanted to scream at him to get up, try to get out, but it didn't matter. His eyes were wide, and utterly vacant. With a broken ankle, there was no way, even without being brutally raped and drugged like he was, he wouldn't have been able to make it out of the place before he got back. She swallowed hard again, and he was back already, this time with a rolling table with a bowl on top. He pushed it over, and then took a cloth and began cleaning Sherlock's calves which were now stained heavily with blood. He shoved him over onto his side and Sally was staring into his eyes now.

He barely moved when he lifted the skirts and began cleaning the blood from underneath them, and she realized he had to be in shock, because his face was pale, even more than normal. At least he wasn't bleeding too much from what she could tell. He finished, and pushed the table away, and returned, syringe in hand. He lifted the skirts and injected him somewhere under them, then disappeared again, and the tension seemed to drain out of Sherlock's body as whatever drug it was took effect.

He came back and slid into the chair, grabbing Sherlock and pulling him into his lap, laying his head into the crook of his shoulder like he was some sort of child in need of comforting. Sherlock's eyes were wide and pupils completely dilated. She wondered if he was even aware of his surroundings anymore.

"There, now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" he whispered, petting his hair with disgusting gentleness. "Next time, you'll tell me what I ask, won't you? Because I can't resist you like that. I'm afraid punishment will mean I'll have to have you again, do you understand? Though I was rougher than I should have been, and for that I'm sorry. I'd planned to have you more ready before I did that, but you brought it on yourself, lovely. Yes, all your fault for being a bad dolly. You'll remember next time, yes, won't you?"

Sally caught the shudder that shook his body and she hoped that Lestrade and the others were close to finding them. She wasn't sure how much she could take before she broke, let alone what he was going through. Eventually, it seemed Sherlock fell asleep. He stood up and came back with a set of shackles, attaching them to his wrists and ankles, and then clipping them to something on the other side of the chair. He leaned the chair back, and let Sherlock somewhat lie down, and then lay a blanket over him with the gentleness of a parent. It was quite sick, actually, and she felt her own stomach recoil. He moved around, cleaning the area of where Sherlock had vomited and where blood had dripped onto the concrete.

She found herself, splitting headache and all, nodding off at some point. The exhaustion was too much. She awoke sometime after full dark, the only light from dim moon and starlight coming in through he too high windows. She blinked wearily wondering what had woken her but then she heard it. It was Sherlock's voice, in his sleep, caught in some sort of nightmare. Her heart clenched at the pitifully small noises he was making.

"No…don't…m'sorry Father…no…hurts. Mummy, hurts…can't…don't touch me!" he shouted the last and jolted awake, eyes blinking hazily in the room. She kept quiet, though as he came to full wakefulness.

He tried to sit and hissed in obvious pain. He pulled at the shackles and made another pained noise as he pulled on his foot. He groaned and flopped back into the cushions for a moment before he started to panic, jerking on the shackles suddenly, breath speeding up.

"Sherlock!" she called, but he seemed to be lost in whatever was in his head. "Sherlock, calm down, you're panicking, and you're going to hurt yourself worse! Breathe, in and out, slowly!" she said.

He seemed to somehow hear her and he forced his body to stop the reaction. He laid there a long moment breathing heavily, fighting back the demons in his mind.

"You okay, Sally?" he said finally. "He…he hasn't hurt you?"

Sally swallowed hard. "No, I'm fine, Sherlock, just a bit of a headache, you know. But I'm okay."

He sighed deeply, yanking uselessly on the shackle again. "Good. Good for sumthin," he muttered, blinking slowly. "Mah head fulla cotton, can't think," he muttered. "Why'd I do this by choice before? I dunno what to do…dammit…I never…I can't…John," he moaned the last word.

Sally could see he was slipping. "Hey, Sherlock, tell me about John, then, okay? I shouldn't sleep with the concussion I have, right? So you gotta help me out."

His face seemed to clear of the intense pain. "John…saved me. No one else knows that," he said softly. "Not even John, I can't tell him that. He…he makes me feel when no one else can. How does he do that? My only friend…best friend…" He smiled softly, his eyes looking far away, but at least not as vacant as they were. "Think I love him, but don wanna mess it up, mess ever'thing up anyway. Push him 'way so don get messed up too. So toxic, like my spearments. Such a mess…all over the flat, but he stays, why does he stay? Gotta skull sitting there and John stays anyway…shoot the wall, and John stays…oh John…" he was about to slip in a sleep again then his eyes snapped open. "John, no, all chance, no one wants me after this…I'm used up again, so much…he'll be disgusted with me. I shoulda seen it, shoulda known, but I missed it. How could I miss it so bad. Just a fraud, like they say, all a fraud, I'm nothin', nothin', it's all an act…useless like he said…useless and broken…"

Sally sighed as he whispered the last, his body finally giving in to the mix of exhaustion, shock, and drugs. She blinked back her own tears. Good God, this is the person she just assumed was some sort of automaton. She didn't even consider that he had feelings of any sort. He was in love with John Watson, and couldn't even admit it to himself. She huffed a sigh and leaned her head back, stomach loudly protesting the lack of food. As she faded into sleep, she couldn't get Sherlock's eyes out of her mind, and through a fitful sleep, everything replayed again and again.

She awoke with a start as there was a loud noise somewhere nearby. Her muddled mind couldn't place it for a moment, and then she realized it was a shriek. She blinked her eyes blearily and closed them again. She didn't want to watch this. Not again.

He'd been asleep, fitfully, but asleep nonetheless. The drugs had worn off sometime during the night, and he was left with a dull ache all throughout his body. He recognized the feelings all too well, coming down off opiates like that. And his body was already screaming at him for more. He groaned and his eyes fluttered open only to be met with the dark beady eyes of his captor. He was kneeling beside the chair he was laid out on staring at him.

"Morning, my sweet Dolly. Did you sleep well?" he said with a soft smile, as though it was perfectly normal to hold someone captive in shackles.

"No," he answered truthfully, brows knitting together.

"He warned me that you were quite unpleasant when you weren't drugged," he said, still pleasantly.

"I want to be let go. My brother will find you and he'll make you disappear," Sherlock said quietly, and realized, he'd never in his entire life wanted Mycroft to do something so badly before. He never threatened people with Mycroft. He never asked anything of Mycroft. But right now, if he could, he'd turn away while Mycroft dealt with him. And he would hope he would do so in the most painful way possible.

"Yes, that brother of yours. Well don't worry. I've been assured he's off on wild goose chases arranged by our friendly consulting criminal," he said lightly.

Sherlock couldn't help the tears that started to form, but he fought them back. He did not cry. He would gladly disregard the embarrassing episode the day before as being the drugs. He did not sob like a broken child. Never.

"Yes, he's quite helpful. And all he wants is the videos," he grinned and Sherlock paled.

"What?" he said softly.

"Oh yes, Dolly, I forgot to tell you. For his help, he asked to have copies of the videos sent to him. I just sent him yesterday's recording. I hope he likes it. Oh! I sent it to your John too. I thought he might like to see you, since he's all you mutter about in your sleep," he said, patting his head.

Sherlock's stomach threatened to rebel again. If it was bad enough that he be seen like this by Sally…but…no. He looked around frantically and to his horror, attached to a generator up in the wall nearby was a camera, the red light indicating it was indeed recording. He followed the cord to a laptop that sat on a cart beside it, and his stomach dropped.

"No," he moaned. "No, don't…damn you!" he snarled, scowling at the man.

Then, he watched as that change happened again. His face went from perfectly pleasant to pinched in fury. His hand was moving before Sherlock knew it and backhanded him hard enough that he tasted blood filling his mouth.

"What a dirty mouth! I will not put up with such language, Dolly. Not at all. Now I have to punish you again. You are turning out to need more discipline than I thought. You know what that means, don't you?" he said, standing.

000000000000000 GRAPHIC TORTURE/NONCON SCENE Skip if you want 00000000000000000000

He turned and left Sherlock shaking violently. Was he going to use the crop on him again? He hoped not, his skin had barely scabbed over from the night before. He hated this. He couldn't predict anything about him! He was completely random, and it seemed different things triggered him at different points. Instead of the crop, though, he came back pushing one of those small steel tables. Sherlock frowned and saw there was something on top of it, and it smelled…hot.

"Now, now, for such a mouth, we just have to make sure you can't use it like that again," he said, holding up a metal spatula from what looked to be a hotplate.

Sherlock was confused until he reached out and wrenched his jaw open. His eyes went wide as he shoved the hot metal into his mouth and slammed it shut on top of it. Sherlock had never shrieked in his life. He did then as the metal seared into his tongue, cheeks and the roof of his mouth. Even with his mouth closed, it was loud, and he saw from the corner of his eye that Sally had jerked awake and was staring wide eyed at him as he struggled against the hands that were holding his mouth shut around the implement. He felt the metal sides biting into the flesh of his cheeks and he was sure that he'd never be able to feel his tongue again. Then he let go and yanked it roughly out of his mouth, leaving the fire behind.

He whimpered, he couldn't' help it. It felt like his tongue was still on fire as he let his mouth hang open, trying to suck cooling air over the burning flesh in his mouth. Tears were now pouring freely from his eyes as blood and saliva dripped from his mouth.

"Now, now, that was a naughty Dolly, wasn't it? Now, are you going to say such things again?" he said. Sherlock stared at him with watering eyes. How did he expect him to answer? He shook his head, but was met with another backhanded slap. "Speak when I ask you something!" he screamed.

"No…" he managed with some difficulty because his tongue was starting to swell. "No."

He leaned forward, his face a mask of fury. "No what?"

Sherlock's brain had short circuited and he had no idea what he wanted, so he just stared at him for a moment until he felt his hand yanked up hard against the shackles. He had turned at some point and grabbed the hotplate, and while it was unplugged from the generator (seriously, how many generators did this psycho bastard have? That was at least three so far.), he could still see the element was red. His eyes went wide.

"No, what?" he asked again, and Sherlock felt his brain scrambling for the answer.

"Dunt know!" he cried around his swollen tongue.

He shoved the plate under his left hand and pressed it to the hot metal and Sherlock did screech then, eyes wide and thrashing against him. "No, Daddy," he said softly, the fury fading and the loving mask slipping back. "No, Daddy, and I'll stop your punishment, Dolly."

"No, D-duh-duh!" he practically screamed around his tongue, barely able to make the words come out.

His hand was pulled up, and he swore there was skin left behind, and the plate sat down with a clang. Sherlock's breathing was rapid and he was on verge of hyperventilating. "Now, see that? Look what you made me do, you naughty thing, you!" he screamed, slapping him hard across the face again. "I was trying to be nice, and look what you made me do!"

Sherlock was trying to become as small as possible, pulling back into the chair as far as he could, away from the rage roiling off his captor. "You did this!" he yelled as he pulled his head up by the hair as far as the shackles would allow. "YOU did this, not me, do you understand? Answer me!" he screamed in his face, spittle flying as he yelled.

"Yeth! Yeth, Duhday!" he said, eyes pouring more tears despite his mental protest against it. They just wouldn't stop. His hand felt like it was going to start burning and set the rest of him on fire, and he thought he could handle pain. He could feel the slotted patter on his tongue where the spatula had left its mark, the sides of his cheeks feeling like knives had cut through them. He was heaving breaths now, but it didn't seem enough air was getting there.

He dropped him suddenly and smiled gently. "There, that's a good Dolly. Now, I'll go get you some medicine to make you feel better, then I'll show you how much I still love you, even though you've been such a naughty thing this morning already."

Sherlock rolled his eyes wearily to see Sally staring at him. His mouth was still open, tongue swollen thickly between his lips and he still felt something dripping down from his mouth, whether blood or saliva, he didn't know, and at the moment he didn't care. He jerked when he felt the shirts pulled up and the pinch of a needle entering the flesh of his buttocks. The cooling relief washed over him, but it wasn't the mind numbing one. No, this was the milder one he used.

Then hands again. His eyes went wide as he felt him slide behind him in the chair. He was laying on his side still, hands pulled tight with the shackles and chains over the side. He shook his head as he wrapped his hands around his chest and hugged him, almost lovingly. But then a hand was sliding up and down on his hip again and he tried to jerk away, eyes wide.

"Easy, lovely. I told you I'll show you how much I love you, even when you're so naughty that I have to punish you…" he breathed into his ear and he saw Sally close her eyes and look away. He silently thanked her for that.

"Puhls," he said. "Nah, nah mah," he begged, but it didn't matter, he was biting now at the lace on his throat, and then it was being ripped open, and there were teeth biting into the tendons there, leaving bloody marks.

He nearly choked on his tongue as he felt him probing his body again, pulling away, fighting when there was nowhere to go. The hands froze, fingers buried inside him still and there was hot breath on his ear.

"Dolly, if punishing you for being naughty doesn't work, I'll punish her. Do you understand? Do you want me to make you watch me punish her like this?" he said, roughly forcing four fingers into him well past the third knuckle, making him arch away from him with a sharp whine. He shook his head, his voice completely absent now.

He stayed still as he moved upward and moved his leg upward and slid into him, and all Sherlock could do was close his eyes, and again, found his mind palace blocked to him. He wept then, he couldn't do anything else. And again, he found himself retching over the side of the chair when he was done and as he cleaned him up with the water again. He stared ahead, eyes open and vacant.

oooooooooooooooooooooo END GRAPHIC SCENE

"You look pale, lovely. I think I should give you a little blood, so I'll set it up," he said, gently petting Sherlock's head, ignoring the flinching as he touched him. "I'm sorry, I've broken you a little, it seems. Sorry, I just…I just can't control myself, you know…I'm sorry, so sorry. But I'm ready this time. I have enough blood for this."

Sally watched with horror as he hooked up an IV and put a blood bag onto it to transfuse him. Her stomach roiled. He expected this. He expected to make him bleed so much he had to actually give him blood. She frowned and realized exactly how wet looking the chair Sherlock laid on was, and wondered if that was all blood, or if it was wet from the water when he cleaned him.

"You're going to kill him like that," she said suddenly. "You can't keep this up…he's going to die."

He turned toward her and smiled. "You should hope he doesn't, because the moment he does, I plan on shooting you."

He turned and left, leaving Sally with her thoughts. She turned and looked at the camera. It had a view of everything in the room, and her stomach roiled again because she could do nothing.