Emblazoned
CHAPTER TWO
Sherlock awoke. He immediately made several observations.
Blind folded. Gagged.
Cold atmosphere, hard damp ground. Concrete. Dead air, smell of mildew. Warehouse.
He tried to move.
Arms behind me. Bound at the wrists. Several sore areas. Ribs. Head.
He knew what this was.
Kidnapped. The van. Four men.
Backfired twice.
Approaching us.
One man spoke. Said his name was Edg-
Edgar Merchant.
Serial rapist, murderer.
He felt a surge of panic burst through his being before he tried to calm himself, searching for logic. Then he heard a voice.
"Sherlock?"
John.
"Sherlock it's John, hang on."
He felt John's hands on his face, taking off the blindfold and then the gag in his mouth. He choked.
"You alright?" John asked. Sherlock blinked rapidly to regain focus. He felt disoriented.
"Why didn't you have a blind fold?"
"I don't know. I was out cold."
"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked as John worked at trying to untie the complex knot that held Sherlock's wrists together. The rope rubbed against his skin and scraped uncomfortably.
"I'm fine," John said. He grunted frustratedly. "I can't untie this knot."
"What kind is it?"
"Sherlock I don't know."
"Damn. I wish I could look."
John helped him sit up. As Sherlock studied the category of difficult knots he had stored in his mind, John spoke in the echoey room.
"Any idea where we might be?" he asked. Sherlock brought himself back into the world and sighed. He looked around.
"Some kind of abandoned warehouse or factory site, it seems," he said. "Very unoriginal." He felt dizzy. Discombobulated.
"You don't like it?" came a voice from the other end of the large room. Sherlock's eyes snapped towards the silhouette in the open door, and John sprang to his feet defensively. The figure approached, followed by three other hulking figures.
"Don't come any closer," John warned, reaching behind him to retrieve his gun. Sherlock, with some difficulty, stood and assumed a combative stance next to John.
"Boys, boys!" said the massive tank of a man that stood before them. He raised his hands. "No need to tussle! Doctor Watson, this is no place for a firearm!"
"I disagree," John said, holding the gun steady. The man came into the blinking light. He was a giant of a creature, with arms like tree branches and of staggering height and build. The other three emerged behind him, surrounding the two clearly smaller men. Sherlock observed.
Four men. Very large. One we've seen before. None under 200 cm, 98 kg, easily. Well built, working. Middle-aged or younger. Two have combat training. Three with guns, two with knives, one with some long object-crowbar?-hidden in jacket.
"No place for a firearm, and yet three of your men are obviously carrying," Sherlock spat cleverly. "Not very fair, now, is it?"
The largest man let out a raspy chuckle.
"They did say you were good, Mr. Holmes," he said. He took a step towards them, and John braced himself. He put a hand behind him, to indicate for Sherlock to stand back.
Instinctive precautionary measure. Safety.
Sherlock staggered slightly.
"Don't move, or I'll shoot," John said. Sherlock looked at him. His eyes were locked on the man, hands steady, completely straight.
"Easy now, big boy," the man said. "No need for that. And besides, you couldn't shoot me if you wanted to."
"Seems like you and I don't seem to agree on much, do we?" John said, his voice monotonous. At any given moment, his finger would pull the trigger in a flash and one of the four men would be dead. Instantly. Sherlock flicked his eyes to the man in front of them.
"Who are you?" he asked quietly. John kept his eyes on the man. There was a pause.
"Answer him!" John said loudly. Echoes. Sherlock started a bit. The volume of John's voice made his ears ring and his head throb. He'd taken a blow, he knew, and a major headache was soon to set in.
"You know me," the man said calmly. He stared directly at Sherlock. "Don't you, Mr. Holmes?"
Sherlock narrowed his eyes.
"Edgar Merchant."
The man smiled.
"But of course," he said. "And Doctor Watson, your gun isn't loaded."
"Like hell it isn't," John sneered. "I said don't move."
Merchant held his arms out.
"Shoot me, then, Doctor," he said. He took another step forward, and the other three men also approached.
John flinched for one moment before he pulled the trigger.
Click.
"No..." John breathed. Sherlock swallowed.
"You really don't think we'd let you parade around our place with a loaded gun! You're our very special guests, you two!" Merchant said. His three other goonies began to close in on them. "We wouldn't want any trouble..."
As the men drew closer, inch by inch, John assumed a fighting stance and glanced back at Sherlock. Sherlock nodded. If they had to fight, they had to fight. And they would fight like hell.
John was the first to move. He pounced at the massive Edgar Merchant in front of him and strung his muscular arms around the larger man's neck. It barely phased Merchant as he brought John down with one swift blow from his right hook. Sherlock tried to swipe a low kick to one of the men closer to him, but his foot his a hard shin and he recoiled as the man he attacked advanced on him.
Before either of them had a chance to think, they were both pinned down by three giant men, John under two and Sherlock under one.
"You two put up a nice fight," Merchant said. He swiped a hand across his forehead theatrically. "And I'm sorry to say, Doctor Watson, but you're really not our guest of honour tonight."
"What do you want with us?" Sherlock growled from under the enourmous weight of the man. Merchant knelt down and smiled in Sherlock's face.
"You, Mr. Holmes," he said sinisterly. "We just want you. We want to teach you a bit of a lesson. Show you what our line of work is like."
Sherlock struggled, but he was weak and he began to feel sick as the head injury took a toll on his strength.
"Fortunately, though," Merchant said, standing. He went to a further corner of the room and brought a chair to one of the two men holding John. "Your friend has the pleasure of watching the festivities tonight."
The two men, with some amount of struggle, managed to tie John to the chair securely with rope and one man drew his gun.
Merchant nodded as the other man on top of Sherlock picked him up and held him, his arms held fast behind his back. He tried to move.
Futile.
"Jakob," Merchant said to the man near John. "Please shoot Doctor Watson in the head if Mr. Holmes tries anything."
Sherlock's eyes darted to John.
Worry. Confusion. Fear.
He swallowed and looked back at Merchant.
"Don't listen to him, Sherlock!" John growled. Sherlock ignored him, focusing all his attention on Edgar Merchant. He suddenly began to feel very afraid.
"Sherlock Holmes," Merchant said, drawing very close to Sherlock's face. Beads of sweat gathered on his pale forehead, clinging to his dark curls. His eyes searched Merchant's face. He wanted to deny it, he wanted to disprove the impending doom that stood before him in his mind, the only outcome, the bleak inferiority he'd be subjected to, the ominous foreboding he'd endure.
He would be a victim.
Panic.
Merchant clamped his colossal hand onto Sherlock's horrified face.
"You said we were boring," he seethed. "Well, we'll make sure you're more than entertained for this night, won't we, Mr. Holmes?"
Sherlock felt a shudder travel up his spine. His palms were moist, his mouth was dry, his whole body was rigid with fear. John watched helplessly from the chair, struggling and fighting until he felt exhausted.
"Sherlock! Sherlock!" he kept shouting. The man with the gun, Jakob, nudged the barrel against John's temple.
"Stop move," he said angrily in thick, Russian-accented English. "Or I shoot. You then your pretty friend."
John grunted and stared in terror as the three men near Sherlock pinned him still.
"What shall we do, then, boys?" Merchant asked his henchmen. "Feliks, Maxim?"
The two addressed men smiled. Feliks, the man holding Sherlock, breathed into his ear.
"So pretty," he said. Sherlock grunted, shaking his head. Maxim, the man that had helped tie down John, put his large hands on Sherlock's chest and grasped his white buttoned shirt, then tore it open. Buttons flew, Sherlock flinched, and the men chuckled.
"He's so frail when he's put in his place, isn't he boys?" Merchant taunted, standing directly in front of Sherlock. Sherlock's mind raced.
Escape. Move. Struggle. Bite. Thrash. Fight. Fight.
Everything he tried was useless. The men were too strong for his significantly smaller frame. Maxim traced a hulking finger down Sherlock's chest, and Sherlock shivered and closed his eyes.
"Be gentle now, Maxim," Merchant said. "He's a virgin."
Maxim gave Sherlock a toothy grin.
"My favourite," he said in a low, guttural tone. Sherlock gave a tiny whimper and squirmed as Maxim put his rough lips to his cool skin. A tongue emerged from those lips and traced a slimy path along Sherlock's collar bone, then down between his pectorals, along his bruised ribs, and reached his lower abdomen. Sherlock grunted and heaved. Touching was something Sherlock did not even remotely enjoy, and it was rare for even John to ever be able to get a brush or a hand on occasion. This was too much. It overloaded his senses. He remembered his brother.
"You'll be an eternal virgin, with your ways. I don't see what you find so horrifying about touching."
Sherlock felt knots forming in his stomach. He had never even considered going through a sexual encounter in his life, and he certainly had never prepared himself for something like this. What could he do? What could he say? How could he even begin to assess the situation if he'd had absolutely no experience in this?
Assess: overpowered-PANIC-focus!-overpowered. Three men. Clear intent-PANIC!-no, focus-PANIC-clear intent on-PANIC-stop.
Assess: overpowered by three men with clear intent on physical abuse.
Options: self defense-PANIC-dammit focus!-self defense proved futile.
Bargaining? Possible but unlikely to work.
Panic.
Senses impeding ability to concentrate-fingers-hands-rough-touching-stop!-panic-John please-touching-stop!
He couldn't think.
His mind raced.
He gave a small cry.
"Leave him alone!" John shouted. The echoes bounced off the walls, and Sherlock moaned as Maxim planted his meaty fingers underneath the seam of his pants and the waistband of his underwear. Sherlock gasped. Merchant stared, satisfied, edging Maxim to carry on with a sinister nod.
"No," Sherlock whispered. "Don't. Please. Anything you want. Anything. Information, freedom, anything. Please."
Merchant laughed.
Echoes. Touching.
Sherlock trembled as Maxim's hand submerged even more into his lower regions.
"We don't want anything, dear Sherlock Holmes," he said. "We just want you."
Search for possible motive: send a message, teach a less-lesson-stop- or obtain informa-panic!-touching-stop!
"Why?" Sherlock said painfully. John swallowed and wiggled in his restraints.
"Why not?" Merchant replied. "You're so pretty, Sherlock Holmes. You're brilliant, you're quick, but nothing compares to how nice you are to look at. And you're so adorably helpless, out of your element like this. Beautiful."
Touching. Confusion.
Maxim's hand was now completely inside Sherlock's pants, and Sherlock panted heavily as the fingers grew dangerously close to a nice thick patch of coarse curls.
"Please God," Sherlock ground out through clenched teeth, closing his eyes. "Don't do this. Please."
"Sherlock Holmes, reduced to begging. You know you've been dying to explore this..."
John had to look away, but Jakob grabbed his head and turned it towards Sherlock.
"You watch," he said. "Or you die."
John was helpless. He couldn't die. He couldn't leave Sherlock alone with these men. But he could do nothing else. He watched in agony.
"Sherlock," he whispered. "God no."
Fight. Fight.
Sherlock began to thrash about as Maxim removed his hand and began removing his pants. He kicked and growled and tried to break free. His head was whirling. His senses were meshing together. He had never felt such sheer panic. Before he could realize it, though, he felt a rush of cold as he was bared in front of these men, his pants and undergarments tossed aside. Merchant neared him with a smile.
"No! No!" Sherlock cried, kicking and screaming. Maxim grabbed his legs then, so hard he was sure he had been bruised, and Sherlock yelped as the man pressed his midsection, which was now also free of clothing, against his.
"Please! No!"
"Easy with him now. Poor thing's got no experience."
"Stop! Stop! Let me go! Let me go!"
Panic.
His struggling was haphazard, his chest heaving and his cries thickly coated with sobs. Tears poured from his eyes, his voice hoarse and cracking.
"For God's sake let him go!" John yelled.
It was all for naught.
Futile.
First it was Maxim, then it was Merchant, then they switched about and it was Feliks. Then Merchant forced Sherlock to his knees, hands and fingers gripping the matted head of damp curls, and they had each had him by the mouth.
Sherlock felt his body failing him as he continued to struggle, every time, desperately trying to escape the pain. He couldn't focus. His mind went blank. He just screamed. He cried for help, for John to make them stop. They kicked him, hit his face, had him again, then repeated. It seemed to go on forever, each time Sherlock getting weaker and weaker. He couldn't see straight. Blood and tears painted the picture of pain on his face. John cried helplessly for him. He didn't know what to do. Neither of them did.
Then it was done.
John's chest heaved and a grimace was his countenance. He didn't know if he could ever come to terms with what he'd just seen. This wasn't Afghanistan. This was his friend. His friend getting beaten and raped in front of him. And he was helpless.
"Well," Merchant said as Sherlock sank to the ground in a heap. "I think you've had enough for tonight, then, pretty Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock whimpered, shaking and crying helplessly.
"We'll be back then, alright?" Merchant said tauntingly. He took Sherlock's face in his hands and planted a scornful kiss on his lips.
"Gorgeous," he said. He stood, pointed to John and said without looking at him.
"Tell Lestrade that if he comes after us, we'll have to visit his pretty little consulting detective again. That'll be on his hands."
With that, the thee men left the room, Jakob cut John's restraints, and fled with the rest.
John scrambled out of his chair and ran over to Sherlock, who was trembling violently on the cold concrete ground, his eyes wide, crying uncontrollably.
"Sherlock," John said gently. He put a hand on his shoulder, and the shell of a man flinched before looking up to see John. The look of horror and embarrassment made a knot form in John's throat. He stroked his friend's tainted skin.
"It's alright, it's over now," he said calmly.
"John," Sherlock squeaked. "John..."
"It's ok. They're gone. You're safe."
Sherlock's eyes flicked around the room, as if to make sure John was telling the truth, and he looked back to John.
Assess...situation...traumatic...
"Take me home," he said pleadingly. "I just want to go home."
John swallowed and nodded.
"Let me get you out of these ropes."
John tried to ignore the blood and bruises around Sherlock's legs and midsection while he fumbled with the slightly loosened knot. The rope had worn the skin on Sherlock's wrists, and they'd made a rather nasty mark. John grimaced. After a long few minutes, he was able to undo the knot and Sherlock's arms curled around himself.
John looked around.
His friend's pants had been thrown in a corner, along with his coat, shoes, now mangled shirt, and undergarments. He winced at Sherlock's frigid frame on the ground before he stood and went over to the clothes. He grabbed Sherlock's coat and went into the pockets.
There.
He took out Sherlock's phone and dialed Lestrade's number with slightly trembling hands.
"DI Lestrade," came the raspy voice. "What are you doing calling me at this hour of night, Sherlock? I'm working-"
"It's John Watson. We need back up. And an ambulance. Now."
"Where?"
John looked around. Where were they?
"I...don't know where we are..."
"John, what's going on?" Lestrade was more alert now.
"We were kidnapped by Edgar Merchant and his gang. They took us to some abandoned warehouse. I've no idea where we are. But we need help."
"Where's Sherlock?"
John looked back at his friend. He took the coat and draped it over Sherlock's shuddering body.
"Can you trace this call?"
"Yeah, just stay on the line, I'm at the Yard now. Donavan! Trace Holmes' cell phone! Now!"
"Hurry."
"Is anyone hurt?"
John swallowed.
"Yes," he said quietly. "Please hurry Lestrade."
"Good God...don't tell me..."
"Just hurry."