Sherlock wanted to die.

His whole body ached, screaming at him in agony. The male released Sherlock, letting his bruised body hit the floor before dragging him to a dingy mattress in the corner. It was placed on a rickety bed frame, one that looked barely stable enough to hold the mattress, let alone Sherlock. The male shoved him onto the bed, then bound him tightly to the frame. Sherlock moaned as the pain shot through him, and fell silent when slapped again. The male grinned, then crossed the room to stand next to the young woman, wrapping an arm protectively around her waist, one hand splaying across her abdomen.

"Lovers. Not siblings," commented Sherlock weakly. The male glared at Sherlock.

"You're the brother to Rosie and Giles Clarke; your facial structures are similar. She's along for the ride, not sure why, but it could have something to do with the fact that she's eight… no, ten weeks pregnant." The woman glanced at the man, her façade falling, and Sherlock knew he'd found a weak spot.

"But it's not yours."

"What are we missing?" Hissed John, pacing Lestrade's office, wringing his hands nervously. Anderson ducked in, dropping two fat files on the desk, and disappeared again.

"Here are the files for Rosie and Giles. Hopefully they can shed some light on the situation," answered Greg quietly. He pulled a file towards himself and flipped it open, scanning through the pages of information. John took a seat on the other side of Greg's desk and pulled the other file to himself, flicking mindlessly through the pages.

"What the hell do you even expect to find in here?" Asked John, frustrated after a few seconds of reading. Greg flipped the file around and pointed to the fourth line down.

"This is what I was looking for. Rosie and Giles have a brother."

"Rupert Clarke," breathed John.

"I reckon the brother has everything to do with this. Let's grab Donovan and Anderson and let's go chat to him, find out his side of the story." Greg pulled on his jacket and grabbed his keys, indicating to Donovan and Anderson to follow him.

"Wait, Greg!" Called John. Greg stalled, glancing back at the army doctor.

"What?"

"Giles had a girlfriend, Georgina Williams, and it was noted in his file that she was visiting less, and that she was escorted off the grounds at one point because she was unwell," said John, reading from the guards notes.

"You think she might be involved?" Asked Greg.

"I think that something bigger than just getting revenge for a brother and sister being in jail is a little far-fetched. I think Giles found something out that they didn't intend for him to find out," said John.

"Like what? His little brother was shagging his girl?" Scoffed Donovan. Greg looked at her, the lights coming on inside his head.

"God. It makes sense. That's why he went on a killing spree after being under the radar for nearly two years," said Greg, finally understanding.

"Why?" Asked Anderson.

"He found out his girlfriend was pregnant with his brothers baby."

Sherlock had finally managed to doze off, before being awoken by the sound of singed flesh, letting out a muffled yelp as he realised he was being burnt with a crudely designed metal brand. Sherlock twisted, trying to pull away from the red hot metal, but didn't succeed; it only added to the pain from the open lashes on his back, and he wished he could scream with the agony it was causing him. He finally caught a good look at the man inflicting the pain on him, and realisation flooded through him.

"Rupert. You're Rupert," gasped Sherlock.

"Doesn't matter who I am, just matters that you get hurt. My brother was trying to get to you before you destroyed his plan, and I'm going to finish it," snarled Rupert, pressing the hot metal deeper against Sherlock's alabaster skin.

"John!" He screamed, desperate for some sort of relief. The brand was pulled away, and Rupert tossed it on the floor. He crossed to a cupboard, and wrenched open the doors. Rows of tools were situated there, each one gleaming in the light.

"Seems my brother kept my favourite knife. Looks like I'll get to use it on you," growled Rupert. He pulled out a short switchblade, tucking the folded knife into his pocket before unhook Sherlock from the bed.

"This won't take long," he whispered. He pulled the chains around his wrist again, suspending the lanky man from the ceiling. The woman had left the room, leaving Rupert with Sherlock.

"When I'm finished making you bleed, I want to find out if you're a virgin or not. She doesn't need to see that," he whispered, flecks of spittle dotting Sherlock's face. He pulled the knife out of his pocket, and plunged it upwards, shallow cuts into his stomach and torso; designed to hurt and to bleed a little, but not to make him bleed out.

One…

Two…

Three…

Four…

Sherlock quickly lost count, no longer screaming John's name, just screaming in case someone could hear him. Rupert laughed maniacally, and Sherlock realised there would be no way out of this for him. He could no longer stand on his own two legs, one of them broken. Rupert lowered him down low enough for himself to reach, and used the stained blade to cut Sherlock's tailored pants off him, the useless fabric pooling on the floor. Rupert dropped the blade on the floor, pulling Sherlock close.

"I'm going to enjoy leaving my mark on you." Before he could even prepare himself mentally, Rupert penetrated him, and Sherlock refused to let himself show the pain. He bit his bottom lip, drawing blood as Rupert continued to move inside him. His own body was betraying him, starting to enjoy the movement. He hated himself as their impending finish came closer, and Rupert increased his tempo, seeking his own finale.

"We could have so much," grunted Rupert, and as Sherlock's back arched in a mix of pain and pleasure, Rupert groaned, finding his release. He didn't flag though, continuing to pound into Sherlock. It was violent and messy, and Rupert started to become abusive, striking Sherlock with each thrust.

"Please John. Save me."

"They're not home. How are we supposed to find them if they're not home?" Exclaimed John, frustrated.

"We'll post a watch for now, see if they come back," said Lestrade, pulling out his phone to make the necessary phonecalls.

"Have you still got surveillance on the brother's house?" Asked John.

"No, we stopped after we brought them into custody," replied Greg.

"What if they're there?"

"Sherlock could have been under our noses all this time!" Exclaimed Greg, running back to the police cruiser. Donovan and Anderson were close behind, John glancing at his watch as he followed.

"How long has it been?" Asked Greg, throw the cruiser into reverse.

"Nearly six hours," responded John.

"We've got to get to the other side of town and hope that Rupert hasn't buried him yet," replied Greg, focusing on the traffic in front of him.

"Hang on Sherlock. We're coming."