-REWRITTEN because I was greatly unsatisfied with the last draft. Hopefully you enjoy this one better, thank you!-

A Message for Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock shut the laptop when it was over, his eyes scratchy and tired, body exhausted. He uncurled from his body's position, joints aching, several limbs prickling with sleep at the sudden movements. His head was pounding, heart beating a ragged, worn, weary rhythm, vocal chords frozen, throat dry, save for the stone that had lodged itself there.

He stood, steadily putting on his coat. He tried his scarf, yanking it away when it felt constricting, hot, itchy and suffocating. He walked briskly down the hall, all surrounding noise whirling and sucking, blocking out anything else besides the white-noise. He stepped back to the bull-pen, wanting nothing, feeling nothing but numbness and cold radiating from the pieces of his broken heart.

"Sherlock!"

He stopped, rooted, swaying slightly at the sudden lack of motion. His nerves hummed, mind completely blank, nothing but what he'd just seen playing over and over and over again. "Did you learn anything?" Lestrade asked, snapping through his catatonic stupor.

"Nothing of use to you," he muttered, voice coming out in a rasp that echoed with his distance from them. Two more figures came through in the fog, familiar ones that sparked conditioned irritation.

"Something wrong, freak?" Donovan asked, smirking "Got a problem with someone messing with your sidekick? Or are you just upset someone has a one-up on you?"

Sherlock looked to Lestrade, meeting his eyes, both sharing a message filled of information that only few people were privy to. About him and John, their relationship, and whether he'd told his little "assistants" about it or not. It only took a few moments for him to understand it.

He didn't tell them. Wasn't expecting that, he thought with as much apathy to these three as he'd always felt.

"So you didn't learn anything?" Lestrade continued, urging, trying to get the subject away from John.

"No," he said, quieter than before.

"There wasn't much to learn in the first place," Anderson said, standoffish and breezy as usual, "unless we're doing a study on how John Watson screams."

It took a split second of blind rage for Sherlock to grab his collar and slam him against the opposite wall, seething, rage illuminating his eyes, boiling anger bubbling over into his snarl. "You listen to me you pathetic, insignificant bastard," he growled, his expression alone causing Anderson to freeze.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade interjected, tugging at his arm to break the iron grip he had on his throat.

"GET HIM OFF!" Sally screeched. Sherlock didn't hear, the blood rushing in his veins much too loud.

"If you ever, ever mention the contents of that video ever again then I will do precisely what Sally fears I will do and with a god damn smile on my face. You will never speak of John that way again. Do. I. Make. Myself. Clear?" He waited for confirmation, squeezed and pressed harder on his throat, ready to throttle him if that's what it took.

"Y-yes…" He managed, choking. Sherlock released him, stepping away from them and making his way to the elevator in silence.

"AREN'T YOU GOING TO DO SOMETHING?" He vaguely heard Donovan's voice pierce through the shield his mind was so desperately trying to put up.

"And what would you like me to do?" He bellowed. "After what he's just watched happen I was surprised he didn't kill me."

"But-"

The door closed before he could hear anymore. He receded back into himself again, screams echoing in his ears that went unheard to the rest of the world. Somehow, without his knowledge or consciousness, he both hailed and got into a cab, staring at his hands, still so deep within himself he barely muttered out his address.

He was caught between rage and absolute agony, the emotions battling inside of him, letting a cool, numbing calm settle over him that would shatter at any moment. It took a full two minutes before he realized the car had stopped moving. He paid the grouchy cabbie and made his way to the flat, not knowing what would happen when he got inside.

He took off his coat, the motions well-practiced, robotic and without any sort of expression or feeling.

"Sherlock?" He heard Mrs. Hudson call, but he couldn't find the strength to speak to her.

The next blink he was standing in the sitting room, a cup of tea being pushed into his hand as his knees gave out and sent him into John's chair.

"…are you alright, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked, touching his shoulder to finally gain his attention. "You look like you've seen a ghost." He said nothing, only meeting her eyes for a brief moment. "Are you going to tell me where you ran off to? Gone all night, all day…"

He frowned, seeing a clock for the first time. He'd been gone more than a day.

"He's been asleep since you left. Woke with a nightmare last night and spent half an hour asking for you. I got him back down, though. Told him you'd be right back," she assured. "He conked right back out. I was just about to give him more medicine." He shook his head, taking the water and pills from her. "Or you can do it, that's alright too," she sighed. He stared through the doorway, knowing when he stepped through he'd see…he'd see him again. John.

Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips, sadness in her eyes as she looked at his expression. She touched his arm. "Dr. Watson's strong, Sherlock. He'll get through this. With your help he'll get through this." She gave a comforting squeeze before she stepped away, waiting for him to go into the room before she left, still not knowing just what the consulting detective had been through.

John was sleeping peacefully, just as he was when he left him, lost in gentle sleep. He set the contents of his shaking hands down, tears flooding his eyes. He gently touched his cheek, thumb ghosting over a bruise. He slid his fingers through his hair, needing to touch him, needing to see the face of the brave man he'd just seen in that awful video. He sat beside him, knees giving out again. He kissed his cheek and his forehead, noting that his fever still had not gone in his absence.

He slowly fell over him, sobs overcoming him, slipping to the floor and his knees. "Forgive me," he breathed. "Forgive me…" John stirred, looking over at him, meeting his lips immediately when Sherlock dove for them, kissing him desperately.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" He croaked, allowing his cool hands to cradle his scorching cheeks. He couldn't say it, his soul heavy, heart torn.

"What he did to you…" He whispered. "God, John all those horrible things he did to you."

"What are you talking about?" He asked, so hoarse, so soft, so weak. "Sherlock?"

He gathered the doctor in his arms, heart aching even more when he saw tears in his own eyes. "There was a camera in the room with you, John. He sent it to the Yard and…"

"No," John breathed, shaking his head, paled and ashamed. "Sherlock-"

"Shh, it's alright," he said, cradling him close, crying into his hair. "Let me hold you, please." They stayed that way, silent, crying.

"I need to change your bandages," he whispered. John nodded, allowing himself to be eased from the safety of Sherlock's arms and left on the bed. Sherlock soothed to the best of his ability as he worked, the painkillers long run out. His eyes lingered over each wound, remembering in every crucial, horrible detail how they got there, how loud he screamed when he got them. "Damn it, John, when will you learn bravery and stupidity are equally consequential?"

"I'm sorry," he said in a small voice, looking just as tiny as his tone.

"Don't," Sherlock breathed, chastising himself for what he'd said. "I didn't mean…I meant that you…" He took a breath to steady himself, gently grazing his cheek with the back of his hand, anguish in his eyes. "If for some horrible, god forsaken reason…." Another steadying gulp of air. "If this happens to you again, you tell them whatever they want to know. Don't be concerned with how it will affect me. Don't protect me, John, for God's sake, keep yourself safe."

"Sherlock—"

"Please."

He was so desperate. He gave in, nodding sadly. "Okay."

He placed a steady kiss on his forehead, still holding his face.

He helped him get the pills and water down along with something mild to eat before holding him close again, allowing him to rest his head against his chest, rocking him gently. "Shh, shh…sleep. I'm here now. Shh…"

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," John breathed. "I didn't want to say those things, I didn't!"

"Shh, shh… don't. I know. It's alright. Shh."

John clung to the detective, burying his face in his neck to lose himself in him, to forget the pain, to forget that first moment when he heard that monster speak…

"So!" Jim said brightly, rubbing his hands together with a loud smack, eyeing his new toy hungrily. "Where on earth should we start?" John glared at him, still tugging weakly at the chains above him. "Oh, such a stern, brave little soldier, aren't we?" He mocked, condescending him.

"It won't work," John grunted.

"What won't?" He said, still grinning, daring him to say it.

"Trying to get Sherlock to come after me, it won't work," he growled.

"Oh," Jim said, nodding in understanding. "And why not? Because he's too smart, right? Too smart to fall for it? And why should he risk his life for you? After all, any friend of his should be willing to sacrifice himself, wouldn't they? And he'd be content with that, right? Too bad you're not his friend."

"Oh, I'm not?" He asked, exasperated, humoring him.

"No, no, even better." He turned his grin to him, immediately turning his insides to ice. "You're his lover."

He waited, letting the words sink in, watching the horror rise to his features as the blood left it. "You really think you two are that careful? God, the way you look at each other! Like no one else in the world exists. It's so cute it's disgusting!" He stepped over to the table of devices, running his fingers over them.

"It still won't work. He's figured you out before; he'll figure this out too!" He barked. Jim sighed.

"John, I wish you wouldn't be so mouthy. I'd like to torture you right away and not have to worry about shutting you up, so if you would be quiet…"

"You know I'm right!" He spat, trying to gain the upper-hand. It was impossible when your arms are chained over your head.

Jim sighed, growling. "Alright, if that's how you want it."

He snapped.

A faceless, nameless muscle of a man undid the chains and quickly bound his hands in a zip-tie far too tightly before tossing him to the ground like a sack of potatoes. He landed hard, the wind leaving his chest.

"Such worship you have for the man, don't you?" He said, sounding bored as he sauntered over to him. "A perfect little bitch for him, eh?" John said nothing, trying to look at him. "Just a little pathetic, don't you think?"

"No," he said firmly.

"Of course not."

Quicker than the doctor could blink, a leather-clad food collided with his jaw, turning him over on his stomach. "Because he's just so WONDERFUL, isn't he?" He bellowed, grinning wildly, assaulting his ribs. "Come now, John, tell me how wonderful he is!" He squealed, taking a handful of his hair and striking his face over and over again. "Nothing? Nothing to say?"

"Fuck yo-"

Another kick to his chest, knocking the air out of his lungs again, choking him and cutting off the words.

"Tsk, tsk, manners, Dr. Watson," he clucked, still smiling. "I don't particularly like getting my hands dirty like this. But for something to be personal, I suppose I'll have to, won't I?"

The beating that followed was great, breaking and fracturing ribs, bruising him to the bone, leaving him heaving, sweating and black and blue when he was through.

Jim dusted off his hands and his suit, still looking bored. He snapped again.

John groaned as he was hauled off the floor, zip-tie snapped in an instant, the blade used to do it nicking his skin before he was thrown against the wall again, chains biting into his raw skin, tearing it.

"Now we can start the real fun," Jim giggled, dancing over to the table. John fell to his knees, the man hauling him up and throwing him against another table on the other side of the room. He was locked into place, his toes barely touching the concrete floor. His ankles were locked into place by metal that was somehow colder than the air around him. He whimpered against his will when the riding crop cracked down on the unfinished wood of the table.

"So, I have a question, Dr. Watson," he said, twirling it like a baton, skipping around happily. "Have you made The Virgin, well…not a virgin?" John said nothing, hating this compromising position. He slapped him across the cheek with the device, the leather stinging his skin terribly. "Answer me." He shook his head. He clucked his tongue, shaking his head. "Now that's being awfully naughty. It's a simple question."

"No." He said firmly. Jim sighed.

"Well, if you want to be a bad boy then I'll punish you like one, won't I?" He gripped the waistband of his pants, giggling when John squirmed to get away from him.

"NO!" He growled. Jim laughed, yanking them down to bare his skin to the freezing, open room.

"Answer me, have you fucked him or not?" He said, brushing the device against the backs of his legs. John stayed silent, the humiliation overwhelming, but not enough to stifle his pride, not yet.

The device cracked across his bare flesh, stinging just as harshly as the crack of a whip. He cried out, arching away from him with nowhere to go.

"I don't have all day, doctor."

Still nothing.

Welt after welt was formed on his backside, some cutting so deep they bled. A few caught his lower back and his thighs, still hurting just as much as the moments ticked on. He bit down so hard on his lip it bled, legs shaking and slowly going numb, his body aching from both the beating and the new trauma he was enduring now.

"SPEAK!" He yelled, suddenly, his features immediately bouncing back to normal in a heartbeat. He pressed it to his cheek again. "Isn't that what pets do? They obey, they do as they're told, don't they, John? You do whatever Sherlock tells you, don't you?" He closed his eyes to distance himself from him, only to be struck again harder than before. "Have. You. Fucked. Him?"

"No," he croaked, trembling.

"Liar," he chuckled. "No matter, this'll hurt anyway."

He continued the abuse over and again, making him scream, laughing over them, at John. The skin was raw, torn and bleeding. John trembled, gasping, drenched in a sheen of sweat.

He raised the crop again, eyes excited and ready to strike him.

"Ah, ah, ah, ah, Stayin' alive, stayin' alive…"

He stopped, sigh turning into a growl. "One moment, darling, I have to take this."

John whimpered, breathing shakily, praying for Sherlock to save him.

"What?" The villain said, sounding bored.

Sherlock, please...Please find me soon.

"I'M IN THE MIDDLE OF SOMETHING!" Jim roared, making John jump. "I'll be there, but I hope you realize you're losing another finger for this."

He pocketed the phone again, running the bloodied tip of the instrument up and down John's back. "Sorry, Johnny boy. Looks like we'll have to pick this up later."

John cried out when a syringe plunged into his neck.

"Well, now I wouldn't want you to be bored," he smiled, tossing the riding crop somewhere unseen. He strode out of the room, the other man following behind him.

John shivered, still trapped in that compromising position, his vision starting to swim.

"Sherlock," he breathed, tears welling in his eyes. "Sherlock, please help me. Please."