A/n: Hello all! I would like to thank my lovely reviewers, Teen Sherlockian and Guest. ^^ This is the chapter a lot of you have been waiting for. One of many awful chapters. The chapter that gives this story its M rating. As a general state of advisory, I have to warn you all that this scene goes into subject matter such as rape. If that makes you terribly uncomfortable, I suggest you ctrl/command + f the line "I-I learned the rules, too," (though this gives you an absurdly short update, and for this, I am sorry).

Disclaimer: Not mine.

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My Absence, Hardly Worth Noting

Chapter 12

A fan clicked in place overhead, creating a chilling draft for Sherlock, who was reduced to a mere pair of pants on the bed below. Coarse fingers trailed along each of his vertebrae, and Sherlock shuddered. This wasn't right. He tried to pull himself up with his elbows, but the hand carefully pressed him back down to the bed. Dreary and deprived of sight, Sherlock wiggled his fingers only to find that his hands were tapped together, palms facing outward, connected to a bar on a metal headboard by a single piece of tape.

Jolting awake, the detective desperately thrashed, successfully flipping himself on his back long enough to blindly kick at his attacker. After landing a solid hit, Sherlock wrenched against the bed frame, trying to break the single piece of connector tape that kept him from his freedom. He had to get out; he had to free himself. As the tape snapped, Sherlock propelled himself off the bed, tearing at the tie that hindered his vision.

Before he could run, a strong forearm shoved him back, knocking the air out of him. Another swift push leveled him on the bed, and the man pushed his way on top of Sherlock, pressing a blade against his throat. Feeling the cold metal on his skin, Sherlock froze. The man forced Sherlock's arms up and smashed them into the headboard, causing a low ringing clang and a sharp pain coursing to his core. The detective felt as the gravity of his situation fell on him like a ton of bricks. If he didn't do anything, he would be raped.

Deduce, Sherlock, deduce, he told himself, trying to force his mind away from the situation at hand, icy blade still poised to kill. Private residence. Not likely his own, the bedding has been recently cleaned. Sliding the blade down Sherlock's torso, the man a superficial slice in his skin, droplets of blood forming in procession. The scent is flowery, a woman's home perhaps? Dusty. Metal bed frame, clicking fan, sheets still made. This is a guest room. The man removed the knife entirely and placed it on the nightstand to the left. With the opportunity, Sherlock lunged forward in another attempt to free himself, but his attacker forced back on his windpipe. "Don't," the man's voice rasped, breath close enough to warm the detective's cheek. Halitosis, smells bad, he thought, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

Shivering, Sherlock felt as the man's hand closed in around his throat and squeezed, cutting off his air supply entirely. As the detective thrashed violently, he could fell the man's body slip between his legs, making kicking him more difficult than before. Though he couldn't see his surroundings, Sherlock's vision spotted amongst the darkness as he tried to gasp for the oxygen he desperately needed. Lightheaded, he could feel as pair of slimy lips met his own in a revolting kiss, hand withdrawing from his throat.

With rapid, shallow breaths, air filled Sherlock's lungs once more as the man made his way to the detective's collarbone, biting down hard and sucking, hands groping his chest. Head cloudy, Sherlock felt tears saturate his cloth blindfold. He couldn't move, every touch burned; it all felt so wrong. Deduce, he told himself, needing a distraction. Ninety kilograms, digestion problems... Without any sort of warning, the man grabbed Sherlock and lifted his hips and legs, using his own shoulders as a prop. Hearing a pump and a squelch, Sherlock shuddered as he felt a hand slip into his pants, cold, wet fingers inserting themselves in a place most unwelcome. His mind went blank, only feeling the fingers moving inside him and himself sucking them in. Ashamed of himself, Sherlock could feel his body responding against his will, deep moans bubbling from his throat.

The man withdrew for a moment and unzipped his trousers, fussing with his clothing and lubricant. Tensing, Sherlock felt as the man slid down his pants, revealing his shame to what could have been the world. Slipping Sherlock's listless, bruised arms around the back of his neck, he grabbed the back of Sherlock's thighs and situated himself. Unable to give himself the basal comfort of holding his own hands, Sherlock shook in the man's arms, sobs wracking his body. If he had to be degraded, why did it have to be like this, holding onto his rapist as if he were a lover? In one swift thrust, the man forced himself inside Sherlock, and the detective clenched, crying out in pain. The man groaned at the tight fit, and plunged forward until Sherlock lost all strength, pumping steadily.

Whimpering and sputtering, his mouth sticky with mucus and saliva, Sherlock listened as the man grunted centimeters from his face, his own hair pressing into the man's sweaty chest. Without consent from himself, Sherlock came, dirtying both himself and the other man. He just wanted to return home and cry, hearing John croon that everything will be alright. Heart aching, the detective longed for home. He would have killed to so much as hear a word. Deduction no longer able to help him, Sherlock shut his eyes as tightly as he could, leaving the anguish of his present situation to the backdrop for happier thoughts back at home.

Once his attacker finished, he withdrew and removed himself from the detective, scooting to the other size of the bed. He drew a cigarette and lit it, taking his time to enjoy it while Sherlock, the huddled mass beside him, quivered. Though his arms ached, Sherlock drew them into his chest and pulled his legs up in turn, trying to ignore the blood, semen, saliva, and cooling sweat that sullied his body. When the man finished his cigarette, he extinguished it on Sherlock's right shoulder blade, filling the room with the scent of singed flesh. Flinching slightly, the detective endured until it was out entirely and removed as the man stood. Fixing his pants, the man dropped the cigarette butt in a nearby ash tray and threw a blanket on Sherlock not long before leaving.

The detective curled into the blanket and cried. There was no one left for him now, no John to tell him that everything would be alright. No, he wouldn't be alright, the only one left able to offer him the slightest comfort his abuser. No one left to him, he just wanted to die.

Help me, "John!"

Startled, the doctor woke up, book falling from his lap with a thud. "Sherlock?" John stood and saw the detective trembling, tears streaming down his face. When he grabbed hold of the younger man's shoulders to wake him up, Sherlock flinched and tensed, stiffening his limbs straightly. "Sherlock!" John called, louder this time, and the detective's eyes shot open.

Eyes darting, absolutely terrified of the world surrounding him, Sherlock eventually focused on John, and his eyes continued to water. He was safe now. "What's wrong?" John asked, sitting on the edge of the bed behind Sherlock, rubbing his back.

The detective turned into his friend's chest and clung onto his jumper. Wrapping his arms around the other man, John listened as he calmed down. "John," Sherlock began, gulping. He had to tell John, get it off his chest. "I...was raped."

Instinctively, the doctor loosened his hold and froze, trying to digest the words he just heard. Afraid that his only friend was disgusted with him, Sherlock's grip tightened on John's jumper as he felt the man's warm hands leave his back. When John felt a slight pinch on his chest from Sherlock, he came to his senses and pulled the younger man in closer. Searching his memory, he recalled Sherlock's medical records. His blood work came back clean. Thank goodness.

Unsure of what to say, John simply squeezed as he was confronted with a torrent of sadness, sympathy, anger, and guilt. If he had been there for the other man, if he could have helped him, he probably wouldn't have seen so much hardship. "I'm sorry..." the doctor finally mustered.

Eyes widening at the realisation, Sherlock reassured with dead sincerity, "None of this is your fault in the slightest."

If I were to be harmed on a case, you would blame yourself...John mentally noted. Before he had the chance to consider what else to say, Sherlock choked back a sob and muttered, "The first was the worst."

"If you want to talk about it...I'll just listen, alright? I'll be right here for you," John comforted despite the fact that he didn't know if he was mentally prepared to hear it.

Inhaling deeply, Sherlock started, "After finishing an assignment, I decided to go after the local crime syndicate. As I was searching for proof that these people were involved in not only drug, but human trafficking for the purpose of the sex industry, I was ambushed. When I awoke," the detective's voice cracked. "I-I didn't know where I was, and I felt this worn, scarred hand c-caressing my back. It was drafty...I was left just to my pants and a blindfold. I immediately struggled...only to realize my wrists were taped together, palms facing outward so I couldn't grab things as well...It's kind of funny how such a small tweak to something can make you feel so out of control..." the detective grimaced and looked at his fingers, which only appeared to have minor cuts, a few scars visible as he looked for them.

"When I realised that there was only a single piece of tape holding me to the headboard, I kicked the man and pulled until it snapped. But when I tried to run, he pushed me back down throttled me..." Taking a pause, Sherlock regained what little composure he had, and continued with a shaky voice, "I thought I was going to die...Right as I was about to pass out, he...he k-kissed me...He smelled so bad, t-tasted worse...And then he moved on. My head was fuzzy.

"I tried to deduce...I thought logic could somehow distract me if not save me. But no matter how much I tried, I couldn't...I couldn't tune it out. And then he v-violated me." Sherlock shuddered and John gave him another squeeze, reassuring that he was still there while he himself tried not to cry."Af-after he fin-finished, he moved o-over to the o-other side and sm-smoked. Just up and lit one! Like w-what he did was n-nothing!" Sniffling, Sherlock sobbed, voice getting higher, "When he f-finished th-that, he p-put it out on my sh-shoulder. L-like I was n-nothing!" John frowned, how could someone worth treasuring be degraded? Why? Why would someone do such a thing? "I-I w-wanted to g-go back h-home, b-but as I froze, h-he th-threw a bl-blanket on m-me. So...so cruel," the detective finished, crying, wrapping his own arms entirely around his only friend. Sickened, John tried to figure out how to convince Sherlock that he wasn't alone anymore.

"I-I learned the rules, too," Sherlock began, lowering his heavy limbs to the bed.

John's brows furrowed. "Rules?"

Clearing his throat, the detective continued, "The rules. Of this...game. Th-three days they were allowed to k-keep me. It's always been three. No matter what their p-purpose. Any more and they'd be punished, too. They couldn't kill me. I w-was an 'asset'."

They used him, John thought, lightly rubbing his companion's back.

"I understood. I-I knew. I knew they were using me. I knew that once I completed an 'assignment', they would use me...to get rid of the group I worked alongside. I was simply on loan; I had a 'terms of agreement and use' label attached on my very existence. They kept my doings a secret, enough so that groups were willing to use me to dispose of a few people. When and if they discovered my betrayal, they sometimes managed get their hold on me, trying to beat the information out of me. If it were taken too far or too long, they would step in and kill everyone involved. But sometimes, they found the natural sadists, the ones who didn't want me for my..intended uses. They allowed it, if only to break me," Sherlock explained, grinding his teeth.

Eradicate the competition, the doctor concluded. "Sherlock," John breathed, unsure of what to say. "I'm sorry."

"John...this isn't-"

"It doesn't matter whose fault it is, and it most certainly isn't yours any more than it is mine...I'm just sorry that this happened to you. All of it," John apologized. Feeling his eyes begin to water, John stifled the tears. He needn't be crying now. He did all of this...for us.

You were worth it, John. "I didn't realise my absence would have genuinely upset anyone...it's how I justified it when I realised my plan didn't come to fruition," Sherlock explained. "But you, Mummy...Mycroft even missed me."

"Of course we did...Why wouldn't we?"

"Because I was an irritating twat that often just did as he pleased," he returned bluntly.

John sighed, not entirely able to honestly deny that. "Even so, you were our friend, our family. How could we not love you?"

Chuckling, Sherlock muttered, "Loved, huh?"

"Of course, silly."

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"This can't be right," Anderson muttered to himself, staring at Molly's computer screen. The DNA comparison had come back, claiming that the blood found on the sidewalk that night was the blood of Sherlock Holmes. "That's not possible...Blighter's dead."

Pulling his mobile from his pocket, he dialed Donovan, who answered almost immediately. "You won't believe whose blood returned on the Doyle case."

"This better be good, Anderson. Mafia boss good."

"Better. Sherlock Holmes," the lab technician returned with a loathsome smile.

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"We're home," John announced as the two stepped out from the cab.

Squinting from the light, Sherlock smiled. The stone still smelled of rain while the sun shown brightly for the first time in what seemed like eternity. After spending days cooped up in a hospital room, the detective breathed in before following John up the stairs, silently waiting as the older man opened the door.

When he entered the flat, Sherlock bolted for the shower, mumbling something about the inadequacy of sponge baths. Lightly chuckling, John set off to the kitchen to make some tea to rid the chill from his bones.

As he set the water to boil, the doctor heard the shower blasting a few rooms down. Drawing two mugs from the cupboard, John placed them on the counter top and watched the kettle. What would Sherlock have done...had I not met him? Had I not met him in the hospital...What would he have done with himself? He said he didn't intend to come back...Which means he never intended to leave that dangerous world? Oh God, what would he have done?

Grabbing two tea bags, John unwrapped them and placed them in the mugs, disposing of the packaging in a nearby bin. Hands shaky, he leaned against the counter. Would he have...killed himself? ...He has no left to fight. Or would he have kept...living like that? When the water boiled, the doctor moved the kettle over to a pot holder and slunk down the sink cabinets to the floor. Oh God, what would he have done?

A knock sounded on the door as the bathroom door creaked open, Sherlock darting to his bedroom in nothing but a towel. Standing, John sauntered to the door, dazed by his own question. As he opened the door, he heard Molly's voice object, "You can't possibly bother him now!"

John's eyes fell between Lestrade and Donovan, who seemed as if they meant business, while Molly hung in the distance, silent with the sight of the doctor. "John Watson," Donovan began. "We're here for the arrest of Sherlock Holmes for the murder of James Doyle."

"What?" John stammered. How did they found out? Mycroft...

"This is all just a sick joke!" Molly cried. "I don't know how that result came up on my computer! It's not possible. I declared him myself!" Looking at John, she frowned. "And look what you've done to poor John, can't you just leave the man alone? He clearly doesn't know what you're talking about and you're only prying the matter more!"

Completely ignoring the woman's screams, Lestrade stepped inside the threshold and asked, "Mind if we come in?"

Before John could give his consent, the two officers stepped inside the flat and immediately glanced around the living space. "You are aware that Sherlock Holmes is not only alive and well, but was involved in a murder a few nights ago."

"I-" he stuttered.

"Just stop it!" Molly insisted, tugging on Donovan's sleeve. "You're taking this too far."

Opening the door, Sherlock revealed himself fully dressed to the crowd in the living room. "It's alright, Molly," he reassured. All the jaws in the room fell agape as he paraded towards the two officers. Smiling weakly at John, Sherlock turned to Lestrade and held his wrists out to the man.

"Why, Sherlock, why?" Molly murmured.

End of Chapter 12

A/n: Where did Mycroft screw up? And I've just realized this sincerely might turn to romance. Any input, my readers? If there's an overwhelming desire for it to be so, I just might be swayed. Anyhow, now that you've read, please review! As a birthday present, perhaps? :3 'Till next time!