Hi again :) Sorry this has taken a while. I'm trying to juddle three stories right now. Bit daft really, but I will get there. So please stay patient with me. If you're waiting for the next part to Best Intentions, sorry, I know I'm late with that one too, but its coming and should be with my fantastic beta in the next couple of days.
There's a bit more violence in this one, just to warn you. Nothing as bad as the last chapter though, so you should all be okay :)
You are all awesome btw! Thanks so much for all the support, especially from these reviewers:
101spacemonkey: Thanks for sticking with me :)
Caridwyn: Thanks so much, I'm glad you enjoyed it. Hope you like this one and please review again :)
thisisforyou: I wish I was Irish :) Dublin is like, the best place ever! Thank you so much. And yes, it did hurt to write. So did this chapter... Please review again :)
Jodi2011: Glad you liked. Mycroft is on the way...:) Please review again. X
LuffyMarra: I know, I'm always hurting him... Mycroft is about to show up... and John might just get a chance at some payback... thanks for the review, please comment again :)
Miraza: Thanks for such a long review :) Glad you are enjoying this and Best Intentions (the next chapter for that will be along soon, btw) despite me hurting poor Sherlock. Comfort coming next chapter though, promise :) Some explanations about where Mycroft got to this chapter, and Lestrade will feature next time... please review again :)
ImlostForever: Glad you liked. And yes, I agree, O'Donnell needs to die. Might just happen :) More soon :)
tea-in-space: Thanks so much :) Hope you enjoy this chapter.
Helenecolin: Thanks for the review! Please comment again :)
Okay, getting on with this then :) Only one more chapter to come with much comfort, and a bit of revenge too :)
Please review :) Reviews make me a happy bunny :) And when I'm happy, I write faster ;)
Right then, enjoy!
Heroes Don't Exist.
Chapter 4
Joseph grinned. He stood up straight, leering at the trembling form of Sherlock and then with a contented sigh, he backed away slowly. He made eye contact with John as he pulled up his jeans and rebuckled his belt. He laughed tauntingly, causing John to cringe.
'He just brutally raped another man and he laughs? This man is beyond insane.'
Joseph looked flushed yet exhilarated, excited by not only his victory, but also the total devastation and humiliation he had inflicted upon his foe. Sherlock hardly moved; he just lay on the ground beneath Joseph, trembling and whimpering softly.
O'Donnell leaned back against Sherlock's desk. His cold eyes shone as he smirked at his friends.
"So boys, who wants to have a go at him next?"
The laughter that filled the room was silenced by one desperate cry.
"NO!"
Every pair of eyes turned to regard the despairing John Watson, who now had silent tears cascading down his face. He saw the delight at his agony on each of their expressions so he averted his gaze to the ground while attempting to compose himself. He had to stay calm. For Sherlock's sake. He could not lose it now. He didn't doubt that this bastard would kill both of them without a moment's thought. Finally, he took and deep breath, looked up and once more looked towards Joseph.
"Please," he said, so quietly. He had to try, though he harboured little hope that the evil man would listen. Joseph would continue to do whatever he wanted to Sherlock, and John could do nothing but sit there and watch. John would do anything to suffer in Sherlock's place.
"Enough," he pleaded, desperately trying to keep his tone steady. "For pity's sake."
Joseph's eyes grew wide. "Pity?" he spat. He laughed loudly, and then shook his head at John, clearly reveling in the man's misery. "Do I look like I'm in a merciful mood to you, Doctor?"
"You look insane," John retorted, before he could stop himself. "You bastard."
Joseph's lips twitched and John shivered under his cold stare. The incensed man took a step towards John but was stopped when one of his comrades suddenly stepped in between Joseph and John and placed a hand on his boss' shoulder. "Hey Joseph, we better get going. We can't be found here, man. If the old lady comes back, or she hears a noise and calls the police..."
"Okay, okay," Joseph interrupted, gesturing theatrically. "I get it, time's up." His gaze flickered to the prone Sherlock once more. "I got what I come for, didn't I? I'm done here." He paused then, regarding Sherlock with something akin to interest. "I've got just one more thing to do here before we leave our new friends to their own devices though. Just wanna leave another reminder for my old chum, Sherlock. Don't want him to go forgetting me now, do we?"
With a smirk, the man pulled a knife out of his back pocket.
John yelled his outrage as Joseph knelt beside Sherlock, grabbing the broken man's arm, and he then began to cut a symbol into his flesh. Sherlock cried out, and tried to pull away but Joseph held on to him firmly.
Sherlock whimpered one word, which caused Joseph to shout out with laughter, and for John to swear in his fury and despair.
"Please."
"Good boy," Joseph whispered. "Nice to hear you pleading, Holmes. At last."
"Leave him alone," John moaned. "Just fucking stop!"
Joseph eyed John. "Leave him alone? Stop? Why? They didn't stop hurting my brother, did they? They never showed my brother any pity." He tightened his hold on Sherlock's arm, causing him to moan. "You tell me why I shouldn't do the same for the man who sent him to his death?"
John shook his head desperately. He couldn't respond. This whole situation was hopeless, and he knew it. When there was no reply from the other man, Joseph nodded his satisfaction, slipped his knife back into his jeans pocket, and then glared down at Sherlock.
He held Sherlock's forearm out and then grabbed at the detective's hair, forcing him to turn his head downwards, so that the he could see Joseph's handy work.
"Look at that," he spat, forcing Sherlock to look. Sherlock did so. There was no fight left in the abused man now. "Do you know what this is?"
Sherlock tried to pull away but he had no where to go. He moaned when he saw the bloody symbol branded into his skin.
"This is my mark," Joseph hissed quietly. He spoke slowly and calmly but his tone wasof pure evil, his words for Sherlock's ears alone. "Inside, this signifies that you belong to another inmate." He tightened his grip. "This means your my bitch now, Sherlock. Might just see you again sometime."
He left Sherlock like that, crumpled on the floor at his feet, and with a wave of his hand, he indicated for his friends to file out of the room.
John stared at the beaten and bloodied form of his best friend, despair coursing through him. Sherlock's eyes were closed now and he was no longer moving. John knew he needed to get to him immediately but he was still handcuffed to the chair. He stared at Joseph, rage pumping through him in waves, but he fought to contain it. Losing his head now would not help Sherlock.
John closed his eyes. Just what could he say or do to ever make this better? Everything Sherlock had been put through that day was for John, to spare John the same treatment.
This is all my fault.
It was the sound of their door opening that brought John quickly back to the present. The men were leaving.
They were happy to take their leave with Sherlock lying there bleeding, unconscious, maybe even dying, on the floor.
John had to do something.
"Wait," he spoke up, his voice slightly trembling. "I need to tend to Sherlock."
Joseph chuckled. "Oh?" He gestured his total lack of concern. "I guess that's your problem then, Doctor!"
John grimaced. He had to stay calm. He was Sherlock's only hope. "No, please, you have to uncuff me. Let me help him."
O'Donnell stared at John for a moment, and then laughed loudly.
He gestured for his men to go first. "I'll catch you up," he told them, his tone amused. "Just gotta finish cleaning up here first."
The other men nodded, and then disappeared out the door. Only O'Donnell remained.
The Irishman smirked at John.
"So, you want me to let you go?"
"Yes," John snarled back. This was wasting precious time. Sherlock needed him. Now. "Please."
Another snicker. "And now why would I consider doing a thing like that?"
John pulled on the cuffs then, his face red from anger. "Because if you don't, Sherlock is going to die! You want another murder charge to add to the list?"
O'Donnell smiled. He glanced curiously down at Sherlock, and tutted. "Oh dear. He does look in a bad way, now you mention it." He leaned down in front of John, so close he was almost nose to nose. "You'd better start screaming then, hadn't you, Doc? Someone might just hear you, if you're lucky, and come running to the rescue."
John knew he was wasting his breath. What did O'Donnell care if Sherlock lived or died? If Sherlock Holmes died at his hand, he would see it as a job well done.
Pride had long since abandoned John. He had nothing left to give, no other option, but to beg for his best friend's life.
"Please, O'Donnell. For Christ's sake! Please! Let me go to him!"
O'Donnell swore loudly, and struck John hard across the face, adding a cut lip to the doctor's existing injuries. "Don't you take the Lord's name in vain like that, doctor. I won't stand for that."
He stood, regarding the small man. "Well, it's been great. Thanks for a fun time. Thank Sherlock for me, will you? If you get the chance, of course."
He paused by the door, giving Sherlock one last lingering glance. "I actually hope you get some help for him, Doctor Watson, and that he pulls through. It will be fun for him, won't it? He can spend all his time now wondering when I'll be back for seconds."
John felt sick. He struggled desperately against his restraints. The calm exterior was gone now. He had to get free.
O'Donnell, enjoying his wasted efforts, winked at him. "See you then! Give the Great Detective a kiss goodbye from me!"
And, with one more vicious laugh, he slipped out of the door.
The doctor waited until he heard the door slam downstairs. He didn't make a sound until he knew for absolute certain that this was not yet another game, they had really gone, and were not coming back.
A few moments passed before John began to fight against his bonds once more, calling out continuously to Sherlock. His friend didn't respond.
"Sherlock!" John tried again, willing the other man to awaken. "Please, I need you to wake up!"
Still, there was no sign of life. John could see that Sherlock was losing blood fast. He cried out in anger and pain as he tried to force his wrists through the cuffs, but it was no good. There was nothing he could do.
Nothing but watch as his friend suffered horrendously before his eyes.
Suffered because of him.
All for him.
John had no idea how long he sat there, hopeless, listening to Sherlock moan and whimper and not being able to do a damned thing about it. Finally, at long last, God must have answered his prayers. He listened intently and then a spark of hope lit up inside him. He could have sworn he heard the door opening and closing downstairs.
He felt his stomach knot.
Was that a voice? Too low to recognise?
Please, don't let it be them again. Please God.
"Hello?" There was no mistaking the woman's voice this time. It was as clear as day. "Anybody home? I'll leave the door open, I'm bringing in the shopping..."
John could have sobbed with relief.
"Mrs. Hudson!" he yelled, "Up here! Help!" When she didn't respond, he called out again, shouting as loud as he could. "Please! Help us!"
He heard mutterings from downstairs, and then the sound of footsteps coming up the steps. He held his breath, and then Mrs. Hudson poked her head around the door.
"Everything alright, dear?" She edged her way in, shopping bags in hand.
"Mrs. Hudson," John began, "You have to keep calm..."
"I'm sorry I took so long, John." She chattered, looking toward the kitchen, not at John. She didn't even acknowledge that he had spoken to her. That was her way after all. "The supermarket was just-".
"Mrs Hudson!"
She broke off. She stared, wide eyed as she took in the sight of John handcuffed to the chair, looking at her in desperation, and then her eyes fell on the prone, beaten and bloodied body of Sherlock, lying exactly where he had fallen, a pool of blood beginning to form around him. Mrs. Hudson brought a shaky hand up to her mouth as her eyes met John's once again.
"My goodness," was all she could manage. She was in complete shock.
"Mrs. Hudson," John was able to repeat, as together as he could muster, though he was on the cusp of total despair. He didn't want to panic the older woman any further. She was his, and more importantly Sherlock's, only help. "Please, I need your help."
"Y-yes," she stammered, "Of course, dear." She rushed to his side, and began to pull at the handcuffs.
Of course, she got nowhere.
"Oh my dear," she whispered. "The key, John? Where is the key?"
"They took it with them," John replied, swallowing. "Mrs. Hudson, leave me. Please, we have to help Sherlock. Call an ambulance. Hurry!"
She didn't move immediately, she was once again staring at Sherlock, her hand moving to cover her mouth.
John knew now was not the time to be gentle.
"Mrs. Hudson!" He all but exploded at her. "Call an ambulance now! If you don't, he could die!"
That did it. Shaking her out of her trance, Mrs. Hudson nodded, apologising profusely, and rushed towards their front door, already pulling out her mobile phone.
She jumped when she reached the exit.
Mycroft was standing in her way, his face like thunder.
She had to fight back tears when she met his gaze.
"I'm so sorry," she told him, clearly no longer able to keep a handle on the situation. "The supermarket was just so busy..." She was sobbing as she stepped outside of the room, holding her phone up to her ear with a trembling hand.
Mycroft met John's eyes.
John could hardly look at him.
The elder Holmes walked, not striding as he usually did, into the room, his eyes glued to Sherlock. He stopped beside his brother, and then bent down, putting two fingers to the unconscious man's neck.
A look of relief flashed across Mycroft's face.
"He's alive," he announced, before adding; "And cold." He then quickly unbuttoned his large coat and gently placed it over Sherlock.
He then stood up straight again, and looked back over at John.
"What happened here?"
His tone was controlled but his eyes were flaming. John shuddered to look at them.
"A gang," was all John could say. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the sounds of Sherlock's cries and O'Donnell's laughter that still echoed in his head.
Mycroft pursed his lips together. With another concerned glance at Sherlock, he walked quickly to John, pulled out a handful of keys, and began to try them in the lock to John's handcuffs. Finally, he found the right one and John was released.
"Who, John?" Mycroft urged, watching as John rubbed his wrists, trying to restore the feeling to them. And then, when John didn't reply, Mycroft clasped his shoulder. The grip was not gentle. "Tell me."
"Not now." John snapped. And then, he was pushing Mycroft out of the way and rushing to Sherlock's side. He placed his arms around the taller man, and pulled Sherlock into his embrace, aiming to keep the trembling man warm. John heard Sherlock let out a low moan, and he looked at his friend hopefully, whispering what he hoped were comforting words into his ear. And, sure enough, Sherlock's eyes fluttered open and he gazed up at John.
John did his best to smile down at him, but he could only imagine it was more of a grimace. He gripped Sherlock's hand as he told him: "You're okay, Sherlock. You're gonna be fine."
Sherlock coughed.
"Don't speak for now," John urged him. "Just lay still. The ambulance is coming."
"John," Sherlock moaned, whispering so softly that John had to lean right into him to hear him. "Did they hurt you?"
John could have broken down. He shook his head no, shushed Sherlock softly, and stroked his hair until he grew peaceful once more. John then glanced back up at Mycroft and realised, almost to his surprise, that Mycroft was very moved by the situation and clearly wanted to go to his wounded brother. John jerked his head and moved back slightly, showing Mycroft he was more than welcome to join him and Sherlock if he wanted to.
Mycroft hesitated. Then, he shook his head slightly, smiled grimly, and quickly placed his hands behind his back.
No time for sentiment.
John sighed. Why couldn't Mycroft understand that, right at that moment, Sherlock needed his support, not his power?
Instead, Mycroft turned his attention, as John had expected, back to the business of revenge.
"Who?" he asked again, this time more firmly.
"O'Donnell." John replied. "He raped him, Mycroft. Brutally."
Mycroft closed his eyes, remembering. "Joseph O'Donnell," he repeated, more to himself. "Irish convict, recently released. Sherlock and Inspector Lestrade's first case."
John nodded. He was looking at Sherlock again, noting the bruises beginning to form on his best friend's face. And he realised, there was a question he could no longer put off asking.
"Where were you?" John demanded, his voice pained. "You could have stopped this, Mycroft. Why weren't you watching us?"
Mycroft glanced away for a second, before answering. "My apologies, Doctor Watson. Two of my men were outside, as usual," Mycroft replied, unemotionally. "They are both dead. Throats slit. Murdered. That is how I was aware that there was a problem here. They didn't report in on the hour as I had ordered them to." A grim smile. "They were good men. They followed orders."
A cold dread filled John. More pointless violence.
"What will you do?" John inquired.
Mycroft blinked.
"I will find Mr. O'Donnell, John," he responded, pleasantly. He placed his hands back at his sides and John could see that they were balled into fists. "And I will ask him why he raped my little brother. And then, I will kill him."
There was no threat to Mycroft's tone. He was simply stating a fact.
And, as he knelt there, gently rocking the sleeping Sherlock in his arms, John found that he couldn't give a damn. In fact, he wanted to be there.
And watch O'Donnell getting exactly what the evil monster deserved.
TBC