Pairing: Sherlock/Anderson, Sherlock/John friendship
Warnings: Very dark themes, Noncon, violence, swearing
Summary: John is hurt when Sherlock forgets him once again and wonders what he can get from their friendship. Unbeknowst to him, Sherlock has a dramatic run in with Anderson, a confrontation that will have a devastating effect on the Detective and everyone around him. Can John help him recover?
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Spoilers: All three episodes
Authors Note: In response to this prompt on the shkinkmeme: Anderson decides to show BBC!Holmes just how much he hates him, by brutally raping him
and humiliating him and convincing him, that he is indeed a worthless freak.
When Holmes makes it home to Baker Street, Watson somehow figures out what happened and takes care of his wounds and .... awww just give me loads and loads of hurt and comfort!
NB - Comfort coming very soon!!!!
John Watson frowned as he looked down at his watch, for what must have been the hundredth time. He sighed. Only five minutes had passed since the last time he had checked. He looked around, half expectantly, half knowingly. He knew only to well that he wasn't about to see his friend striding towards him, all cocky smiles and no apologies whatsoever for the fact that he had kept John waiting, once again, for little or no reason.
John muttered under his breath impatiently. “Why do I bother?”
He smiled apologetically to the couple at the table next to him, who were now watching him with obvious concern. John couldn't blame them. What must he look like? The saddest loneliest loser in London, he was sure. A man who had nothing better to do then sit on his own and talk to himself, picking at his starter. He had already been in there for half an hour and he was almost certain now that Sherlock was not coming. Maybe his irritating flat mate had forgotten. Or maybe, he had had a better offer. Yes, that was most likely it.
I shouldn't be surprised. John told himself, glancing down at his mobile phone.
Sherlock clearly couldn't even spare a few seconds of his precious time to send a text. If this was how Sherlock chose to treat his one and only “supposed” friend, then how exactly would he behave to a person he didn't like? John knew the answer to that one only to well, of course. He'd seen enough evidence with his own eyes of how scathing and belittling Holmes could be. And one day, John was concerned that Sherlock's sharp tongue would get him into serious trouble.
And I'll be there to get dig him out of his latest hole. John reasoned. That's what I'm here for, after all.
“Excuse me, Sir?”
John looked up sharply. That pretty young waitress was back, with her long blond hair and too much make up, looking down at him with a mixture of frustration and sympathy. “Can I get you something else to drink?”
“No, thank you.” John gave her an apologetic smile. “I'm really sorry about this.”
She nodded helpfully. “Yes, Sir. But... and I am sorry to say this... we're really busy tonight and if your friend isn't coming...” Her words trailed off, the uncomfortable moment she now found herself in forcing her into silence.
John licked his lips, trying to think of something to say that would spare both of their blushes.
“He's just been held up. He does this. He'll be here any second. Promise.” He chuckled, trying to make light of a very embarrassing situation. “He's texted me,” he lied. “He's on his way.”
“Okay, Sir.” With a sigh, she hurried away. He watched her go and saw all her colleagues turning to look at him, nudging each other, whispering. He looked away, his cheeks turning pinker with every passing second.
John wondered what half-baked excuse Sherlock would come up with this time. He imagined Sherlock now, giving his most surprised look when John would dare to enquire the next day as to the exact reason why he had been stood up yet again.
John brushed a hand back through his short hair. This could no longer be compared to anything resembling a joke. It was unfair and embarrassing and he shouldn't be expected to go through this, sitting in a packed out restaurant, on a busy Friday night, looking like a right idiot while the rest of the world got to enjoy themselves after a hard week of work.
“I'll give him ten more minutes,” John told the empty chair sitting opposite him. “Just so I can give him a piece of my mind when I see him. If I ever see him again.”
What the Hell am I doing? I'm talking to a chair.
Ten more minutes. That was it. Then, he was gone. And John was adamant that he wouldn't be so willing to forgive and forget quite so easily this time.
Yes, just another ten minutes.
Then, I'm going.
He checked his watch again.
What was I supposed to be doing tonight?
Sherlock Holmes wrapped his scarf tightly around his neck. It was a cold night. He stood, facing a small house, the latest crime scene he had been asked to attend. He had got the call about thirty minutes previously, a request from Detective Inspector Lestrade for him to get himself promptly to Embankment as another body had been found. A third body, the latest from a very interesting serial killer, who had struck repeatedly in the last ten days.
Holmes allowed himself a small smile. This one was clever. All the bodies had been found in their homes, two women and one man, all beaten, raped and strangled, with no apparent connections to each other. They definately hadn't known each other. Sherlock was certain of that. This latest case had intrigued the Detective; the killer was different, there was almost an arty quality to his work that had fascinated Sherlock. Who was this man, for he was absolutely just one man. The police had believed there to be a gang but Sherlock had deduced differently. It was just the one man and he was picking his victims very carefully. Sherlock knew he was so close, knew he nearly had this man beaten. He needed to see this latest crime scene, needed to understand this curious and dainty killer but could not do that until he had seen the newest victim. It would answer his last few questions, he was sure of that. It would be over then, Lestrade would have his man and another case would have been solved. Another success for Sherlock. And then, he would be free. Because until he caught this killer, until he could put this one to bed, nothing else mattered. Everything else had to be pushed to the back of his mind and locked away. Because, in that moment, everything else was trivial, unimportant. That was the cold, hard truth.
Whatever it is I've forgotten, it can wait.
He had work to do.
Sherlock strode across the road, smiling halfheartedly at the two policeman guarding the door. One he knew, with a sinking feeling, only to well.
“Hey,” came a voice that irritated Sherlock to his very core. “Where do you think you're going?”
“Inside,” Sherlock replied helpfully.
Anderson was suddenly baring his way, his colleague moving into place behind Sherlock, giving the Detective the evil eye. Holmes sighed. “Lestrade asked me here,” he said, boredom evident in his tone. “So why don't you get out of my way?”
The smug look Anderson gave him infuriated Sherlock all the more. Why did these idiots have to block him? This encounter would obviously have only one possible outcome, Lestrade ordering Anderson to assist Sherlock “anyway he required,” so what was the point of playing this silly game once again? All they were doing was wasting his time!
“Check with Lestrade,” he said slowly. “He'll confirm that I'm here on his request.”
Anderson shrugged. “Doesn't matter. Detective Inspector Lestrade got called away on urgent business, leaving me in charge. He didn't mention you were coming so I'm afraid I can't let you pass.”
Sherlock shook his head incredulously. “Anderson, you know Lestrade asked me here. Now get out of the way and let me do my job.”
Anderson leaned forward. “Its not your job, it's your sick hobby. Now, be a good boy and go play someplace else. Or I will have you removed.”
Sherlock glanced at the man behind him and saw the threat was very real. He smiled at Anderson. “Fine, have it your way. You can explain to Lestrade why you didn't let me in here when I could have solved this. In addition, you can also explain to the next family why their loved one was left to die when the fourth body inevitably turns up dead. Have a good night.”
And with that, Sherlock walked away from the house. He was fuming but he kept his anger in check. He was obviously used to this reaction. He knew how much the police sans Lestrade despised him, how they were actually made uncomfortable by his very presence. Anderson though, he was the worst. He was worse because he was jealous. Thankfully though, he was also stupid and Sherlock knew that all he had to do was bide his time.
So, he waited behind a nearby wall, close enough to hear Anderson and his friend's wretched conversation about freelancers and wasters and the weather... soon their pious conversation became pure tedium for Sherlock to listen to and he sighed in annoyance, wondering when his chance would come. Finally, it did.
He heard a mobile phone ringing and quickly realised the phone belonged to Anderson's companion. The man suddenly got very excited and high pitched and Sherlock made out the words, “Jenny”, “baby” and “Christ!” and it didn't take him long to figure out that his luck was in. The man's wife or girlfriend (he quickly realised wife) had gone into labour. Anderson hugged his friend and told him he had to leave. The friend was unsure but Anderson insisted. They then walked away together hurriedly and Holmes knew he had a matter of minutes before Anderson returned. As soon as they were out of sight, Sherlock rushed out of his hiding place and ran into the house and straight upstairs. He walked into the lead bedroom and frowned. The room had been cleaned from top to bottom. He would discover nothing, no clues, no errors from the killer, no nothing. Worse of all, the body was no where to be seen. All that remained was the bloody sheets, which would hold little to no answers for him. It was the body he needed to inspect. And it was gone. And he knew, without to much deducing, who was to blame.
He stood there, his anger increasing with every passing second, until he heard the floor boards creaking behind him.
“I asked Lestrade to make sure nothing was touched.” He said, without looking around. “Why has the body been moved?”
Anderson frowned. “You have no business here. Can't you show the poor woman any respect?”
Sherlock turned and fixed Anderson with a look of utter contempt.
“I thought catching her killer would have been a pretty good way to start.” He replied coldly.
Anderson glared at Holmes. The hared in his gaze was evident and Holmes pursed his lips together.
Here we go again.
“We did our work properly here tonight, Mister Holmes.” Anderson replied, through gritted teeth. “Even by your high standards. My boys have been over this place with a fine tooth comb and I myself have given it a thorough going over.” Sherlock snorted at his words and Anderson's glare intensified. “There's nothing here for you.” He added, a hint of a warning in his tone.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “With all due respect,” he paused, considering that statement. “Actually, forget that, I don't actually have any respect for you; But back to the point, that was for me to decide.”
Holmes knew he was being childish but he couldn't help himself. He was incensed. The stupid fool. Why did men like him exist just to prevent Sherlock from doing what he was so damned good at? Why couldn't they see that a little assistance and trust would help all of them get to the result everyone wanted? A killer outsmarted and caught. Or was this man's pride more important than preventing this murdering scum bag from killing again?
“For your information,” he offered, “Lestrade asked me here for my help. He wouldn't appreciate you blocking me. If I'm to assist you at all, I need to see that body. Now.”
“That body?” Anderson shook his head disapprovingly. “Do you actually care that you are talking about a victim there, Sherlock? She was a young woman, now she's a corpse. Tell me, are you even human?”
Holmes had no answer. He was there to solve the case, not to grieve for the life lost. It wasn't his place.
“You need to leave,” Anderson snapped. “There's nothing here to see. Sorry but you've had a wasted journey.”
“Lestrade wanted me here.”
“Lestrade can make mistakes,” he retorted; “and you're his biggest, as far as I'm concerned.” He gestured towards the door. “And I think you'll find that he left me in charge, Mister Holmes, and I am asking you once again, politely might I add, to leave this crime scene right now and stay gone.” He leaned forward, his tone lowered. “Or would you prefer for me to have you arrested for contaminating a crime scene?”
Holmes raised an eyebrow and then shook his head in his impatience. “Why is it so hard for you to admit that you all need me? This case needs me.”
“Matter of opinion,” came the sarcastic reply.
Holmes had heard enough. “Grow up, man.”
Anderson stepped towards him. “Seeing as I do apparently have to repeat myself, I'll make this clear for you. I'm in control here. You are not welcome. This is my crime scene and I want you out of my sight!”
Sherlock couldn't help but smirk. Did the idiot really believe himself superior? “Well,” Sherlock replied quietly, “I'll have to tell Lestrade that next time he may as well leave a dancing monkey in charge.” He paused, theatrically looking Anderson up and down. “Well, now that I come to think about it...”
Anderson saw red. He cut the space between himself and Sherlock, almost nose to nose with the now smiling other man. Anderson was barely keeping his ever growing anger in check. He clenched his fists and glared daggers at Sherlock.
“What worries me,” he muttered, his eyes narrowing; “is that you don't seem to have anywhere else to be but here, in this house, bothering me. Normal people have friends, family. Boyfriends and girlfriends...”
“Wives and Mistresses, you mean?” Holmes interjected and, despite his cheeks reddening, Anderson ignored him and carried on as if there had been no interruption.
“Normal people have places to visit on a Friday night, real normal lives. I'm guessing you don't. You have nobody. Who'd want to hang around with a loser like you anyway?”
It was Sherlock's turn to glare. That comment actually stung. “I was asked here,” he repeated softly. “By your boss.”
Anderson flicked his hair back. He saw the sudden change in Sherlock's stance, sensed the other man was actually uncomfortable, and he liked it. “Speaking of friends,” he asked, with a smirk; “Where's your little shadow?”
“Forgotten him already have you? You know, the sad little cripple that treks along after you, always a step behind. The soldier boy who is suffering so much with PTSD, he got himself all confused and actually befriended London's number one freak!”
Sherlock didn't even think. He didn't know why he did it. Was it for him or for John? All he knew was one second he was calmly standing there, the next he had sent his fist straight into the other man's sneering face, knocking Anderson backwards.
“Don't call me a freak,” Sherlock hissed.
Anderson was stunned by the blow momentarily but he quickly recovered and sprang forward in retaliation, punching Sherlock hard, sending the taller man flying into the fireplace behind him. Sherlock collided with the selection of ornaments resting on top of the fireplace and could only watch as one after another, the delicate objects crashed to the ground, smashing into a million pieces as they landed. The noise was deafening.
Anderson was aghast.
“Now look! Look what you've done to my crime scene!” He rushed past Sherlock, and stopped beside the debris, clearly wondering where to start. “I could get fired for this!” He suddenly looked very tired. “Will you just leave now?”
Sherlock calmly wiped at his bloody nose with a handkerchief. He placed it back into the pocket he had pulled it from and then turned to face Anderson once again.
“You know what, Anderson? I would be very pleased to walk away and watch, from a distance, as you and your colleagues bumble you're way through this case. Maybe the papers should be informed, the public should definitely be warned that such an inept prick is supposedly helping to protect them from an expert killer.” Sherlock was red faced now, he no longer cared how cruel his words were or how incensed the other man became due to them; he was furious with this man who he saw as an obstacle in his way and he would belittle him any possible way he could. “I won't do that though, even though you all deserve it. I'll stay here, because I promised Lestrade, and I will catch this murdering bastard and save yet more lives. If you would KINDLY LET ME GET ON WITH IT!” The last words were shouted with such venom, Sherlock actually slammed his fist into the wall to control his anger.
Anderson merely stared at him. He was clearly surprised to see the usually pompous, contained man lose his calm so spectacularly.
He cleared his throat and then stepped closer to the now trembling Sherlock.
“You seem a bit frustrated, Sherlock."
Holmes didn't reply.
Anderson sneered. “It says a lot, you know, that, as Sally says, you're turned on by crime and violence, even death. It's the pain and brutality isn't it? It makes up for your not getting any?”
Holmes' eyes widened. He, for once, was speechless. How was he supposed to respond to this? With a deep breath, he turned his back on the other man. He had to regain his composure. All he had wanted was the chance to see that body! That was all he had cared about! How had a simple favour descended into such madness?
Anderson, knowing he unexpectedly had the advantage, leaned in closer. “You can tell me the truth, Mister Holmes.” He lowered his voice and smiled, as if he was whispering a secret to a friend. “Are you still a virgin?”
Sherlock closed his eyes. He kept his head down.
Don't rise to it. You're better than him.
“Did John turn you down?” The other man continued, aiming to hurt. “Is that it, Holmes? Is that why your loyal little puppy isn't following at your heels tonight?” He chuckled and Holmes could feel himself burning with embarrassment and anger. He fought to keep calm and now blow up again but Anderson kept on, his hateful words causing more harm than his fists ever could. “Are you not man enough even for a terrified lost little army boy like your poor Doctor Watson?”
Anderson paused. He regarded the silent Holmes, now apparently frozen to the spot. He was pretty sure his spiteful words had hit home and he wanted to go in for the kill. He would finally get the last word against this arrogant, self important, pompous arse-hole.
“What's wrong, freak?” He urged. “Have I hurt your feelings? Didn't know you had any.” Another chuckle. “I mean, lets face it, I'm not surprised John Watson got bored of you.” He took a step forward. “Lets face it, Holmes. Look at you.” He leaned closer. “You make fun of me because of Sally. At least she wants me. Who could ever love a worthless piece of scum like you?”
With that, Anderson hushed. He was finally satisfied. And he stood there, hands in pockets, waiting. He could see how tense Holmes had become, saw his shoulders were shaking. He wondered how far he had pushed him.
He soon found out.
Holmes, with a shout, turned quickly and attacked Anderson. He no longer cared about repercussions or what would happen to him following his ill judged attack on a police officer. He just wanted the other man to shut up, just to stop. He hit out at his enemy but Anderson parried the blow easily. They grappled for some time, both throwing punches and each gaining the upper hand over the other before a well aimed kick or fist would bring the other back on equal terms once more. They threw each other around the small room and Holmes found himself on top of the other man, and forgetting himself, lost with all the adrenalin, began to beat on his rival. He rained down punch after punch on that smirking face and just as he could feel Anderson beginning to still and could almost taste his certain victory, the unmistakable sound of a vibrating mobile suddenly filled the air. He paused mid punch, surprised by the foreign sound. That split second of uncertainty was all a now delighted and crazed Anderson needed. He struck Sherlock hard in the face, knocking the other man back, and Sherlock, off balance and dazed, crashed to the ground. As he went down, there was a sickening crunch as his head struck against the marble fireplace. He didn't move, just lay on his belly, moaning softly, still conscious but only barely. He tried to move but couldn't, he was stunned by the unexpected blow and all he could see were stars before his eyes.
And he was completely defenseless.
Anderson, fingering his bruised and bloody face, stood over him, breathing hard, his face triumphant. He wanted to make Sherlock pay, wanted to hear him cry out and beg. He began to kick the helpless man repeatedly, each blow only gaining him a low moan from the prone man. Anderson was out of control, he felt like a man possessed. He had spent months being belittled and mistreated by this arrogant fruitcake and now, he had him at his mercy. And suddenly, an idea came to him. He stopped kicking Sherlock and stared down at him instead, both repulsed and fascinated by the thought that had struck him. The image he suddenly saw in his mind did disgust him, that was true, but, right then, in that moment, it seemed like the sweetest possible revenge. A second later, he had come to a decision.
It was sick. And wrong.
It was perfect.
He smiled evilly.
He quickly began to unbuckle his belt, his fingers shaking so much in anticipation, he made a hard job of it.
Something, somewhere deep inside of him was telling him to stop, telling him he wasn't this kind of man and to think. He ignored that voice.
Anderson pulled down his trousers and boxers in one fluid motion and then leaned over the still unmoving Sherlock like a hunter waiting to devour his prey.
“You want to know how worthless you are?” He spat nastily as he grabbed for Sherlock again, trapping the taller man beneath him. “You want to know what you are good for?”
He twisted Sherlock's arm painfully behind his back and held him in place. Sherlock gasped, wondering if the other man would actually break his wrist. He attempted to pull his arm free, struggling vainly against the iron grip but it was useless. His movements were still disjointed and sloppy thanks to the crippling blow to his head, try as he might he just could not focus, and the room would not stop spinning. He knew he was in a very weak state and his adversary was taking full advantage. And Sherlock was scared. It was a sensation that was alien to him and he didn't like it.
“Let go of me,” he muttered before he could prevent himself. “You're breaking my wrist.”
“Am I?” Anderson laughed coldly. “You're so clever. Stop me.”
There was a second's relief when the other man released his grip, but then Sherlock went icy cold when he felt his jeans being unbuckled and pulled down over his hips. Very soon, he could feel the cold air against his bare skin and he wanted to fight, to kick out with all he was worth to stop this from happening but he simply couldn't make his limbs obey. It was as if he was frozen in place. He shivered, and again tried in vain to break away from the other man's bruising hold on him but he was pinned there firmly. This could not be happening to him. All he could do was lie there and try to stay calm. It would only add to his dire situation if he panicked now.
What did Anderson think he was doing? What kind of point was he trying to prove?
“Stop this,” Sherlock moaned, desperate. “Have you gone mad?” And then loudly, despite the grogginess, he demanded, as firmly as he could; “Get your hands off of me, Anderson!”
“Not so fucking high and mighty now, are you?” Anderson shot back as he lifted Holmes' hips, forcing the other man onto all fours. Shame seized Sherlock as he could do nothing but kneel as Anderson required him to. He could only imagine how pathetic and weak he must look to the man positioned behind him. His horror increased when he felt Anderson's sweaty fingers, poking and probing at his entrance. “Maybe this will teach you to keep your big fucking nose out of other people's lives,” the man on top of him growled.
Sherlock fought to keep his breathing under control. “Anderson,” he said, as calmly as he could muster; “Please don't do this. It has gone to far.”
He cried out then as his hair was suddenly grabbed painfully and his head flung back. Sherlock screwed his eyes shut from the sudden pain. He cringed when he felt Anderson's lips against his ear. “Shut your fucking mouth, freak!” His head was then thrown forward again. Sherlock knew there was nothing he could do, nothing he could say. His genius mind was of no help to him now. So, he tried to prepare himself for what he knew was coming.
But nothing could have prepared him for the horror that happened next.
Anderson suddenly thrusted forward without even bothering with any further preparation. Both men cried out, Anderson in a mixture of pain and triumph, Sherlock just in his agony. His eyes shot open as his body was ruthlessly invaded and he cried out in horror, until a hand was quickly clamped over his mouth, smothering his cries. Tears threatened to spill down his cheeks and he fought to keep them at bay. He would not allow this bastard to see him cry. His whole being was in agony as Anderson continued to pound into him mercilessly. It took Holmes a few more seconds to comprehend exactly what was happening to him. He was being raped. Raped because the other man, a man in a position of trust, could not stand the fact that Sherlock was cleverer than he was. That he was more important than Anderson was. Sherlock knew he was being torn deep inside, he could feel the blood beginning to seep down his thighs. He had never felt pain like it. Sherlock squirmed when he heard the hateful man on top of him grunting. He knew what those sounds meant; this wasn't only punishment for Anderson, the other man was actually enjoying himself.
“Oh Jesus, you're so tight!” The crazed man yelled. He was euphoric. “Come on, Sherlock, you love to talk, don't you?” He pulled out again and pushed back in with full, agonizing force causing his victim to cry out again and Anderson was delighted. “Tell me what it feels like to have me fucking you, freak? How superior to me are you now? On your knees, with me inside you? Why don't you tell me what you can fucking deduce from that?” He slapped Sherlock's thighs gleefully as he continued his relentless assault.
Sherlock pursed his lips together, desperate to not make another sound. He wouldn't do as he was told, nor would he beg Anderson again. He didn't want to give the bastard any more satisfaction. He winced as his body was maneuvered around to give the grunting man in control of his body easier access, and he wondered how much longer this torture would last? Just how much longer was he supposed to endure this?
At long last, he felt Anderson speeding up and knew the man was close. Sherlock gritted his teeth as Anderson grabbed his hair in another painful grip, forcing the wretched man's head up again so he could yell triumphantly into his victim's ear as he shot his load into the other man's body. He released Sherlock then and collapsed on top of him, utterly spent. After a moment, he allowed Sherlock to fall back to the ground, once again smacking his forehead against that damned fireplace. Holmes lay there, beaten, as the other man stood above him, tucking himself back into his trousers. Sherlock didn't dare try to move. He'd never felt so degraded, so disgusted with himself in his life.
He was a whore. As worthless as Anderson had said.
Anderson was still standing over him, regarding his defeated enemy. But now, his face was no longer red with maddening rage and hatred. The mist had apparently lifted, and it seemed realisation had set in. Anderson, now as white as a sheet, brought a shaky hand up to his mouth as he gazed down at the poor, broken man at his feet. For a few moments, he didn't speak.
Finally, he leaned forward.
“Y-you had to keep pushing me, d-didn't you?” He stammered “I d-didn't mean... I'm n-not... Oh God.”
That confidence, that reveling in his new found power over another human being, had suddenly disappeared. Now, Anderson appeared frightened and horrified by his own actions. Looking around, he saw Sherlock's torn coat lying in a heap on the floor and he walked over, bent down and scooped it up. He then, confusingly for the freaked Sherlock, placed the coat over the other man's trembling form.
Anderson then pulled out his own mobile phone, staring down at it as if he didn't know how it had arrived in his hand. He mumbled something to himself. Sherlock could just make out the word; “ambulance,” before Anderson began to dial a number. As he brought the handset up to his ear though, he seemed to have second thoughts.
“I can't,” he said, more to himself. “My life would be over.”
Sherlock didn't respond.
Anderson knelt down beside him. “We can't tell anyone about this. You know that, right?”
Again, Sherlock ignored him. He just wanted the man gone.
But his silence sent Anderson into even more panic. He grabbed Sherlock roughly, causing him to cry out. “Did you hear what I said?” He demanded. “Neither of us can ever tell anyone what happened here tonight. Do you hear me?”
Sherlock flinched, pulling his arm out of Anderson's shaky grasp and recoiling away from the man. He murmured three words and Anderson had to strain to hear him: “I won't tell.”
Anderson sagged with relief at this and nodded appreciatively. “Good. That's good. We'll just forget it ever happened then and move on. I heard your phone buzz, it must be in your coat. You can call John Watson. You'll be fine.”
Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up at Anderson, with something akin to disdain.
“He's a Doctor. He'll know what's happened to me.”
Anderson shook his head. “You'll think of something, a mind like yours can make up anything!” He patted Sherlock's arm then, ignoring how the other man edged further into the fireplace to keep away from him. “There's a lot of blood but you can explain that, can't you? And I'll back up your story, whatever you choose to say!” Anderson was clearly now only just clinging on to his sanity, apparently deciding that he and Sherlock were on the same side, that this was their secret to share. His brain apparently could not accept that he had just brutally raped another man.
Sherlock was happy to go along with his insanity. He never wanted another soul to know about what had occurred between them. Ever.
He, very gratefully, saw that Anderson was finally done with him. He turned his back on Sherlock , only stopping to lean down and pick up his own jacket from the floor. He then slowly moved through the doorway and made his way down the stairs and out of the house, not even bothering, or unable to bring himself, to look back.
Sherlock lay there, not daring to move or speak for some time. He closed his eyes, trying to get his impressive brain to digest what had just happened to him. The pain was coursing through him in waves. He was in agony and knew he was still bleeding.
He was frightened and confused. What should he do? How was he going to get home? He realised, with a sinking feeling, that he couldn't even remember where he was. He was Sherlock Holmes. Didn't he know everything? But all he knew now was that he was finished. Anderson had won. He turned over very gingerly, swearing from the sudden movement. He pushed his coat away from him angrily and then pulled up his trousers with shaky fingers, humiliated and embarrassed.
How could he let this happen?
He then remembered something Anderson had said to him, when the man had apparently been filled with remorse An idea that should have come to Sherlock long before Anderson thought of it. He crawled over to where his coat now lay and pulled it towards him, gasping with the agony caused by every movement. He found his right pocket and pulled out his phone, surprised to see he had many missed calls and numerous texts.
“Must have been on silent.” He said, almost conversationally. He knew he was beginning to shut down, that his body and mind were exhausted. He wanted to sleep. No, he needed sleep. Some rest would help him, make him think clearly. First though, he would look at a text, just one. He was curious. He had always been curious. The old him. Gone now.
As he read the message, his heart stopped.
“Thanks for nothing. Have a good night.”
And then, he remembered. He had meant to meet someone tonight. He had arranged with his one friend a night out, a meal and perhaps the cinema. He grimaced. Why had he organised that? He hated going to the cinema? Those pathetic plots were insulting.
Then, he knew.
He had planned that night out to please his friend.
To please the one man he knew he wanted to be with at that moment. His one friend and only human being in the world who would be able to help him, who would know the right thing to say to put this right. The man that would save him.
The man who would protect him from the monsters.
Now, the tears started to fall once again as Sherlock pulled himself painfully to his feet.
He would go to him.
He wanted him. He wanted his comfort, his company.
No. It was more than that. He needed him.
He pressed a button on his handset and then brought the phone carefully up to his ear.
It rang four times before his friend finally answered. A very gruff, tired voice spoke up.
“What do you want, Sherlock?”
“John.” He groaned. “Help me.”