Fic - Sherlock BBC. Worthless. Chapter 13/13. Rating NC-17
Chapter: 13/13 (Complete)
Pairing: Sherlock/Anderson, Sherlock/John friendship
Warnings: Very dark themes, Noncon, violence, swearing. This Chapter - Slash/Oral/Violence
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 - *Deep breath!* Hi everyone! This is it then, the last chapter! I really hope you enjoy it. Some new warnings for slash/non-con in a dream, and some violence. Oh, and the slash? Its oral and it does get a bit graphic! :D I am planning some one-shots set after the events of this fic... hopefully I'll start working on that once I've had a bit of a rest! Until then, thanks so much for all of your support and encouragement. The response from you guys has been so amazing, you've all made this a joy to write! Okay, before I get to emotional, I just wanted to thank both wounded_melody and rangergirl for all of their help. Cheers people!
(Chapter One), (Chapter Two), (Chapter Three), (Chapter Four), (Chapter Five), (Chapter Six), (Chapter Seven), (Chapter Eight), (Chapter Nine), (Chapter Ten), (Chapter Eleven), (Chapter Twelve)
Sherlock was slumped in his arm chair, his head lolling back, his eyes closed. John was curled up on the sofa, his hands clasped in front of him. John's eyes were glued to Sherlock, it was as if the man didn't want to stop staring.
“Do you want a picture?” Sherlock asked, dryly.
John blinked. “What?”
Sherlock gave him a funny look. “You've been staring at me for the past hour. It's slightly off putting.” The detective smiled. “You were the one who diagnosed a good night’s sleep, after all. It's hard to nod off when you can always sense another man's eyes on you.”
John coughed uncomfortably. Sherlock chuckled to himself.
Always so shy, John.
“I'm being rude,” John noted.
“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. He didn't look at John. “Don't worry about it.”
“I'm just relieved,” John said, more quietly. “I can't believe it's over.”
Sherlock frowned. “I don't want to talk about it again, John.”
“Never again,” Sherlock interjected. “I never want to hear his name mentioned to me, John. Ever.”
John didn't like this. It didn't seem healthy to him.
“You can't just bury it, Sherlock,” John argued. “Believe me, it won't work.” He looked down. “I'm speaking from some experience.”
Sherlock pursed his lips together. “The war,” he said, simply.
John nodded, and he stared straight ahead.
There was a awkward silence.
John let out a loud sigh. He got slowly to his feet.
“You hide what happened away, you let him win.” He stated, firmly.
Sherlock shrugged. “Whatever you think.”
John couldn't help but take offence. “Like you ever listen to anything I ever say anyway.” He moved, standing directly in front of Sherlock. “It would help if you'd even bother to look at me.”
Sherlock frowned. His eyes met John's.
“Thank you,” John snapped. “Nice of you to recognize I'm here.”
Sherlock was taken aback. “You're angry.”
“You bet I'm angry.”
“Because you never take my advice!”
“That's not true.”
John smiled. The smile didn't reach his eyes. Then, he turned his back.
Sherlock was confused. What was happening? Why was John picking a fight with him? Everything had been okay earlier, hadn't it? And now, John was upset, and Sherlock had no idea why.
Suddenly, John turned abruptly, and stared at Sherlock.
Sherlock was unnerved. This was strange. It made no sense. The flat felt cold, alien. Hadn't the sun been shining a moment ago? Why wass it so dark now?
John was walking towards him, almost predatory. He was still smiling. His lip was curling. Sherlock was frightened.
“John?” Sherlock muttered. “What's wrong?”
John placed his hands on both arms of Sherlock's chair and he leaned over the perplexed Detective.
“Nothing, Sherlock,” John replied. His lips were so close to Sherlock's. John stared so deeply into the other man's eyes. Sherlock was totally thrown by this sudden change in his friend's mood, he didn't know how to respond to it. And Sherlock hated it when he was on the back foot. John moved slightly, so he could whisper in Sherlock's ear; “I'm just seeing things differently.”
Sherlock was none the wiser.
“What things?” He enquired. “John, I don't under-”.
He stopped talking abruptly, because John had quickly pressed his lips against Sherlock's and was kissing him, quite punishingly. Sherlock's eyes widened, and he tried to pull away, but John would not allow him to move. He was trapped in his best friend's arms, imprisoned by his kiss.
I don't... John... please...?
Finally, John moved back. Sherlock stared at him, completely shocked, and trying, desperately, to regain his breath.
His confusion turned to blind panic, as John began to slowly move down the other man's body, kissing his neck, undoing the buttons on his shirt, and licking and sucking on his chest. Sherlock tried to call out to his friend, tried to ask John to stop, to say that this was moving too quickly, that he didn't know whether he wanted this or not...
That he had no idea what this was.
“It's okay,” John urged him. “Just relax. I know you want this. Let me take care of you, Sherlock. Allow yourself to feel something good, and loving, just for a change. Let me do this.
Sherlock moaned. John really knew how to tease with his tongue!
No! This is John! This is wrong.
Why is this wrong?
John's not gay.
He loves you. Nothing is ever as simple as straight and gay. Black and White. Fat and thin.
I don't want this.
Then, why does it feel so good?
“John,” Sherlock whimpered, out loud. “Please.”
John smiled up at his friend.
“It's okay, Sherlock. Trust me.”
And he began to tug on Sherlock's belt.
Fear flooded Sherlock. He wanted to stop John. He needed to stop this, whatever it was, before it went any further. But he couldn't. He couldn't move. All he could do was sit there, grasping the chair arms, eyes squeezed shut.
Sherlock's belt was gone. And John was ever lower, his head level with Sherlock's groin. And his hand was groping inside of Sherlock's pants. And...
Oh God! Stop, John! But, that feels incredible! No...
John had taken out Sherlock's manhood and had begun to stroke him. Sherlock had never felt anything like it. John certainly knew how to pleasure a man. That surprised Sherlock. It was impossible for him to deny that he was enjoying this.
And then, Sherlock was in heaven.
John had taken him into his mouth. Sherlock couldn't help but cry out. He couldn't control his own urges, all he could do was close his eyes and get lost in his delirium. What John was doing to his body, the sensations Sherlock was feeling, it felt incredible.
Sherlock gasped, squirming, as John took him in deeper. Sherlock couldn't have stopped John now, even if he had wanted too. Which he didn't. John had the power now and he was taking full benefit of it.
Sherlock could feel something building, deep inside of him. All he knew was he wouldn't be able to last, not for much longer.
He was so close. He pulled on John's hair. Wait. No. John needed to stop, Sherlock didn't want to lose himself completely, he had to keep some essence of control. John was driving him insane and the doctor knew it. And he was taking great pleasure in having Sherlock at his mercy.
Sherlock writhed, one hand clinging hold of John's hair, the other clutching the chair arm desperately.
Keep going, John. Dear god, keep going.
He glanced down again at his best friend.
And he screamed in horror.
John was gone and Anderson had taken his place.
Sherlock tried to rise, tried to force the hated man away from him, but he was frozen, unable to move… All he could do was stare, terrified. It was as if he was being held by an invisible force.
Anderson was sucking Sherlock now. It was he, not John, that was bringing the Detective to ecstasy.
No. Stop. Don't.
“It's not possible,” Sherlock breathed. Please, I don't want you to do this to me. Not you. Don't make me. “You can't be here.”
Anderson paused. He moved slightly, sitting back on his hunches. He eyed Sherlock, amused, a cruel smile on his face.
“You actually think it's over,” he whispered. His voice was steady, chilling. “You think I can't get to you now?” He viciously grabbed Sherlock's cock and twisted. Sherlock howled in pain. He was being dragged down and suddenly found himself bundled onto the floor. He was in agony, writhing, at Anderson's feet.
And Anderson was laughing.
That gruesome, evil sound. Sherlock covered his ears. He couldn't shut it out.
“You're not real,” Sherlock whimpered. “This can't be happening.”
Anderson kicked him in the ribs. And again. Sherlock couldn't defend himself. He was pathetic. He was still in Anderson's power. No matter what he did, no matter what he would ever do, Anderson would always follow him, always haunt him.
He'll never be able to escape his own fears.
Anderson pinned Sherlock beneath him. His trousers were gone. He was helpless.
A finger was inserted. He cried out.
“No, don't.” Sherlock moaned. “You don't have to keep doing this. Please, leave me alone.”
“I'll never stop,” came the spiteful reply. “I'll always be with you. John can't help you, Mycroft can't save you, Sherlock. You're mine.”
To empathize his words, he thrusted forward.
Sherlock jolted awake. He jumped in shock. What? Where? All he could see was John's concerned face. He looked around, wondering where Anderson had gone.
Then, he realized.
A dream. It was all a dream.
He was in his flat, sitting in his chair. Only John was with him. And John's expression was, thankfully, normal. No cold smiles, no predatory stares. Worried, yes, but undeniably the same old John.
Sherlock could have kissed him.
No. Not a helpful thought. He was definitely deleting that one.
Sherlock covered his face with his hands.
John was trying to gain his attention.
This was awkward.
It was just a dream. Anderson again. To be expected.
But, John. That was new.
Why am I dreaming like that about John?
“Hey!” John gave him a nudge. “Are you okay?”
“Sorry,” John said, at once. “Didn't mean to startle you.”
Sherlock shook his head. “'S fine,” he said, sleepily. He glanced at John, then down at the ground. He realized he was covered by a blanket. He smiled gratefully in his friend's direction, and then out of the window. It was pitch dark. Wasn't the sun shining just now?
“What time is it?” The detective asked.
“Ten past Eight.”
Sherlock stretched, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “You should have woken me, John. How long was I asleep for?”
John shrugged. “Not long, a couple of hours at most. I thought it was best just to let you rest, after the day you've had.” He caught himself. “After the two weeks you've had.”
Sherlock gave him a disapproving look. “I'm not an invalid, John.”
“I know that.” He gestured helplessly, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “But I thought everyone needed some TLC sometimes, even you.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “That's not funny, John.”
John perched on the edge of the sofa.
Sherlock seemed tense.
John wondered why.
After a beat, he asked; “Was it another nightmare?”
Sherlock looked up, abruptly.
John smiled patiently. He hadn't expected his friend to be this nervous. Maybe it had been a shock to the system for him, this whole day. Not only had he been held captive by a serial killer, but then his own rapist had pointed a gun at his head. Not to mention, although Sherlock had escaped them both, his whole ordeal had taken it's toll. Even Sherlock Holmes could only take so much before the cracks had to start showing. He had won eventually, yes, and now he could start to heal, but what would be the cost of everything he had been put through? How would Sherlock change? And exactly what would he need from John?
Whatever the future chose to bring, John would be there.
“I asked you about your dream,” John replied. “What was it about?”
He stared at John. And then, he glanced down.
“Anderson,” Sherlock replied, simply. He decided it was best that he left it at that.
He'll hate me. He'll be disgusted. He must never know.
John, typically, was unsatisfied.
“Was it like the others?” He probed. “Corridor, doors, swimming pool, and so on?”
“Yes,” he lied.
John looked like he wanted to discuss this further. Sherlock certainly didn't.
What will he think of me, if he knew what I was really dreaming about? How would he react if he found out that some small part of me, some depraved, sexual section of my subconscious, saw him that way?
It was just a dream, Sherlock.
Do I see John like that?
Let it go.
So, as swiftly as possible, Sherlock changed the subject.
“Have all the police left now?” He enquired. “Did they come to their extremely boring and completely inaccurate conclusions, and leave us in peace?”
John gave him a look, and then he nodded. “They finished up just under an hour ago. They were very efficient, Sherlock. You should give them some credit.” He glanced away. “And all the officers were stunned about -”. He stopped himself. “Well, it came as a shock.”
Sherlock swallowed. “So, they all know?”
John could have kicked himself. Very subtle, John. Well done.
“They all know Anderson, Sherlock.” John replied. “They saw him being carted off by Lestrade, in handcuffs. They were all disgusted with their colleague, believe me.”
“All of them? Even Donovan?”
John frowned. “She did okay today. She saved us.”
“Hmm. And we'll never hear the end of it.”
John sighed. “The police officers present will work out what happened. They are all pretty good at putting two and two together. That's what police do.”
Sherlock chuckled coldly. “Oh, really? Shame they can't demonstrate that ability every day,” he snapped. “My life might be somewhat quieter.”
“And that would be your idea of hell,” John threw back. “A quiet life.”
Sherlock's mouth twitched. “Not the point,” he retorted.
They met each others’ gazes then. And both smiled. It felt good to share a joke. There hadn't be much of that for two weeks. Obviously.
“Lestrade will be in contact with us soon,” John said. “He's promised to keep us updated.”
Sherlock didn't react. “Right,” he said, plainly.
John frowned. “Sherlock, although Anderson is in custody, we've still got a long way to go. Police interviews and court cases. Giving evidence. Both of us.” He rose to his feet, and then walked towards the kitchen, the worry in his tone evident. “It might take ages before we finally see the bastard behind bars.” He turned, meeting Sherlock's gaze. “And we don't know how Scotland Yard will try and cover this whole thing up. It would be embarrassing for them if the media caught on.” His eyes hardened. “As long as that sick git gets what’s coming to him, I'm willing to see it through to the end.” He jerked his head. “It's gonna be a rough ride though.”
One hand on the kitchen door, he called back. “I'm going to have a cup of tea. Want one?”
“Please,” Sherlock answered.
John disappeared into the kitchen, allowing the door to close softly behind him.
Sherlock returned to staring out of the window.
There won't be a court case, John.
He didn't smile.
Donovan glanced at the clock. Nearly Eight Thirty. Dammit. And she still had a pile of paper work on her desk. Well, it would have to wait until morning.
She'd had more than enough of that day already.
Everyone else had left off. She was the only one there. Well, apart from the Detective Inspector, who usually worked later than anyone else. And he'd certainly been busy since they'd returned from Baker Street. Telephone meetings all afternoon and evening. No one had been allowed to interrupt him. She could only imagine the difficulties he would face in dealing with this whole sorry affair.
She frowned. Someone else was also still at the station. Of course.
Mike. Mike wouldn't be going home that night.
She stopped, holding the file to her chest. She pictured Mike, scared and alone, in a cell. She knew he deserved everything that was coming to him, but that didn't stop her thinking about him, and wondering how he was. Nothing could stop her stop caring.
Maybe Lestrade would allow her to see Mike tomorrow. Just once more. She'd ask. All he could say was no, after all. And she'd done good that day. He'd already told her so.
She began to tidy up her desk and then leaned forward to close down her computer. She'd dived into her work, wanting to get it all wrapped up that day. Working helped her clear her head. She yawned. Bed would be nice.
She looked up, startled.
Lestrade was watching her, leaning against the door.
“Sorry, Sir. I was just packing up now.”
He gave her a small smile. “No worries,” he replied. She frowned. Why did he sound so strained? “Can I have a word with you please, Sally?” He added, and gestured. “In my office?”
She swallowed. “There's no one else here, Sir.”
He nodded. “I know, but I'd prefer to talk in there. It won't take long.”
She was instantly insanely nervous.
Oh God. What have I done? The review board cleared me, and the D.I. Was happy with my effort today. So, what’s changed?
She didn't want to move. “Have I done something wrong, Sir?”
He suddenly seemed very tired. “Please, Donovan. Just come through. Then I'll talk to you.”
Apprehensively, she followed him.
She walked through the door and he closed it behind her. He wouldn't catch her eye. Her fears intensified.
“Sit down, Sally.”
She had had enough. If he had something to say, why couldn't he just get on and damned well say it?
“What’s this all about, Sir?”
He leaned back against the door, hands in his pockets, his eyes locked on the floor.
Whatever he's about to say, he doesn't want to. That's not a comfort.
“Donovan,” he began, “I'm transferring you.”
She blinked. “What?”
“You're moving. Away from Scotland Yard.”
She shook her head. This made no sense!
“Sir, I don't understand...”
“I've got you a position at a station in North Yorkshire. The Met will fund your new residence, obviously. I've arranged for you to live in a nice little cottage, not far from the station.”
“What the hell?” She exclaimed. Transfer? North Yorkshire? Little cottage?
Lestrade sighed. “It's a quaint little village, Sally. The people are friendly. It's quiet, peaceful. You'll like it.”
Sally held up her hand. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening.
“You want me to move out of London?”
Lestrade frowned. “I don't have any choice.”
“I'm not going anywhere!”
“You have to.”
“But my life is in the City. My friends, and my family-”.
“But this is my home!” She was desperate, and dangerously close to tears. But Sally Donovan was tough, she didn't cry. Not even what she had to betray her boyfriend. Because that is what she had done. She'd given him up, thrown him to the wolves. And this was the thanks she got? Well, if Lestrade thought that she'd take this lying down, he was mistaken. She had to get through to him somehow. Yorkshire? She couldn't live in Yorkshire. She'd go mad. She wouldn't do it. Just drop everything and move hundreds of miles away?
It's NOT going to happen.
She clasped her hands together and glared daggers at her D.I.
No. He was her former D.I. She could say whatever she wanted.
“I'm not going to just sell up and go with this, Sir,” she snapped. “You know that, right?”
He closed his eyes, as if he was is pain. “I'm sorry, Sally,” he said again.
“Yeah, well you can stuff your apologies!” She shot back. “I'm not leaving.”
“You have to,” he replied, gazing at her. He then added, quietly; “It's better than the alternative.”
A shiver went through Sally.
“Believe me, Sally. You don't want to know.”
She covered her face with her hands. Is this really happening?
“When?” She moaned.
She gaped at him, stupidly. Was this all a sick joke?
“Tomorrow?” She repeated, as if the word didn't compute. “How am I supposed..?”
“Pack your essentials only. All your other worldly goods will be sent on to you shortly, and I can help you tie up any loose ends from here. Train leaves at nine thirty. Taxi will pick you up at nine.” With a heavy sigh, he opened his door again and stood aside to allow her to exit. “You better get packing.”
She didn't move. “You can't do this to me.” The tears were falling now. “Please, help me.”
She could tell how hard he was finding this, how much he regretted it. She could also see, however, that her pleas were useless. This decision had not been made by Lestrade, and although he didn't like it any more than she did, he had no alternative but to go with it.
And she knew she was doomed. She was moving to North Yorkshire. Disgraced, cast aside, like an embarrassment. Where she would not have to be seen, or heard from, ever again. They were going to leave her to rot.
What had she done?
“You have to go, Sally.” He told her, wearily. “The order has come from very high up. There's nothing anyone can do.”
She walked towards the door dejectedly, but now, finally accepting the inevitable. “Who did I piss off, Sir?”
“Someone you really shouldn't have,” he replied.
“But I'm a good cop, Sir.” She whispered. “And I did my job well today.”
Lestrade gave her a sad smile. “That's why you've still got a job at all, Sally.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Be grateful for that.”
Trying to keep her head held high, she walked past him. Then, she stopped.
Where's the harm now in asking? She'll be the other end of the country tomorrow.
“Can I see Mike before I leave?”
He grimaced. “No. I don't think that's a good idea.”
She looked down. “I know what he is, Sir, and what he's done. It sickens me, it does.” She met his gaze. “But I'll never see him again.”
“The man is a rapist, Sally.” He said, firmly. “It's impossible.”
She nodded. Well, it was worth a try.
She looked around what had been her workplace for the last seven years. She knew she'd never step foot in there again; she was scared.
“Goodbye, Detective Inspector,” she stated. “Thanks for;” A beat passed, before she added, “Everything.” And then, she walked out, went to her desk, picked up her bag, and walked to the door. She didn't look back.
Lestrade watched her go.
He closed his eyes and rubbed a hand across his forehead. That was hard. But, he'd done what he could for Sally, and had helped her out as much as he were able. It would be a lot worse for her right now if he hadn't. He could take comfort in that.
“You were kind there, Detective Inspector.” Lestrade frowned at the sound of the voice, and he looked up to find Mycroft Holmes in the doorway, watching him. “She didn't deserve to be treated so well.”
Lestrade eyed the newcomer warily. He took in the appearance of the man, the bowler hat on his head, and the large umbrella he held at his side. Lestrade knew that to the untrained eye, the man looked like your quintessential British businessman, but Lestrade knew appearances could be deceptive.
Mycroft Holmes was anything but usual.
The Detective bristled. “She's a good officer. And she came through today.” He looked down. “As I understand it, I wasn't the only one who put in a good word for her, was I?”
Mycroft shrugged. “That is true. And her efforts yesterday kept her a policewoman.” He smiled. “Keeping her free to do her job, as it were. Though not free to look for any vanishing friends of course.” Mycroft's eyes narrowed. “I want her gone by tomorrow, no time for any unwanted investigations.” He smiled cheerfully. “Perhaps she will take the additional time the peace and quiet allows her to have a good hard look at herself. She may even learn how to properly treat a rape victim in the future. We can only hope she takes heed of this warning. For her sake...”
Lestrade glanced away. He didn't like the aggressive tone but couldn't argue with Mycroft's words. Donovan's attitude to Sherlock's assault had sickened him. Anderson had been a bad influence on Sally, he had made her very bitter. Maybe some time away would do Donovan some good. And then, maybe, Mycroft would allow her to return one day. Maybe.
Mycroft took a step forward. Lestrade glanced up again. He knew what was coming next.
“Would you mind accompanying me to the cells, please?” The voice was so polite, so pleasant, that it made Lestrade feel uncomfortable.
“Will you need me to come in with you?” he enquired.
Mycroft smiled. “That won't be necessary. If you could just show me the way, that would be more than sufficient.”
Lestrade had received his orders from the very top. His visitor was to be obeyed without question. But his whole manner, his coldness, it made Lestrade uneasy. And Lestrade wasn't stupid. He had never been told, of course, but he'd been suspicious for a while that the mysterious Mycroft, who always turned up on the scene when Sherlock and John were in danger, was Sherlock's brother. It wasn’t that he especially resembled Sherlock, it was more the man's manner, his presence. And he was of course as arrogant as Sherlock. Lestrade was also pretty certain that the siblings didn't get on, but that didn't mean things weren't about to become very unpleasant for Anderson. Although Lestrade knew Anderson deserved what was coming to him, he couldn't help but feel anxious. Anderson had been his colleague, his friend.
And now, he was a rapist. It took some getting used to.
“Now, please, Detective Inspector.”
Mycroft was hurrying him. As patient as his brother then.
Lestrade did as he was told. He walked out of his office, with Mycroft, and saw three other men were with him. They all stared at Lestrade, unsmiling.
Lestrade's sense of foreboding grew ever stronger.
He led them to the cells and then stopped in front of the small prison that held Anderson. All the men watching had been excused by their D.I. at least an hour previously.
No one else there. Only Mycroft, his three heavies, and a Detective Inspector that was sworn to secrecy.
And Anderson himself, of course.
Lestrade handed the key to Mycroft and then stood there, uncertain.
Mycroft inclined his head. “That will be all, Detective. Thank you for your assistance.” A pause, and then, “Good evening to you.”
Lestrade knew he had been dismissed. He hesitated for a second, and then took his leave of them.
Mycroft watched him go.
The man is sentimental. The usual weakness.
Leaning down, he unlocked the door and entered the cell.
The tiny room was grey and bleak. There was no furniture, save for a bed, a sink and a bucket. This was obviously only a holding cell, hosting Anderson until he was picked up by a car tomorrow, and then delivered to the court.
Of course, no car would ever arrive.
Anderson was lying on the cot, his eyes closed. He was fast asleep. He hadn't stirred when the door had opened.
Mycroft's eyes narrowed. Sherlock didn't get to sleep properly. Why the hell should his rapist?
The elder Holmes brother walked forward until he was standing right beside the bed, looking down upon Anderson with disdain.
“Mr. Anderson?” He said, loudly. “Wake up, please.”
Anderson awoke abruptly. He blinked up at Mycroft, trying to focus.
“What's happening? He murmured. “Am I being moved?” He squinted, taking in Mycroft's clothes and stance. “Are you my new lawyer?
Mycroft actually laughed. “No, I'm afraid not. But you are certainly being moved. Get up please, time to go.”
Anderson didn't like this. Something was wrong.
“Where are we going?” He enquired.
Mycroft's cold smile did not reach his eyes. “You're going on a trip, Mister Anderson. And we have to leave at once.” He reached for the now even tenser other man. “I wouldn't resist, if I were you.”
Now, Anderson was scared. “Resist?” He echoed. “What is this? Where are you taking me? Where's the D.I?”
Mycroft's tone was completely steady, he sounded almost nonchalant. But his eyes, they were flaming. Anderson shivered every time he looked into them.
“I'm not going anywhere with you,” he said, stubbornly. He actually crossed his arms across his chest to empathize his point. He may be a prisoner, but he was also a Sergeant. He knew the procedures that would need to be followed. This was definitely not one of them.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. He seemed amused. Anderson's stomach was in knots.
“As you wish.” Mycroft told him. He turned and called over his shoulder; “Bring in the straight jacket please. It would seem the patient wishes to be uncooperative.”
Anderson jumped to his feet. “Straight Jacket? What? No!”
Hr grabbed for Mycroft in his panic, but Mycroft's aids rushed in and restrained Anderson, pinning him against the wall. Anderson fought helplessly in their grasps, but they held him firm. His struggles intensified when he saw one of the men was holding the straight jacket. No. Don't. He was desperate, and incensed, which made him stronger than normal, but these men were professionals. He couldn't move a muscle.
“Get off of me!” Anderson yelled at Mycroft. “You can't do this! I know my rights.”
Mycroft moved to within a foot of Anderson in an instance. He was staring at the other man, and Anderson tried to shrink away from him. The power in that expression, the hate. Anderson couldn't bear to be close to him. He had no idea what Mycroft was capable of and he knew he didn't want to find out.
“Rights?” Mycroft repeated, softly. “And what rights did your victim have, Mr. Anderson?”
Anderson's eyes widened.
How could this be happening? He knew he would be punished for what he had done, but not like this. Not by this sinister stranger. How could this be allowed to happen?
“Who are you?” Anderson whimpered.
His captor's smile widened. He tapped his bowler hat politely. “Forgive my rudeness. I didn't introduce myself, did I?” He leaned closer. “My name is Mycroft Holmes.” And, gripping Anderson's face in a punishing hold, he added, “I understand you know my brother, Sherlock.”
And then, Anderson knew. Oh my God.
His struggles were renewed. He cried out for help, but there was none to be had.
Mycroft watched him for a moment and then placed his hand against the frightened man's cheek.
“Now, now,” he scolded. “I didn't expect such behaviour from the man who pinned down and brutally raped my younger brother. You were brave enough to do that to him, Michael. Are you unable to face the consequences of your actions?”
“I'm sorry,” Anderson whimpered. “I didn't mean to-”.
Mycroft slapped him. “Don't lie to me!” His eyes blazed. “You knew exactly what you were doing, and you enjoyed yourself. And now, you're going to pay for that enjoyment, my friend. Ten fold.”
Anderson began to cry. It was pitiful, watching him whimper and moan, as his body was wrecked with sobs. Mycroft was not impressed.
“You are pathetic,” he told his brother's rapist.
“Please,” Anderson pleaded. He had nothing left. No one was coming to save him. “Please, don't do this.”
Mycroft eyed him hatefully. “Please don't do this?” He parroted. “Tell me, Anderson. Is that what Sherlock said?”
Anderson slumped forward. Only the men holding him were preventing him from falling to the floor.
It was useless. He was finished. There would be no court case, no chance for him to be heard, no opportunity for him to make this up to his wife, or to Sally. His life was over, or it may as well be.
Suddenly, something struck him.
No. He was not going quietly into the night. He wasn't walking out of the cell with these men. He would have his day in court, and he would take Sherlock Holmes down with him.
Allowing the men to drag him towards the door, thinking him broken, he suddenly snapped back into life. He struggled ferociously, fighting against them with everything and, finally, he pulled free. Having no clue what to do, he didn't make a run for it. He had nowhere to go. Instead he, stupidly, turned on Mycroft. He punched the man hard and felt a huge amount of satisfaction when he saw Mycroft bleeding from a cut eye.
His victory was short-lived, however.
He saw the syringe out of the corner of his eye and backed off. He heard Mycroft's commanding voice declaring; “No.” Then he felt the blows, and quickly found himself on the ground again.
Hit after hit rained down on Anderson, beating him into submission. It was only when he began to lose consciousness that he realised who was attacking him, and how. Mycroft stood over him, his face red from exertion, his umbrella held high above his head. He was in mid blow and he looked exhilarated. Anderson knew, as everything started to go black, that the man had wanted to do this for some time.
He wants to kill me. And no one would stop him.
And then, the blows stopped. When Anderson was finally able to focus on Mycroft again, he saw that a hint of that violence was now gone and Mycroft was watching him calmly once more.
“That's better,” Mycroft said, almost conversationally, “I don't believe we will have any more issues with him now.” He tutted. “If you get in fights with your orderlies, Mister Anderson, I will see to it that you are placed into solitary when you arrive at your destination;” he smiled grimly, “for your, and everyone else’s, sakes.”
Anderson reached out helplessly, grabbing hold of Mycroft's shoe. Mycroft swore in disgust and stepped back. “I'm a Sergeant,” Anderson croaked. “You can't do this. My wife, Sally, they'll look for me-”
Mycroft gazed down, his face neutral. “Neither your wife or your lover will bother to look. Your wife didn't seem to upset when she was advised of your disappearance. She seemed quite unconcerned. Mentioned your marriage was over. Understandable, being how you are a cheat, and a rapist.” He shrugged. “Oh, and actually, Mr. Anderson, you aren't actually a police officer any more.” He smiled. “In fact, from this moment on, for the rest of your life, you're nobody.”
With one last long stare, he then turned his back on the devastated rapist, and addressed his men once again.
“Put him in the jacket, and take him to the airport.” He glared. “And, make sure you're not seen!”
With that, Mycroft strode out of the cell, the sounds of Anderson's desperate cries ringing in his ears.
As he walked, he pulled out his phone. He quickly sent a text, and then, smiling in satisfaction, he replaced his mobile.
“That's that,” he muttered. “Everything in order. You're off the hook, Sherlock.”
Now, maybe things could get back to normal.
Mycroft headed towards the exit, his umbrella swinging in his grasp. He paused when he felt eyes on him, watching his every move. He turned to see Lestrade staring at him, his expression unreadable.
“I almost forgot,” Mycroft whispered. He felt in his inside jacket pocket, pulled out a small bag, and tossed it to Lestrade, who caught it easily. “This little issue has been dealt with. The Butcher mess has been cleaned up, and the name Vern “Killer” Keller, or the Butcher, as he became to be known, will never be mentioned again.” He jerked his head towards the door leading to the cells. “Oh, and the Anderson matter, well, I have finalised that problem also. The situation is over.”
Lestrade blinked. He looked in the bag. Inside was John's revolver.
“See that firearm gets back to it's rightful owner for me, would you?” Mycroft requested.
Lestrade frowned. “Why don't you deliver it yourself?”
A coy smile. “Certain people don't like me interfering. Or clearing up their problems for them.”
The Detective shrugged theatrically. “I can't imagine why.”
Mycroft eyed him. It was not a nice look. “You disapprove of my methods, Detective?”
Lestrade clenched his fists. He couldn't say what he wanted to. Not with this man.
“I just follow orders, Sir.” He replied plainly.
Mycroft smiled. “Probably for the best.” He gave him a small salute. “Good night, Detective Inspector.” And then, with a wink, he was gone.
Lestrade, very dejectedly, walked back to his office and sat down with a sigh. He knew Anderson would not be there the next time he went down to check on him. He knew he would never hear his name mentioned again. He wondered which exit they would use to get his old colleague out. Definitely not the front door. Too many witnesses.
And that would be no good at all when you want to make someone disappear.
Lestrade didn't know how he felt. He was glad Anderson was being punished for his sick crimes, but at the same time, this was wrong. They have a justice system for a reason. What was the point of it when men could just ignore it and deal with difficult cases as they saw fit? All to avoid a scandal…
Lestrade covered his face with his hands and let out a deep long sigh. Then, he gave himself a shake.
Move on. Keep going. Another day tomorrow. Replacement officers to find. The next case to solve.
And he picked up his next file.
“Thanks very much. 'Bye now.”
Having said the usual pleasantries, John cancelled the call. He looked over at Sherlock, who still sat in the same armchair, staring out of the window.
Every so often, Sherlock glanced at his phone. John wondered if Sherlock was waiting for news.
Lestrade perhaps? Or maybe even Mycroft?
“That was the hospital,” John said, breaking the silence.
Sherlock turned and looked at him.
“Mrs. Hudson is doing well. She should be back at home in a couple of days.”
“Good,” Sherlock replied. “It will be nice to get back to some degree of normality around here.”
John couldn't help himself. He grinned. It was such a relief that not only Mrs. Hudson was apparently okay, but that Sherlock was ready to get back to normal. Well, normal for him anyway. But, John was still nervous. He knew they had a long hard slog ahead of them.
“It's going to be hard,” he said, quietly. “Moving on, it will take time. The nightmares aren't going to go away quickly.”
Sherlock frowned. “I know that, John. But right now, I'm alright. Probably as much as I ever will be again.” He closed his eyes. “I accept that Anderson will always be with me, but I can ignore him. I'm strong enough.”
The doctor was staring straight ahead. Sherlock could read his thoughts. His own nightmares were on his mind, the ones he suffered thanks to the horrific experiences of the war.
John certainly knew all about PTSD.
Sherlock regarded his friend, who was now sitting on the sofa again, flicking through a copy of some pointless tabloid. It couldn't have been easy for John, these last two weeks. And that wasn't even including the Butcher’s attack. Just not knowing what to do for the best, seeing Sherlock in such a vulnerable state, the doctor must have found it hard.
But he was always there.
Sherlock cleared his throat. “Eh, John?” He said, uncertainly. “I just wanted to say... well... this past fortnight has been hard for us both... us all... and you've been...” He stopped. He was embarrassed, flustered. How exactly are you supposed to say Thank You anyway, and not mess it up?
John sighed. Smiling affectionately, he stood, and walked over to Sherlock. Surprising his friend, he reached out and took his hand.
“You're welcome,” John told him, with a smirk.
Sherlock chuckled. Of course. John knew him. He didn't have to say it.
They stayed like that for a few moments, holding hands. And watching each other. Neither one of them knew what to say.
Things needed to be said. Feelings needed to be made clear. But how?
“Sherlock,” John began, but then he was interrupted by the sound of a vibrating mobile.
Sherlock couldn't help but be amused by the irony.
Releasing John's hand, he stood up, and walked to his phone. He saw he had a text message and checked to see who was the sender.
At last, Mycroft.
He read his new message.
Sherlock pondered this for a moment. He stared at the phone, trying to clear his thoughts. He knew exactly what the two words meant, of course. Mycroft had dealt with the problem in his typically cold but efficient way, just as Sherlock knew he would. Vern, John's gun, Anderson. All done with. Was he pleased? Sherlock didn't know. One thing he was certain of though, was that this truly meant that it was now time to move on.
He smiled at John.
John returned the grin. “It's over?” he asked Sherlock.
Sherlock nodded. “Completely.”
Then, there was another beep from his mobile.
Sherlock glowered. “If Mycroft thinks just because-.”
He read the new message. His eyes widened.
John glanced up, interested. “What does he want now?”
Sherlock's face was flush with excitement.
“This one is not from Mycroft.”
John stepped closer and Sherlock handed him the phone. A sense of foreboding went through John as he read the short message.
“Pleased to see you're on the road to recovery, Sherlock. I've missed you, my dear. Ready for another round? Reply back please. With my love & very best wishes, M.”
John looked at his friend. They both knew who the text was from, and what they wanted. They were asking for the “game” to start up once again, and John was in no doubt that Sherlock was desperate to accept his offer.
John frowned. Oh no.
“Are you sure you're ready?” he asked, softly.
Sherlock grinned. “As I'll ever be.”
Good enough. John nodded to Sherlock. He would be at his side, as usual. He gestured towards the phone. “Better not keep him waiting then.”
Sherlock smirked. He held his mobile up, tapped in a reply, and, with a knowing smile to John, replied to Moriarty with one short message: