RED ROSES FOR SNOW WHITE
Red Roses For Snow White
Previous chapters:
Chapter1
Chapter2
Chapter3
You'll be his queen for the night
But in the morning you'll wake
With the Lords and high ladies
Of the bottom of the lake
The shapeless darkness surrounded John Watson, pushing him, hindering him from moving forward. The substance was like a thick fog through which he was unable to discern anything, or to go through it. It was so chilly, like the darkness itself was the source of coldness. It was impossible to tell if there was anything beyond the darkness. Still, he had to go forward, to see if there was anything else behind the empty fog. This felt so important, for a reason he couldn’t articulate. He just knew that he had to go on… He couldn’t give up now, when he was so close to his destination, and then… He heard someone calling his name. He recognised it as Sherlock´s voice, calling his name weakly over and over again- but the voice was growing quieter, as if he was moving further away from John. John had to reach Sherlock, before it was too late. He knew now that Sherlock’s time was running out, but he couldn´t move on, he couldn´t see anything, didn´t know where he should go. He ran in the dark without getting any further forward and his name was echoing everywhere around him. He didn’t know where to go or if he was making any progress. He stumbled and stood up. He had to find him in time- and suddenly, finally he hit a tall lean figure, who was darker than the blackness around them. The white hands helped John to stand, drawing him closer. They were Sherlock´s hands, but they were icy cold. Like the hands of dead. John Watson raised his gaze to look at Sherlock, but when he saw the figure´s face, he started to scream and couldn´t stop … The lean figure before him had no face at all. Instead of eyes or a mouth there were black holes and everything else was just a white formless mass without any identifiable features. No familiar cheekbones or nose or high forehead, just three horrific holes in his face. John panicked and started to fight back, trying to break away from the grip of the soulless lifeless creature, who managed to look surprised when saying with hollow, thin voice: “Now, don´t you want me any more, little soldier?”
He awoke, breathing heavily and shaking. He had probably woken up due to his own scream. His nightmare repeated night after night. The devouring uncertainty of Sherlock’s location had prevented John Watson from sleeping properly at night, and when he had finally managed to fall asleep, this haunting nightmare always woke him. It had replaced his earlier, more familiar nightmares of Afghanistan, but it was just as scary.
He had texted Sherlock seventeen times and called him another seven, as if it would have brought him back. Finally he had stopped trying. But John was sure now that someone or something was preventing him from coming back.
John had continued his work in the clinic, (he needed money and something to keep his thoughts from Sherlock) but he spent his spare time trying to find him. He ignored Sarah´s worried glances at him. Once she tried to invite him to dinner, but he refused, saying that he was busy, that in fact he was on a case just now. When Sarah had raised her eyebrow sceptically, he had added that he was investigating a case for Sherlock, that he needed him. Sarah had started to mumble something about his ‘very dominant flatmate’, and that John needed a break from him.
It was then, or maybe a little later on, that he’d told Sarah his flatmate was gone, and that he had to find the detective. Sarah told him that he should ask the police for help instead of doing the research by himself. John didn´t say anything to that- the police weren’t helping, they were busy investigating murders, so busy that they didn´t have time for the living. John didn’t want to wait until Sherlock had become a corpse before the police would be interested in him.
He had walked all over London, attempting to find places where the detective would have gone. He talked to the homeless people he happened to meet, trying to find some trace of his missing friend or the homeless woman with whom he last saw Sherlock, although it hadn’t been easy as he didn’t know her name. Many were suspicious, because they didn´t know him, and they didn´t want to talk to him. Some thought that he might be a police officer. But some of them recognised him and promised to see what they could do for him.
It was a very long and grey January.
One cloudy, chilly Tuesday afternoon, he returned to the Scotland Yard. He ignored Sally Donovan, who was shouting behind him- something about how the ‘freak’ had let him down, that he was wasting his time- and went straight to Lestrade´s office. He had to remind him that Sherlock was still missing, and he didn´t believe that it was of his own free will.
Lestrade looked even more harassed, if possible, but he just repeated himself:
“I cannot help you with this. An adult can be away from his home for a week if he wants. I don´t have enough men to look after every missing person. It’s not even my division. You can fill an application form, if you want them to take your case.”
John didn´t understand what had happened to Lestrade. Why he was so cold, when he was talking about their friend? At least, John had supposed they were friends. Was he unwell?
Lestrade had probably realised how he’d sounded, when he suddenly explained:
“He has always let me down. Now I need him, and he doesn’t even answer my texts. If he’s started to inject that crap inside his veins or something equally stupid, then I am done with him. Why you don´t ask his infamous brother to help you?”
Lestrade sounded so irritated, as if he had had enough of Sherlock´s methods and his way of leaving other people behind him without any explanation. How many times the DI had asked, almost pleaded with Sherlock to inform him more of his actions for his own safety and for the sake of their collaboration, but all in vain? Besides, his investigation wasn’t progressing well:
“The killer seems to pick his victims randomly. He gets them into his car, in areas with a certain reputation, especially at night time, and drives them away to some unknown place. It may be his home or some deserted house. We’ve never found any eye witnesses afterwards. I desperately need Sherlock’s help with this serial killer. I tried to call him, but he didn’t pick up, so it doesn’t look like he’s very interested in helping them.”
John stared at the pictures of mindlessly mutilated naked bodies, all found in London´s wastelands.
“Maybe Sherlock has decided himself to go after this maniac murderer to prove his ‘superior intellect’. Look, he doesn’t need anyone, not like us average mortals…” Lestrade continued his frustrated whining.
This man was clearly overstrained, John thought, and then…. what had Lestrade said? That was it! Of course… Sherlock had left alone to track the serial killer… Oh my god. Stupid, bloody Sherlock “never-waits- doesn’t-need-anyone” Holmes. John’s job was to pick up the pieces afterwards, if there was anything left to pick.
“Tell me, Lestrade, when you found the last body,” John said hastily.
“You know that, John, almost two weeks ago.”
“Nothing new then? What are the intervals between the corpses? Before you find the next?”
“The interval has shortened every time. The killer needs more stimulation. And the bodies look worse every time round. That is typical of all serial killers. The interval between the first and the second was three months. Between these last two it was a month.”
He stared at the photos of the serial killer´s victims, like he’d never seen them before.
“They look like Sherlock, Lestrade. All except the first one. The interval could now be three weeks, when he gets ready for his last victim….” John said finally.
Lestrade eyed the pictures on the wall. The slim figures and brown or dark curls of the young men resembled Sherlock. It was clear now when John mentioned it. How had he missed the resemblance? All except the first one, who was clearly blond and a more muscular type. He looked more like… John.
“Greg. The man has kidnapped Sherlock. You have to find them. Before he… Look the victims´ appearance: he is looking for a certain type.” John hadn´t noticed that he’d called Lestrade by his first name.
“You can’t be sure… Yes, it might be…. You are right. For God´s sake, I don´t know where to start looking!”
“Gregory, this man has an obsession. You have to see it! If you’d just listened me in the first place…”
“All right, John. Calm down. I am asking my men to do double shifts. We have tried to find evidence from the parks, which are famous for... well, you know. We are doing all we can. We will find them, that’s a promise, John.”
Was there a hint of regret in Lestrade´s voice, or did John imagine it?
When John Watson left Scotland Yard, he sent a text message to Mycroft Holmes. He hadn´t done it before, but desperate times called for desperate measures: “ Do you know where your brother is? J.W.”
He noticed that Predator had connected an IV to his arm after the last time he had passed out. So his capturer had finally decided to feed him… The IV didn´t stop him feeling repulsively hungry, like a living creature was consuming his insides.
That wasn’t the only thing he’d noticed. His limbs had started to become numb as a consequence of being tied in one place for days. He tried to move them as much as possible, but it didn´t seem to be enough. He had so many injuries that Predator had caused, not to mention injuries developed by prolonged lying down in one position, without any possibility of changing it. He hadn’t been allowed to clean himself for ages. His bedsores bit- he could have told Predator about them, but he almost certainly already knew.
All in all, he felt like he had already started to rot, his body and valuable brain. He had to talk with his capturer about his condition. There had to be a way out. Nobody could want to hurt a complete stranger this way; it was totally incomprehensible and unreasonable, in his mind at least. Especially if the man who’d forced him to go through all this until he begged for the relief of death helped other people as his work. He had to find a way out of there. He even wished that Moriarty could find him. He wouldn´t be happy if he saw what Predator had done to his nemesis.
Oh, if he was explicitly honest with himself, not everything hurt. Predator had taken care of him, he pleasured him regularly. Once Predator told him that as a medical man, he had learnt how important it was to take care of someone’s needs. It would all be for his own good, he repeated that constantly. He repeated it so often that despite what the detective’s own senses told him; despite the self-hatred which consumed him after these humiliating acts; despite his wounds that wouldn’t heal; despite his aching and starving body; despite his constant headache and all the other minor details; he had started to ignore what his senses and his brain told him and believe in Predator’s words.
He had made a mistake in his stubbornness, which had caused his situation to get worse. If he just would back off a bit and give in to Predator, give him what he wanted, answer his requests, then he would get some relief to his existence… Morphine… Predator had supplies of morphine, he would give him morphine. It might happen. But then his own nature prevented him from giving in… Remember who you are, he reminded himself. Don´t be so pathetic.
He tried to think of anything that would keep him sane, anything other than his aching body, which was weakening every day. He had gone through all the mathematical problems he remembered, from his school times to University, finding out that he couldn’t concentrate enough to finish them. He started to remind himself about chemical formulas, literature and countless minor facts which he had deleted years ago. There were plenty of them; the Solar System was just the tip of the ice berg. He had thought through all his unfinished chemical and forensic experiments in his flat, which he had left behind. He could hear John’s voice nagging him about his experiments, the body parts in the microwave or the fridge (he felt like he was an experiment now, under the microscope of a mad scientist), or his mess all over the flat (now he was the mess) or his violin playing at three am.
He could try and go to his mind palace. Strictly speaking, the mind palace was a method of organising his mind´s content and his thinking process. It made the reality more meaningful, made it make sense. But in this situation, it would have served as an escape from his current, unbearable existence. The problem was he was incapable to going there. He needed peace and solitude to use his mind palace He was alone, he had a lot of free time, but he lived under extreme stress and pain. His body was trapped and his
mind with his body. He couldn´t go to his mind palace. Predator had taken it away from him, without even knowing about it. Hardly anyone knew about his mind palace, besides John.
He started to visualize John. John´s jumper, the colour and material of which had once seemed tasteless, but after a while started to mean comfort and safety to him. He would give anything to touch the jumper, to feel the soft, calming texture of the knitted garment. He just wanted to be clothed, clean, fed, safe. With John at home. Watching John make tea, which reminded him more of the Chinese tea ceremony than an everyday task. John would pour steaming tea into two mugs, bring one hot mug to him where he was lying on the sofa, and then would sit in his own chair, sipping from the other. Tea… Now he deleted the image of tea and continued focusing on the image of John. Sherlock missed John desperately. But then he couldn´t think further; his thoughts made him sob and he didn’t want Predator to notice his weakness and take advantage of it. He saw John in front of him, coming to him. He imagined John killing Predator, shooting him, stabbing him over and over again, beating him to death with his bare hands. John would be so full of rage… He imagined John releasing him, taking him in his arms (he wasn’t labouring under the delusion that he could walk out from this basement with his own feet) and carrying him away from this house of horrors.
Wishful fantasies like these weren´t like the usual content of his brain, so these thoughts were enough to convince him of how confused and distracted he now was. But despite his mistrust towards fantasies, his thoughts consoled him, and he decided to let them be. He really hadn´t anything else left.
The time passed slowly and he couldn´t track it anymore. He didn’t know whether an hour or a two had passed, or if it was night or day. He had given up attempting to go to his mind palace, and had ended his pitiful fantasies. The basement chamber was the only real place in his whole world. Stagnant time had begun to feel rough like sandpaper, rubbing against his sore skin, and he wasn’t sure if he could bare it any longer without starting to scream. It was pure frustration.
Predator stepped inside the cellar room and walked to Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock was staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what the hooks in the ceiling might mean and if they had something to do with him.
Sherlock sensed the other man´s presence, and turned his dull gaze to him. He felt a powerful burst of fury, and he spat at the man:
“D´you feel any better, seeing me at your mercy, waiting to hear a beg escape my lips? I´m not your runaway boyfriend. He went long ago. You were violent, and he knew enough to leave you… He found someone better. Now… You’re looking for revenge, or relief from me… from anyone who reminds you of him. Have you found what you’re looking for? You won´t win your boyfriend back by hurting me. I´m not him. The five other victims before me weren´t him. You won’t get him back. If you kill me or let me go, it’s the same. Your fury towards your boyfriend won’t leave you. You´re the loser.”
“Don´t ever talk about him again! How dare you, you dirty slut? You are nothing compared to him… Nobody is… He betrayed me. I could punish you for your words… I could pull your eye out…”
The man was distraught at Sherlock’s words. He watched his victim´s reaction to the sharp object in his hand eagerly. Sherlock´s beautiful eyes widened when the blade came closer to them, dancing over them, before Sherlock shut them instinctively.
Predator pressed the blade against his closed eyelid. It broke the thin skin.
“No, don´t… Please, don’t do it... I am s-sorry, so sorry… I… won’t upset you any more… Please, don’t do it. Please.”
“You think you’re scary? You’re at my mercy, and you just begged me. It’s enough for me - this time.” He decided finally. He lifted the blade from the skin. “Now… You need decorations. I am going to mark you a little more.”
A ray of light played on the surface of the sharp thin scalpel in the man´s hand. He caressed Sherlock´s skin with his empty hand, like an artist testing the surface of an unmarked canvas. Without warning, he cut a long wound across Sherlock’s chest, then another near the first. Precise cuts emerged on the white skin. Another after another, one by one. At first Sherlock didn’t feel much, until the smarting pain grew stronger. His blood pooled on his chest … After another cut to his flesh, the twisted man licked Sherlock’s blood. Sherlock yelped unwillingly after every new cut. The man cut his chest methodically, following a plan. After his chest was finally filled with fresh wounds, Predator took a mirror to show Sherlock his ruined chest. Blood covered the pattern, but he wiped the skin clean, so that Sherlock could see the markings he had cut onto his chest. It resembled a chess board. But Predator hadn´t yet finished his work.
“You know, meat needs salt to be fresh and tasty. I like my meat fresh.”
He grabbed a handful of salt, and started to massage it into the chess board decoration.
“I am refreshing you.”
And he added:
“I would so like to give you a handjob. I enjoy the feeling of your cum in my hand, hearing your moans, but it would be the waste of my time and energy. I want you to fully enjoy it. I am afraid that your mind is too busy just now with what I have done to you. You couldn´t concentrate fully. Don´t worry, I will be back later.”
This time, I’m not going to be pathetic. I won’t make a sound, that’s what he wants me to do, he enjoys my screams. I won’t give him the satisfaction… It was an empty promise. He scratched his nails against the table, his fingers crooked, biting his tongue until it bled. He swallowed the blood, and Predator continued to rub salt into the fresh wounds.
“I want to hear your screams,” Predator prompted.
Sherlock screamed, as if it were an order; he hadn’t the strength to stop himself. He didn’t know when Predator had finished and left the room, he had - mercifully - lost consciousness.
Predator didn´t clean him up, he’d just left him alone there to wake up by himself. He really didn’t want to wake up, the salt still stung and his chest was burning. Predator was right. His mind was pretty occupied just now.
The sky had started to darken, when John got back to Baker Street.
Cat was standing in the street in front of 221B Baker Street, asking for coins from passers-by. John went to her, unsure how to proceed now she had finally come to him. Maybe he should give her tea in the flat? He knew that Sherlock never asked them into his home. He decided to just give her money. John had already learnt how cooperation with the homeless network worked. But she started to talk before John could do anything.
“I know what you want from me,” She fixed her piercing eyes on him. “He left, after the killer we homeless call Predator. The man had killed some of us as practise.”
“Do the police know about that?” John stared at the young woman in disbelief.
“Police! You´re kidding me,” she snorted. “We’ll help you to find him. Raz and others have left messages all over. We’re everywhere. Someone has to have seen something. When we know more, you´ll hear from us. We´ll send word.”
The homeless were a social network. The word spread rapidly along the streets, alleys, dark parks and cellars, among the invisible street people, under the noses of police force. They spoke of how that man with a long black coat had been kidnapped by the hated Predator, who had killed one or two street people, before he’d started to chase more “valuable” prey.
Meanwhile, John Watson climbed the stairs up to 221B Baker Street, and noticed that the door was already open. Despite the fact that he knew this could mean danger, he pushed the door fully open without second thought.
“Sherlock?” He said hopefully, before he noticed the man standing in their living room. Oh, naturally. He had already forgotten that he’d sent a text to him, and now here he was.
“Erhm. Tea?” John suggested, his attempt at conversation.
“No thanks. I am not here to be sociable.”
“Of course not. You are here for your brother.”
“You look terrible, Dr Watson. Do you know that?”
“I have some idea about that,” John answered curtly. He wondered briefly whether Mycroft Holmes ever left his umbrella at home.
“You were the one who texted me. You asked me if I knew where my brother is. What do you mean?”
John and Mycroft stood face to face in the living room. John tried to see something behind Mycroft´s unreadable expression. Mycroft waited, as if John should start talking. John couldn’t bare Mycroft’s silence any more. Hell, he was the one who needed help. This wasn´t the right time to try and gain the upperhand.
“Yes. I need you. Can you help us? He’s… gone. Vanished… Help me to find him, please?” John admitted quietly.
“I suspected something like that, John. My men, whose duty it is to keep an eye on him, told me that they haven´t seen my brother for at least a week. Needless to say, I cannot stand such incompetence. Tell me what you know.”
John told him all he could, although it wasn´t much. He didn´t mention his own inquires among the homeless, because he didn´t know how Mycroft would react to Sherlock’s homeless acquaintances. But he told him about Lestrade’s investigation, and to what conclusion they had come.
Mycroft nodded gravely and took his mobile out. Very soon, his men got a new task.
“Sherlock,” the man said to him. He hadn’t called him by his real name after he had woken up and found himself lying on this surgery table. The man had been creative in inventing other names for him, however.
He had brought green grapes with him.
“I can bring food to you, look...” Predator ate the grapes, chewed the juicy fruit so slowly that Sherlock could follow his every movement. Sherlock had to look at the man, in fear of an extra punishment - as if it made any difference in the sea of agony he was drowning in.
”I can bring you anything you ask for, Sherlock. I can loosen your straps, let you drink. Would you like few shocks? Tell me your wishes.”
Predator crushed one grape against Sherlock´s lips. He spread the grape’s juice on his lips, forced his finger inside his mouth.
“Suck it, swallow all, you whore! You want more, surely? You always want more. I can give you all you need and makes you want what you don´t even know you need.” His words sounded creepy.
“Give me morphine,” Sherlock whispered hoarsely. He was losing his voice.
“You don’t deserve it. You haven´t done anything to deserve it. You’re hardly worth the air you consume. If I remember correctly, I didn’t promise you that you´d get out of here. You are dying, my little doll.” The man´s mood changed suddenly.
That was alright, he thought. He couldn´t even sit any more, even if he had gotten a chance to. He had deserved all this when he had left John behind. John had to be furious with him, that must be it, that was the reason he hadn´t come to rescue him yet. Nobody would come. They hated him so much. He smelt terrible- it was his real smell, he thought suddenly, sadly. His flesh was rotting; his brain was rotten in his skull.
“Would you like to have more?”
He heard the voice asking from a distance, but he had already stopped to listen it. He rejected his false hopes of favours, relief or sympathy. But he felt saliva dampen his mouth when he’d watched the grapes disappear one by one into Predator’s mouth longingly. Oh God, he was starving. But he wouldn’t bargain with this hateful man. He still had some self-respect left.
“Tell me about John. What is his favourite colour? Is he brunette or blond? Is he good to you? Obviously, if you refuse to speak about him. Wouldn´t you like to make this easier? Get some food? Get fewer shocks? Do you want to sit? If you’re nice and obedient, I can offer to you relief.”
Never. Eat dirt, you animal. You choose the wrong person. Tear me apart. Do what you can. It’s not so much.
Predator had finished with his grapes. He had already a new activity in mind. He had a tie with him. Sherlock hadn´t seen an accessory before.
“I’m a nice person, so I decided to change things a little. You must be terribly bored.”
Predator tied the tie around Sherlock´s neck.
“You know, I have always admired your long neck. I thought that I could use it somehow, for our amusement.”
He started to tighten the tie around the neck.
Neville saw Raz´s graffiti on the wall near Clapham Common. He recognised the lad´s style and signature. Raz had been far away from his usual territory. There was something bad going on. Graffiti was a message, and this graffiti was a call for help.
As a middle-aged man, Neville wasn’t an expert on graffiti, but he understood the homeless´ secret sign system. It was their method of communicating things, to warn others or ask about something, and Raz was the king of sign systems. The homeless were looking for a Ghost. He knew who they meant. It was their code name for Sherlock Holmes. Now he was sure that he had seen Sherlock Holmes that night in Clapham Common. He had seen him vanish inside the white van, and he knew the sinister reputation of the van’s owner. People vanished inside it and were never seen alive again. The homeless warned each other to avoid that van.
Neville had a photographic memory, and he had seen the van before in the park. He knew the registration number of the white van. He thought about how not helping could be as bad as actively harming someone. He picked up his bundle and left to look for Raz. Neville wasn´t a bad guy after all.
Previous chapters:
Chapter1
Chapter2
Chapter3
You'll be his queen for the night
But in the morning you'll wake
With the Lords and high ladies
Of the bottom of the lake
The shapeless darkness surrounded John Watson, pushing him, hindering him from moving forward. The substance was like a thick fog through which he was unable to discern anything, or to go through it. It was so chilly, like the darkness itself was the source of coldness. It was impossible to tell if there was anything beyond the darkness. Still, he had to go forward, to see if there was anything else behind the empty fog. This felt so important, for a reason he couldn’t articulate. He just knew that he had to go on… He couldn’t give up now, when he was so close to his destination, and then… He heard someone calling his name. He recognised it as Sherlock´s voice, calling his name weakly over and over again- but the voice was growing quieter, as if he was moving further away from John. John had to reach Sherlock, before it was too late. He knew now that Sherlock’s time was running out, but he couldn´t move on, he couldn´t see anything, didn´t know where he should go. He ran in the dark without getting any further forward and his name was echoing everywhere around him. He didn’t know where to go or if he was making any progress. He stumbled and stood up. He had to find him in time- and suddenly, finally he hit a tall lean figure, who was darker than the blackness around them. The white hands helped John to stand, drawing him closer. They were Sherlock´s hands, but they were icy cold. Like the hands of dead. John Watson raised his gaze to look at Sherlock, but when he saw the figure´s face, he started to scream and couldn´t stop … The lean figure before him had no face at all. Instead of eyes or a mouth there were black holes and everything else was just a white formless mass without any identifiable features. No familiar cheekbones or nose or high forehead, just three horrific holes in his face. John panicked and started to fight back, trying to break away from the grip of the soulless lifeless creature, who managed to look surprised when saying with hollow, thin voice: “Now, don´t you want me any more, little soldier?”
He awoke, breathing heavily and shaking. He had probably woken up due to his own scream. His nightmare repeated night after night. The devouring uncertainty of Sherlock’s location had prevented John Watson from sleeping properly at night, and when he had finally managed to fall asleep, this haunting nightmare always woke him. It had replaced his earlier, more familiar nightmares of Afghanistan, but it was just as scary.
He had texted Sherlock seventeen times and called him another seven, as if it would have brought him back. Finally he had stopped trying. But John was sure now that someone or something was preventing him from coming back.
John had continued his work in the clinic, (he needed money and something to keep his thoughts from Sherlock) but he spent his spare time trying to find him. He ignored Sarah´s worried glances at him. Once she tried to invite him to dinner, but he refused, saying that he was busy, that in fact he was on a case just now. When Sarah had raised her eyebrow sceptically, he had added that he was investigating a case for Sherlock, that he needed him. Sarah had started to mumble something about his ‘very dominant flatmate’, and that John needed a break from him.
It was then, or maybe a little later on, that he’d told Sarah his flatmate was gone, and that he had to find the detective. Sarah told him that he should ask the police for help instead of doing the research by himself. John didn´t say anything to that- the police weren’t helping, they were busy investigating murders, so busy that they didn´t have time for the living. John didn’t want to wait until Sherlock had become a corpse before the police would be interested in him.
He had walked all over London, attempting to find places where the detective would have gone. He talked to the homeless people he happened to meet, trying to find some trace of his missing friend or the homeless woman with whom he last saw Sherlock, although it hadn’t been easy as he didn’t know her name. Many were suspicious, because they didn´t know him, and they didn´t want to talk to him. Some thought that he might be a police officer. But some of them recognised him and promised to see what they could do for him.
It was a very long and grey January.
One cloudy, chilly Tuesday afternoon, he returned to the Scotland Yard. He ignored Sally Donovan, who was shouting behind him- something about how the ‘freak’ had let him down, that he was wasting his time- and went straight to Lestrade´s office. He had to remind him that Sherlock was still missing, and he didn´t believe that it was of his own free will.
Lestrade looked even more harassed, if possible, but he just repeated himself:
“I cannot help you with this. An adult can be away from his home for a week if he wants. I don´t have enough men to look after every missing person. It’s not even my division. You can fill an application form, if you want them to take your case.”
John didn´t understand what had happened to Lestrade. Why he was so cold, when he was talking about their friend? At least, John had supposed they were friends. Was he unwell?
Lestrade had probably realised how he’d sounded, when he suddenly explained:
“He has always let me down. Now I need him, and he doesn’t even answer my texts. If he’s started to inject that crap inside his veins or something equally stupid, then I am done with him. Why you don´t ask his infamous brother to help you?”
Lestrade sounded so irritated, as if he had had enough of Sherlock´s methods and his way of leaving other people behind him without any explanation. How many times the DI had asked, almost pleaded with Sherlock to inform him more of his actions for his own safety and for the sake of their collaboration, but all in vain? Besides, his investigation wasn’t progressing well:
“The killer seems to pick his victims randomly. He gets them into his car, in areas with a certain reputation, especially at night time, and drives them away to some unknown place. It may be his home or some deserted house. We’ve never found any eye witnesses afterwards. I desperately need Sherlock’s help with this serial killer. I tried to call him, but he didn’t pick up, so it doesn’t look like he’s very interested in helping them.”
John stared at the pictures of mindlessly mutilated naked bodies, all found in London´s wastelands.
“Maybe Sherlock has decided himself to go after this maniac murderer to prove his ‘superior intellect’. Look, he doesn’t need anyone, not like us average mortals…” Lestrade continued his frustrated whining.
This man was clearly overstrained, John thought, and then…. what had Lestrade said? That was it! Of course… Sherlock had left alone to track the serial killer… Oh my god. Stupid, bloody Sherlock “never-waits- doesn’t-need-anyone” Holmes. John’s job was to pick up the pieces afterwards, if there was anything left to pick.
“Tell me, Lestrade, when you found the last body,” John said hastily.
“You know that, John, almost two weeks ago.”
“Nothing new then? What are the intervals between the corpses? Before you find the next?”
“The interval has shortened every time. The killer needs more stimulation. And the bodies look worse every time round. That is typical of all serial killers. The interval between the first and the second was three months. Between these last two it was a month.”
He stared at the photos of the serial killer´s victims, like he’d never seen them before.
“They look like Sherlock, Lestrade. All except the first one. The interval could now be three weeks, when he gets ready for his last victim….” John said finally.
Lestrade eyed the pictures on the wall. The slim figures and brown or dark curls of the young men resembled Sherlock. It was clear now when John mentioned it. How had he missed the resemblance? All except the first one, who was clearly blond and a more muscular type. He looked more like… John.
“Greg. The man has kidnapped Sherlock. You have to find them. Before he… Look the victims´ appearance: he is looking for a certain type.” John hadn´t noticed that he’d called Lestrade by his first name.
“You can’t be sure… Yes, it might be…. You are right. For God´s sake, I don´t know where to start looking!”
“Gregory, this man has an obsession. You have to see it! If you’d just listened me in the first place…”
“All right, John. Calm down. I am asking my men to do double shifts. We have tried to find evidence from the parks, which are famous for... well, you know. We are doing all we can. We will find them, that’s a promise, John.”
Was there a hint of regret in Lestrade´s voice, or did John imagine it?
When John Watson left Scotland Yard, he sent a text message to Mycroft Holmes. He hadn´t done it before, but desperate times called for desperate measures: “ Do you know where your brother is? J.W.”
He noticed that Predator had connected an IV to his arm after the last time he had passed out. So his capturer had finally decided to feed him… The IV didn´t stop him feeling repulsively hungry, like a living creature was consuming his insides.
That wasn’t the only thing he’d noticed. His limbs had started to become numb as a consequence of being tied in one place for days. He tried to move them as much as possible, but it didn´t seem to be enough. He had so many injuries that Predator had caused, not to mention injuries developed by prolonged lying down in one position, without any possibility of changing it. He hadn’t been allowed to clean himself for ages. His bedsores bit- he could have told Predator about them, but he almost certainly already knew.
All in all, he felt like he had already started to rot, his body and valuable brain. He had to talk with his capturer about his condition. There had to be a way out. Nobody could want to hurt a complete stranger this way; it was totally incomprehensible and unreasonable, in his mind at least. Especially if the man who’d forced him to go through all this until he begged for the relief of death helped other people as his work. He had to find a way out of there. He even wished that Moriarty could find him. He wouldn´t be happy if he saw what Predator had done to his nemesis.
Oh, if he was explicitly honest with himself, not everything hurt. Predator had taken care of him, he pleasured him regularly. Once Predator told him that as a medical man, he had learnt how important it was to take care of someone’s needs. It would all be for his own good, he repeated that constantly. He repeated it so often that despite what the detective’s own senses told him; despite the self-hatred which consumed him after these humiliating acts; despite his wounds that wouldn’t heal; despite his aching and starving body; despite his constant headache and all the other minor details; he had started to ignore what his senses and his brain told him and believe in Predator’s words.
He had made a mistake in his stubbornness, which had caused his situation to get worse. If he just would back off a bit and give in to Predator, give him what he wanted, answer his requests, then he would get some relief to his existence… Morphine… Predator had supplies of morphine, he would give him morphine. It might happen. But then his own nature prevented him from giving in… Remember who you are, he reminded himself. Don´t be so pathetic.
He tried to think of anything that would keep him sane, anything other than his aching body, which was weakening every day. He had gone through all the mathematical problems he remembered, from his school times to University, finding out that he couldn’t concentrate enough to finish them. He started to remind himself about chemical formulas, literature and countless minor facts which he had deleted years ago. There were plenty of them; the Solar System was just the tip of the ice berg. He had thought through all his unfinished chemical and forensic experiments in his flat, which he had left behind. He could hear John’s voice nagging him about his experiments, the body parts in the microwave or the fridge (he felt like he was an experiment now, under the microscope of a mad scientist), or his mess all over the flat (now he was the mess) or his violin playing at three am.
He could try and go to his mind palace. Strictly speaking, the mind palace was a method of organising his mind´s content and his thinking process. It made the reality more meaningful, made it make sense. But in this situation, it would have served as an escape from his current, unbearable existence. The problem was he was incapable to going there. He needed peace and solitude to use his mind palace He was alone, he had a lot of free time, but he lived under extreme stress and pain. His body was trapped and his
mind with his body. He couldn´t go to his mind palace. Predator had taken it away from him, without even knowing about it. Hardly anyone knew about his mind palace, besides John.
He started to visualize John. John´s jumper, the colour and material of which had once seemed tasteless, but after a while started to mean comfort and safety to him. He would give anything to touch the jumper, to feel the soft, calming texture of the knitted garment. He just wanted to be clothed, clean, fed, safe. With John at home. Watching John make tea, which reminded him more of the Chinese tea ceremony than an everyday task. John would pour steaming tea into two mugs, bring one hot mug to him where he was lying on the sofa, and then would sit in his own chair, sipping from the other. Tea… Now he deleted the image of tea and continued focusing on the image of John. Sherlock missed John desperately. But then he couldn´t think further; his thoughts made him sob and he didn’t want Predator to notice his weakness and take advantage of it. He saw John in front of him, coming to him. He imagined John killing Predator, shooting him, stabbing him over and over again, beating him to death with his bare hands. John would be so full of rage… He imagined John releasing him, taking him in his arms (he wasn’t labouring under the delusion that he could walk out from this basement with his own feet) and carrying him away from this house of horrors.
Wishful fantasies like these weren´t like the usual content of his brain, so these thoughts were enough to convince him of how confused and distracted he now was. But despite his mistrust towards fantasies, his thoughts consoled him, and he decided to let them be. He really hadn´t anything else left.
The time passed slowly and he couldn´t track it anymore. He didn’t know whether an hour or a two had passed, or if it was night or day. He had given up attempting to go to his mind palace, and had ended his pitiful fantasies. The basement chamber was the only real place in his whole world. Stagnant time had begun to feel rough like sandpaper, rubbing against his sore skin, and he wasn’t sure if he could bare it any longer without starting to scream. It was pure frustration.
Predator stepped inside the cellar room and walked to Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock was staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what the hooks in the ceiling might mean and if they had something to do with him.
Sherlock sensed the other man´s presence, and turned his dull gaze to him. He felt a powerful burst of fury, and he spat at the man:
“D´you feel any better, seeing me at your mercy, waiting to hear a beg escape my lips? I´m not your runaway boyfriend. He went long ago. You were violent, and he knew enough to leave you… He found someone better. Now… You’re looking for revenge, or relief from me… from anyone who reminds you of him. Have you found what you’re looking for? You won´t win your boyfriend back by hurting me. I´m not him. The five other victims before me weren´t him. You won’t get him back. If you kill me or let me go, it’s the same. Your fury towards your boyfriend won’t leave you. You´re the loser.”
“Don´t ever talk about him again! How dare you, you dirty slut? You are nothing compared to him… Nobody is… He betrayed me. I could punish you for your words… I could pull your eye out…”
The man was distraught at Sherlock’s words. He watched his victim´s reaction to the sharp object in his hand eagerly. Sherlock´s beautiful eyes widened when the blade came closer to them, dancing over them, before Sherlock shut them instinctively.
Predator pressed the blade against his closed eyelid. It broke the thin skin.
“No, don´t… Please, don’t do it... I am s-sorry, so sorry… I… won’t upset you any more… Please, don’t do it. Please.”
“You think you’re scary? You’re at my mercy, and you just begged me. It’s enough for me - this time.” He decided finally. He lifted the blade from the skin. “Now… You need decorations. I am going to mark you a little more.”
A ray of light played on the surface of the sharp thin scalpel in the man´s hand. He caressed Sherlock´s skin with his empty hand, like an artist testing the surface of an unmarked canvas. Without warning, he cut a long wound across Sherlock’s chest, then another near the first. Precise cuts emerged on the white skin. Another after another, one by one. At first Sherlock didn’t feel much, until the smarting pain grew stronger. His blood pooled on his chest … After another cut to his flesh, the twisted man licked Sherlock’s blood. Sherlock yelped unwillingly after every new cut. The man cut his chest methodically, following a plan. After his chest was finally filled with fresh wounds, Predator took a mirror to show Sherlock his ruined chest. Blood covered the pattern, but he wiped the skin clean, so that Sherlock could see the markings he had cut onto his chest. It resembled a chess board. But Predator hadn´t yet finished his work.
“You know, meat needs salt to be fresh and tasty. I like my meat fresh.”
He grabbed a handful of salt, and started to massage it into the chess board decoration.
“I am refreshing you.”
And he added:
“I would so like to give you a handjob. I enjoy the feeling of your cum in my hand, hearing your moans, but it would be the waste of my time and energy. I want you to fully enjoy it. I am afraid that your mind is too busy just now with what I have done to you. You couldn´t concentrate fully. Don´t worry, I will be back later.”
This time, I’m not going to be pathetic. I won’t make a sound, that’s what he wants me to do, he enjoys my screams. I won’t give him the satisfaction… It was an empty promise. He scratched his nails against the table, his fingers crooked, biting his tongue until it bled. He swallowed the blood, and Predator continued to rub salt into the fresh wounds.
“I want to hear your screams,” Predator prompted.
Sherlock screamed, as if it were an order; he hadn’t the strength to stop himself. He didn’t know when Predator had finished and left the room, he had - mercifully - lost consciousness.
Predator didn´t clean him up, he’d just left him alone there to wake up by himself. He really didn’t want to wake up, the salt still stung and his chest was burning. Predator was right. His mind was pretty occupied just now.
The sky had started to darken, when John got back to Baker Street.
Cat was standing in the street in front of 221B Baker Street, asking for coins from passers-by. John went to her, unsure how to proceed now she had finally come to him. Maybe he should give her tea in the flat? He knew that Sherlock never asked them into his home. He decided to just give her money. John had already learnt how cooperation with the homeless network worked. But she started to talk before John could do anything.
“I know what you want from me,” She fixed her piercing eyes on him. “He left, after the killer we homeless call Predator. The man had killed some of us as practise.”
“Do the police know about that?” John stared at the young woman in disbelief.
“Police! You´re kidding me,” she snorted. “We’ll help you to find him. Raz and others have left messages all over. We’re everywhere. Someone has to have seen something. When we know more, you´ll hear from us. We´ll send word.”
The homeless were a social network. The word spread rapidly along the streets, alleys, dark parks and cellars, among the invisible street people, under the noses of police force. They spoke of how that man with a long black coat had been kidnapped by the hated Predator, who had killed one or two street people, before he’d started to chase more “valuable” prey.
Meanwhile, John Watson climbed the stairs up to 221B Baker Street, and noticed that the door was already open. Despite the fact that he knew this could mean danger, he pushed the door fully open without second thought.
“Sherlock?” He said hopefully, before he noticed the man standing in their living room. Oh, naturally. He had already forgotten that he’d sent a text to him, and now here he was.
“Erhm. Tea?” John suggested, his attempt at conversation.
“No thanks. I am not here to be sociable.”
“Of course not. You are here for your brother.”
“You look terrible, Dr Watson. Do you know that?”
“I have some idea about that,” John answered curtly. He wondered briefly whether Mycroft Holmes ever left his umbrella at home.
“You were the one who texted me. You asked me if I knew where my brother is. What do you mean?”
John and Mycroft stood face to face in the living room. John tried to see something behind Mycroft´s unreadable expression. Mycroft waited, as if John should start talking. John couldn’t bare Mycroft’s silence any more. Hell, he was the one who needed help. This wasn´t the right time to try and gain the upperhand.
“Yes. I need you. Can you help us? He’s… gone. Vanished… Help me to find him, please?” John admitted quietly.
“I suspected something like that, John. My men, whose duty it is to keep an eye on him, told me that they haven´t seen my brother for at least a week. Needless to say, I cannot stand such incompetence. Tell me what you know.”
John told him all he could, although it wasn´t much. He didn´t mention his own inquires among the homeless, because he didn´t know how Mycroft would react to Sherlock’s homeless acquaintances. But he told him about Lestrade’s investigation, and to what conclusion they had come.
Mycroft nodded gravely and took his mobile out. Very soon, his men got a new task.
“Sherlock,” the man said to him. He hadn’t called him by his real name after he had woken up and found himself lying on this surgery table. The man had been creative in inventing other names for him, however.
He had brought green grapes with him.
“I can bring food to you, look...” Predator ate the grapes, chewed the juicy fruit so slowly that Sherlock could follow his every movement. Sherlock had to look at the man, in fear of an extra punishment - as if it made any difference in the sea of agony he was drowning in.
”I can bring you anything you ask for, Sherlock. I can loosen your straps, let you drink. Would you like few shocks? Tell me your wishes.”
Predator crushed one grape against Sherlock´s lips. He spread the grape’s juice on his lips, forced his finger inside his mouth.
“Suck it, swallow all, you whore! You want more, surely? You always want more. I can give you all you need and makes you want what you don´t even know you need.” His words sounded creepy.
“Give me morphine,” Sherlock whispered hoarsely. He was losing his voice.
“You don’t deserve it. You haven´t done anything to deserve it. You’re hardly worth the air you consume. If I remember correctly, I didn’t promise you that you´d get out of here. You are dying, my little doll.” The man´s mood changed suddenly.
That was alright, he thought. He couldn´t even sit any more, even if he had gotten a chance to. He had deserved all this when he had left John behind. John had to be furious with him, that must be it, that was the reason he hadn´t come to rescue him yet. Nobody would come. They hated him so much. He smelt terrible- it was his real smell, he thought suddenly, sadly. His flesh was rotting; his brain was rotten in his skull.
“Would you like to have more?”
He heard the voice asking from a distance, but he had already stopped to listen it. He rejected his false hopes of favours, relief or sympathy. But he felt saliva dampen his mouth when he’d watched the grapes disappear one by one into Predator’s mouth longingly. Oh God, he was starving. But he wouldn’t bargain with this hateful man. He still had some self-respect left.
“Tell me about John. What is his favourite colour? Is he brunette or blond? Is he good to you? Obviously, if you refuse to speak about him. Wouldn´t you like to make this easier? Get some food? Get fewer shocks? Do you want to sit? If you’re nice and obedient, I can offer to you relief.”
Never. Eat dirt, you animal. You choose the wrong person. Tear me apart. Do what you can. It’s not so much.
Predator had finished with his grapes. He had already a new activity in mind. He had a tie with him. Sherlock hadn´t seen an accessory before.
“I’m a nice person, so I decided to change things a little. You must be terribly bored.”
Predator tied the tie around Sherlock´s neck.
“You know, I have always admired your long neck. I thought that I could use it somehow, for our amusement.”
He started to tighten the tie around the neck.
Neville saw Raz´s graffiti on the wall near Clapham Common. He recognised the lad´s style and signature. Raz had been far away from his usual territory. There was something bad going on. Graffiti was a message, and this graffiti was a call for help.
As a middle-aged man, Neville wasn’t an expert on graffiti, but he understood the homeless´ secret sign system. It was their method of communicating things, to warn others or ask about something, and Raz was the king of sign systems. The homeless were looking for a Ghost. He knew who they meant. It was their code name for Sherlock Holmes. Now he was sure that he had seen Sherlock Holmes that night in Clapham Common. He had seen him vanish inside the white van, and he knew the sinister reputation of the van’s owner. People vanished inside it and were never seen alive again. The homeless warned each other to avoid that van.
Neville had a photographic memory, and he had seen the van before in the park. He knew the registration number of the white van. He thought about how not helping could be as bad as actively harming someone. He picked up his bundle and left to look for Raz. Neville wasn´t a bad guy after all.