Chapter Text
He wakes with a jolt, his head makes a hollow noise.
Wood.
His head throbs, and he winces at a knob at the back of his skull - blunt force trauma, unlikely to be life-threatening.
It takes mere seconds to realize his situation. Stripped of clothing, his coat and suit discarded - worse things to come, likely.
His knees cramped painfully to his chest - crate
Freezing cold, strange, open motor sounds. Packages shifting. - Cargo hold. Aeroplane, most likely.
He doesn't know where he is being taken, but he has severely underestimated the Web. Should have known better than to chase two agents. He berates himself for his stupidity.
Running as fast as his legs would possibly propel him.
Here, in Munich, his contacts had lead him to two agents.
He'd been lucky so far with only doing one at a time.
But he hadn't been able to pin the man down - which was why he was chasing him.
The other agent was a female - something he did not look forward to.
The alley was narrow and winding and someone was there, just ahead.
He bolted for the shadowy figure with another burst of adrenaline.
That was the last thing he remembered before everything went black.
He sleeps in small increments, waiting for the plane to reach its destination.
He wakes when the crate shifts. Feeling like no gravity beneath him as the wind sways the vehicle.
He ignores the cramping in his legs and back - until his thirst nearly causes him to pass out.
He doesn't know how long the plane ride is - counting will only serve to disorient him and make the pain worse.
The crate is broken open - after a dark, cold ride in the boot of a vehicle - Land Rover without much thought as to what - or who might be in it.
A bag's put over his head, and he's tied to a metal chair.
He doesn't need to be told who it is. He should have known.
Eventually the bag's pulled off, and he squints at the harsh light.
"Hello, Sherlock. Oh. Right. You're not the detective any more are you?"
He looks up, confused, and a brief nod from Moriarty - he is struck across the cheek for the gesture.
"You don't. Get the privilege of seeing my face."
Dramatic, he thinks. Boring. "How quaint of you. I should have sus-."
The breath's forced out of him by a precise punch to the stomach. From one of the henchmen. French, had omelette this morning, cold-blooded, killer. Obvious.
"Now. We're not playing games any more, Sherlock. Unless you want to decide who dies first."
Fear squeezes around his chest, disguised as he catches his breath. They couldn't die. Not now.
"That's it. Now, I think our patient needs more suitable attire - don't you?"
Something's snapped around his neck. Cold, metal. A collar - most likely.
Hospital gown - prison uniform 45631B020Z.
"Alright boys. Punish it for it's crimes, but nothing permanent or penetrative yet." The glint in Moriarty's eyes chills Sherlock to the core. "I want to do that myself."
They first use their fists - then they find what's the best objects to beat him with. Someone provides a riding crop - or some sort of lash.
By then his head is throbbing so badly he's not deducing this place any more. Or what they've chosen to beat him with.
They finally drag him off to a cellar and someone rubs analgesic over his bruises - and they leave him, chained and half-broken.
He sleeps, fitfully.
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He is kept in the dark.
No light.
No conductor of light.
He shivers at the cold, but he doesn’t beg for any amenities. He has not fallen that far. Yet.
Eventually someone roughly grips his arm, and liquid enters his veins. Muscles relax, falling limp.
When they release the bonds and he tries to struggle, he finds it useless.
“Oh. We forgot to tell you,” one of them says. “It’s a paralytic. Won’t be able to move for at least an hour.”
He tries to speak, to defy them, but the words die in his throat and his muscles are rendered incoperative.
He struggles against the blindfold over his eyes. Tries employing his hearing, but the scraping he can hear against the walls, proves nothing.
Finally he’s dropped on the floor.
Blindfold’s pulled off.
He’s been led out of his cell and carried a room. Unless… this is his room.
Flipped roughly on his stomach. He’d laugh bitterly if he could speak.
This is really supposed to be the tactic for causing him pain? With the paralytic he won’t feel a thing.
He couldn’t be more wrong.
He can’t struggle. Can’t scream. He can whimper, but that’s really about it.
He tries to somehow plead.
Please don’t do this. Not this. Anything but this.
But they don’t hear him. Don't hear his panicked thoughts though they laugh at the terror on his face.
They don’t care. Someone catcalls.
“Remember,” someone says - a dark voice he doesn’t recognize, pulling back his curls roughly, and he finds his jaw is locked, he can’t even bite down on his cheek. “You’re nothing. Always nothing. Soon, even you will believe it.” Someone shoves his face into the wet concrete.
Someone holds his legs apart.
Soft hands trail down to cup his arse, and he'd shiver if he were capable of moving. Instead, his muscles twitch slightly - beyond his control.
Probing causes him to want to squirm but he can’t. It doesn’t last long before the finger - or the object - he's not quite sure which - is replaced by thick flesh.
Dumb Zero. Filthy Zero.
Slut.
The violation lasts for what feels like hours. He cries, hot tears spilling down his cheeks as one after the other take him, thrusting into his limp frame.