#I know my way more around first ave/target center/field but I go to a lot more wild games than I do go to things in mpls

[alltheprettyplaces]

hmmmm I found a bus that leaves from relatively close to me for a to and from for the concert…… I’m dreading the thought of traffic and finding parking so I might just have to do this

[dragonnan]

The Tiger and the Shark by dragonnan

Rating: Mature

Archive Warning: Rape/Non-Con

Category: Gen

Fandom: Sherlock (TV)

Relationships: (past) Irene Adler/ Sherlock Holmes, (pre-ish) Sherlock Holmes/ Molly Hooper (this is not a romance however)

Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Molly Hooper, OMC, OFC, Mummy (Sherlock), Sherlock Holmes' Father, Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan

Additional Tags: Charles Augustus Magnussen Mentioned, Allusions to HLV Deleted Scene, Rape/Non-con Elements, not graphic, However Could Be Quite Triggery, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Past Mary Watson, Staying Close to Canon, Until it isn't, Everything Hurts, Devastated Sherlock, Sherlock Needs A Hug, John Watson Needs A Hug, everyone needs a fucking hug, BAMF Mycroft Holmes, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Murder, Autism Spectrum Sherlock, Apologies to Mycroft as he gets a bit of Non-Sympathetic Treatment here at first, Although he IS an Absolute Prat, Flashbacks, PTSD Sherlock

Summary: “Do you find it less frightening; knowing what will happen? I'd rather imagine the opposite were true. You see, my husband was a master at psychological games – planting seeds of intent and letting them grow whichever way his assets chose. The torments they imagined were horrors of their own design. Charles loved that – knowing they only needed a little... pressure. What horrors were you imagining, I wonder, when you blew his brains out?”

Author Notes: This is currently 18 chapters long and continuing to grow! I hadn’t, at all, planned on writing such a long fic for my first introduction to the Sherlock universe but the story demanded otherwise.  I know how hard a subject this is to read.  By and large, fics like this do not tend to get a wide readership.  I won’t pretend there aren’t difficult scenes to navigate.  However there are a LOT LOT more scenes that aren’t specific to the trauma endured.  I have a lot of happy times in here and MOST of this is comfort.  And there’s quite a bit that (in my opinion) is even funny at times.  So, I really hope you’ll give me a chance!  Below is the first chapter.  Thank you so much!

Flashing lights – purple haze... Not his ideal venue for client interactions, no matter how promising the game presented. John having made himself ill on whatever take away he'd wolfed down on the way to the flat that morning – leaving Rosie in the dubious care of Mrs. Hudson while he retired to his room to sleep it off; the end result being Sherlock was left to his own devices with regards to the current investigation. Hard to resist an 8, however.

Twenty minutes. Longer than he liked to wait for anyone, it was only the mild entertainment on the dance floor that had stayed him from an exit upon hitting the ten minute mark.

“Well you're a right pretty one.”

Comment filed and ignored – focus, instead, on the weaving steps of the fellow fifteen feet forward and knocking about the pub with seemingly no true purpose in mind.

A thick-skulled man; oafish, howling, to anyone offering a passing and uninterested glance. Sherlock, however, had rather a more curious focus. Not drunk – though slurring in a way to imply it while dragging his leg enough to leave a thin burn of rubber on the tile. Minimizing threat in one manner while presenting the inebriated brute to obfuscate intent. A character whom the average clientele would avoid and, should they remember him in any fashion, it wouldn't be for his face but for his slovenly discourse. Despite his uneven steps, he'd maintained a true course belying the affected intoxication.

A long digit, nail smooth and trimmed, ghosted along the curve of Sherlock's cheekbone. Head jerking away from the intrusion, he never took his eyes from his target while addressing his unwelcome paramour.

“I assure you, you will find no entertainment with me. However, if you wish to retain the use of your right index I would suggest you refrain from further physical contact.”

The oaf had, by now, made a steady journey past the dance floor on his way to the loo. However, rather than the gents – he brashly shoved into the ladies – expected caterwauling and the uptick of attention from the three bouncers who, rather than split duties and send an individual, converged en masse on the building chaos. Now, then, would be the start of the real action; when the accomplice would make his move. Easy money from the till or risky, yet greater, reward from the underground card game in the back offices?

“Ah, now, that wasn't what I was told. In fact... my employer had assured me you would be most... accommodating... Mr. Holmes.” Solid pressure – high and just under his left armpit while the other arm wrapped around his chest – for all appearances, to any distracted onlooker, guttered and needing a solid shoulder to ease him into the nearest cab. “Sorry I'm late, love. But I had to be certain dear John -boy wasn't going to scupper our date. Though I apologize about the Ipecac. Hope your boyfriend isn't too ropey.”

“Spiked his curry just to set up this little abduction; how dull. Should I be flattered?”

Breath heated against his ear – moist and tainted of expensive cigars and cheap kippers. “Oh, we'll 'ave plenty of time for chattering later, beautiful. For now, how about help a soused gent to the curb, yeah?”

Their journey to the door went unremarked. In minutes, the inside distraction would be hoisted out behind them – thus completing the little play-act that had been carried out with vexing success.

No shortage of villains who'd have wished him harm – creating this game to snare him for whatever vengeful purpose that struck their fancy. Moriarty was dead and, truth tell, this was nowhere the elaborate scheme he'd have imagined. For all of its effectiveness this had the earmarks of something recently contrived. A new enemy, then; angry enough to act swiftly rather than indulge in the long game. Case in point, the angular creature shoving him towards a waiting black sedan, while steady with his weapon, was loose with his tongue – having muttered several oaths about “that pig ugly old bint”. The rich blend of Liga Privada against the sharp stench of oily fish suggested a wealthy benefactor willing to entice and impress the less than affluent. Why? A skill-set, then, not in keeping with a higher class of criminal. Not difficult to ascertain said skills based on the overt displays of chilly affection. It also suggested a criminal whose services were not likely to end with a fat wallet but, rather, a slab at Barts. Hiring among the upper echelons invited questions when one of their number disappeared. Not so with the average street thug.

Though his body was being forced into the rumbling vehicle – aided along by the reappearance of the suddenly sober third member of their tiny gang, Sherlock's mind was already sorting and dismissing face after face from those he'd captured and those he'd aided – numerous enough foes among his clientele to include them as suspects.

By the time thick mounting tape had been wrapped around his wrists and a rough hood had been cinched beneath his jaw, he'd discarded twenty-five women from his list either due to age, inclination, or incarceration.

With the field condensed to only three remaining candidates, Sherlock tightened his focus on motive.

“Take it slow. Last thing we need is some rozzer berk nick us for speeding.” A shift – seat springs giving off a worn squeal. “Now then, how about a nice little nappy?”

Sherlock ducked but couldn't stop the hand closing around the back of his neck any more than he could wrest away from the heavy body pinning him into the corner next to the door. A moment later, he felt the pinching burn of a needle push into his arm. Drowsiness hit fast as a comfortable warmth blossomed through his belly – dipping his head down towards his knees. Though he fought the effects – speech an inarticulate slur – the drug could not be staved forever. Now gentle hands tipped him towards a lap – trousers rough against his cheek – whilst thick fingers pushed beneath the back of the hood and curled through his hair. Continuous motion carding from forehead to nape, he hadn't the will to shake free from the liberties taken. Roughly fifteen minutes on, one hand left his scalp to rest warm on his shoulder. Unconsciousness was deepening - bringing a thickening dark that surged up through his toes – a flooding swell that closed over his head like ink...

◦

Minimal conversation passed around him – heard but unimportant beyond cataloging. His eyes felt tacked shut and his body heavy – crumpled across the seat; head pillowed on hard thighs.

“...onna need to take one more left – up ahead, past that house, there.” A hand slapped, suddenly, on his arm and, though Sherlock didn't flinch, he tensed under the fingers that squeezed his bicep.

“Have a good rest, sweetheart?”

Fine layers of glaze peeled away to a molten haze. Blinking, no real aid, nor squinting – though at least the stickiness lessened.

No further stimulation from his abductors; no loss, that; he tuned back towards more fascinating contemplation – rudely delayed by the interruption of unconsciousness. So who was the spider at the center of this web?

“Pig ugly bint” - the oath one of several complaints with a misogynistic flair. His first list of candidates, then; female. Homely? Or merely deemed so due to assertiveness or rejection of sexual advances? Whom, among past and present association, held so strongly a grudge?

His suspects... just before the needle had slid into his bicep, he'd narrowed the field of possibilities to a trifecta.

He opened his eyes to white.

Three figures stood before him – similar only in gender.

Nettie Royston. Forty-three, widowed, with no children. A regular at NSY after a series of smash and grabs, she'd turned up on Sherlock's doorstep, two years previous, begging he investigate Scotland Yard, itself. In particular, its resident D.I. for harassment both of a psychological as well as a sexual nature. Determining that her primary goal was purely vindictive in an attempt to distract from her actual crimes, Sherlock had refused – leading to a sudden and startling rage at being rebuffed. Launching herself at the detective, she'd managed to smash one of Mrs. Hudson's prized tea cups against his temple before John had been able to subdue her. She'd threatened any number of imaginative retaliations while being led off by the constable. As it was, she had been on license for the last four weeks and would have had more than enough time to carry through with her scheme.

A warm chuckle as his back and he tipped his head to acknowledge the man behind him. Lestrade had his shoulders against the far wall of his mind palace – hands relaxed in the pockets of his trousers. “Nettie Royston? You really think she's responsible? You know, very well, she moved in with her sister in Inverness. I'm sure she hasn't had a spare thought for anything other than disappointing the little bit of family she has left. Besides, with her temperament, if she wanted revenge, she wouldn't hire hitmen – she'd take care of things herself. No doubt with a tire iron.”

“No doubt”, Sherlock muttered in return – the inspector fading away to smoke.

His remaining two possibles were equally as dodgy – a puzzle that brought a different take along with a companion to air the unasked question.

“What was it your highwayman said he gave me? Ipecac? You realize you can only get that by prescription. That isn't something some random yob is going to pick up at the local chemist.” John; sitting beside him in place of his captor while eyeing him in a blend of exasperation and humor. And it honed the thread of disquiet that had troubled him since the pub. The timing of it all – two levels of distraction carefully structured to imply sloppiness. Oh, he was slipping. It was a game with a far more clever master at the helm than he'd first attributed.

“And you have to admit – that bit about their employer – the “pig ugly bint”? Why go through all of this trouble to be quiet, now, yet carry on so much on the way to the car?” Molly – on his other side with her arms crossed and reclined against the window. Leading him by the nose... No need to hide a smile with the hood over his face. Still, his posture was a tell for the observant and he was swiftly becoming aware that the man he was swooning upon was watching with a keen eye.

“Ah... you got it now, do ya?”

Sherlock grunted; pushing somewhat more upright – the motion allowed and suggesting there was no longer a danger of being seen beyond the car windows.

“Not difficult with the pieces laid out so clearly – truly, was this subterfuge of your own crafting or is there a hand up your backside to play you like a puppet? I rather imagine the latter.”

Unperturbed by the insinuation of his words, the other man only chuckled – a far less painful response than a cuff to the head – but blind rage was the undoing of many a foe. A controlled enemy was a creature requiring a different sort of tact. No bargaining – no pleading for one's life nor appealing to one's better nature – this one was bought and sold and loyal to his master's coin purse if not loyal out of the moral code adhered to by those hired out and wishing to maintain a reputation amongst their fellow lowlifes.

“So whom is the puppet master...” He'd have steepled his fingers were they free – though he could make due by closing his eyes – backing through the past fifteen minutes plus lost time until he paused on the feel of dank breath against the back of his neck – the rouge revealing himself to his slow-witted prey.

“Past tense.” Snapped out observation and enough to pique interest from his unwelcome companion.

“What was that?”

Sherlock smirked. “When you spoke of your employer. A subtle, yet detectible implication in your words. You maintained an element of the past tense. The only time you altered tense was in reference to your alleged 'bint' – a valiant yet ultimately clumsy red herring and certainly not a misdirect a man of your intellect would be capable of, at any rate.” Now he sensed the anger – just there, under the laugh – a hesitation – a tightening of muscles. “I noticed the smell whilst you were affixing this hood over my eyes. Not the layered aromas of your breath, no, but the stench rising from your tread. The odor of manure – faint – beneath the cologne and shoe polish. And then there were your hands. Nails trimmed, clean but calloused – specifically between the ring and pinkie fingers as well as along the distal transverse. Spent a lot of time working with horses, did you? Not to mention the slight limp and distinct tang of liniment that no amount of body spray can quite disguise. But you're no stable master – you've spent almost no time astride as you lack the coordination and balance of a seasoned rider; though your age would suggest you should have attained such a station were your education up to the task. But you haven't been employed for some time though that does beg the question as to why you'd forego job seeking to heed the demands of a master who, as it appears by your blundering hint dropping, is dead?”

“Blundering...?”

“Had – not has. Was, not is. Past tense. And, yet, you are currently employed – a requirement when the game is chess but clearly you're playing checkers. These moves are not your own – no – this would require more sophistication than you're capable – your MO more in keeping with a back alley buggering than an extended stay with the veneer of interrogation. Ordered to keep hand's off, were you? You seemed to enjoy our little cuddle – given the uneven lap and speed of respiration so not just the clichéd' scare tactic but the clichéd villain. No doubt hoping the threat of sexual violence would break me down prior to arrival – make me malleable. Not to shatter your fantasy but this is boring. The on again off again cockney, however – ah – but that's interesting. Never measured up to the masters who employed you – always wanting to appear more than you were – smarter than you are – better than the Joe Bloggs you can barely stand to see in the mirror. 'ow does e' know I'm repulsed by my reflection?” Affected accent; mocking before he dropped back to his regular baritone, “The uneven shave could be deliberate – likely deliberate lest you stand out too posh at the club but uneven sideburns? That suggests maintenance without the benefit of visual oversight. Features average, aside from the rosacea across the nose and cheeks and a facial tic near your left eyelid. Adjacent to an old scar; did one of your victims fight back? Could have been an injury at the stable but victim seems more likely – three narrow lacerations – someone tried to gouge out your eyes. Your inadequacies are, very literally, written all over your face. Is that why your conquests are forced? Nobody else would have you?”

The flare of outrage, deeply inhaled breath and a shifting of the leather seat, was settling again as the other man leaned back with a breathy laugh. “Now that is impressive – no doubt. I mean, I heard about your talents but it's nothin like seeing it first hand.”

The car thumped hard, jostling them both and throwing Sherlock against his captor – another rough rocking the other way had him knocking his forehead against the rear passenger's side window.

“Oi! Slow it down on these roads, you josser! We ain't in a rush and we sure don't need a blow out!”

The absent sounds of traffic had already informed that they'd left London behind even before they'd come across such pitted roads. The scents of tar, oil, and exhaust gave over to the sweeter bloom of fresh dirt and white clover. But, more so than that... distant cries of seabirds and the ripening smell of saltwater.

And Sherlock knew where they were heading. More than that, he knew who had set all of this into motion – for all the good that would do him. A final, twisted game from beyond the grave. He really was slow to catch on...

“Come, now; don't beat yourself up, little brother. After all, it isn't often that one has two mortal enemies, is it. And both with their brains blown out, too, no less! A bountiful bit of irony, that.” Mycroft – sounding smug, as usual, brushed invisible dust from his lapel. Sherlock found that, whether flesh and blood or mental construct, Mycroft was equally insufferable. At least with this one he could banish him with a flick of his chin.

“So...” he intoned – hitching himself upright against the seat back, “how long have you known Charles Magnussen?”

◦

Hours, since the last encounter with the the cool ring of porcelain in the loo. Stomach cramped from heaving, stumbling through the kitchen for a cuppa and cursing the dodgy grip of his trembling hands that nearly cascaded scalding camomile across his lap. A wander back through the sitting room found it unexpectedly empty. While his flatmate was not above the occasional vanishing he'd been better, in recent months, about announcing his absences. At the very least a text after a few hours out. Well, nothing for it but to initiate contact. Maybe convince his friend to fetch home a few cans of broth – the flat, once again, devoid of comfort food beyond a stale package of digestives. Mobile in hand, as he sank into his chair, John tapped of a quick message before taking a cautious swallow of tea. Still too hot – lips wincing back at the burn.

It was the shatter of his cup, on the hearth, that startled him back awake. Christ, Mrs. Hudson would not thank him for demolishing one of her rose cups. Hours? Minutes? Watch check – half an hour. Bleary – belly still cramping but improving a bit.

He dug his mobile from the cushion where it had slipped and tapped to wake his screen. No reply. Sighing, John sent a second text – a bit more persistent, perhaps, but dammit he was shattered and not in the mood for moods.

Drifting, then, and half of a mind to switch on the telly were the clicker not on the other table and far from his fingertips. Not being in possession of a mind palace, John contended himself, instead, with drowsy blinks and an internal debate about whether he should risk the cricked neck to sleep in the chair or drag himself to the bedroom for a proper sleep. He checked his messages again.

That little thrill of concern was edging into actual worry, now. Sherlock may ignore him when hunched over a microscope or sulking in his chair – long fingers propped up beneath his chin. But in the wind – sick friend abed and foregoing any normal alleviation such as leaving behind a note to his whereabouts – that was no longer Sherlock's method. Not since Mary...

Switching tactics, John sat up a bit and rang his landlady – texting not really her forte, after all. Her thin voice picked up almost immediately. Probably had her portable sat at her side.

“Oh, John? How are you feeling? Can I get you anything? Rosie's fine – just got her down for a nap.”

“I'm fine. Look, have you heard from Sherlock?”

“Sherlock?” Distracted sounds, then – distinct clank of the kettle. “No – not for several hours, at any rate when he ran out of here, slap dash, and caught a cab at the curb.”

John rubbed eyes that felt as though they'd grown three times in size. “No word where he was headed?”

“Oh, goodness no, when have you lot ever told me anything of where you were going?” Rustle of slippers against the floor and another, softer, clink of porcelain. “Now, don't you fret. I'm certain Sherlock is just fine.”

He knew her reassurance should have set him at ease but the actual result was to sent his heart racing. Since when was Sherlock ever fine?

◦

“Never met the man.” Was the only reply he'd been given – just before another needle point pierced Sherlock's arm with an unskilled hand – the sedative more painful than the last injection and likely to bruise. Though not rendering him instantly unconscious, it had the benefit, to his captors, of leaving him uncoordinated and weak as the vehicle slowed – clearly nearing its destination to the large estate last viewed from the rising cockpit of his brother's helicopter. Driving round the back, the rushing thunder of the ocean dulled to ringing silence as they pulled into what must have been an underground car park.

The seat shifted – tipping Sherlock towards the failed stableman and the bloom of foulness gusting between his teeth. “Wakey-wakey, darlin' – we're home!” No room to battle nor gilded with the energy for thrashing, Sherlock was left with the ignobility of being carried over the larger man's shoulders and into a lift. The acoustics laid pressure against his eardrums as the doors clamped shut and the tiny room vibrated with a deep rumble. And then they started down.

Not given to visible displays of shock, Sherlock had a moment to ponder if Mycroft's people had uncovered the lower level before dismissing the likelihood of its existence almost immediately. Had they done, the property would be an odd choice for an abduction – not to mention the upcoming activities that would require both privacy and security.

Twice Sherlock felt himself being shifted on broad shoulders – his height making him an unwieldy burden regardless of the strength of the carrier. Not exactly comfortable for himself, either, his ribs digging rather painfully into the blunt angle of the other man's shoulder. The lift came to a halt after 6 seconds of travel. Assuming the average height of a standard floor multiplied by the speed of the lift itself – slower than average accounting for the smoother ride – he estimated they had descended 50 feet below ground.

While the doors slid open with the same gentle rumble as they'd shut – there was now the added electronic signature of a card reader followed by the mild squeal of hinges in need of service. Not a place frequented by its former owner – the fungal smell of damp earth and seeping moisture a vast contrast to the crisp perfection of the manor above.

The space was smaller, as well, forcing the two men to walk one behind the other. A hallway – the walls close on either side and the ceiling low enough that Sherlock could hear the echo of his captor's steps just above his head. No doubt he'd cave his skull were he to attempt raising it. At the very least he'd earn a frustrating injury that would do nothing to procure his escape.

They went this way for another 30 steps – stopping whilst the other man fumbled at a door and its unfamiliar lock. By the time Sherlock had been dropped back to his feet, unsteady and a bit nauseous, he had fully tired of the subterfuge.

His arms were fastened with shackles – breath speeding through his nostrils, only for a moment, as Serbia revisited with blistering presence – buried back beneath the flagstone of his mind as the hood was ripped dramatically from his face. Sherlock rolled his eyes and shifted his shoulders at the uncomfortable spread of his arms. At least they hadn't relieved him of his shirt. They'd even left him his belstaff and scarf.

The horse man belly laughed at the glare revealed with the removal of the offending hood. “Ah, dove, you do look a right sexy devil with that pout on!” He mocked a blown kiss while the other man, ignoring the exchange, tapped at his phone.

Too deep for a signal to penetrate and he didn't imagine their employer would enjoy them texting mid-abduction. A code, possibly... Thought barely formed when hard soles with a slow stride approached from beyond the only visible door in or out of the dank space.

Sherlock tipped his head. “So your employer is a woman.”

“She is, indeed.” Voice speaking beyond the closed door – so not sound proofed. But, then, why would it need to be? A moment's pause – dramatics? No, her shoulder led – hands occupied with a large tablet. She had yet to look up as she crossed the room. Sherlock indulged in evaluation.

Auburn hair – long, could fall to mid-back though kept coiled in a loose bun at the nape. Elegant and professional yet easy to loosen at a moment's notice. Eyes and lips made up but not ostentatious. Nail glaze clear, garment fitted; fabric a silk blend – no give to the fibers and designed to show off her curves with every movement. Heels... low, base broad – meant to be worn throughout the day. Her indulgence was jewelry – rings in particular as there were two on her right hand and a third on the left. The stones were smooth – though not all of equal value. Two of the rings were gold and inset with aquamarine and larimar, respectively. The third – older – ill-fitted on the right anular – narrow along the lower circlet, worn thin from years of spinning the piece – nervous gesture. Gold alloy showing a pale distortion near the stone – peridot from its distinctive golden green. Were the corrosion from a regularly handled chemical, she'd remove the jewelry and wear gloves. A mild erosion – built up over time. Years. Cleaning solution? No – again, necessitating the removal of jewelry. The stone was affordable – the setting implying a sentiment. The other two rings were gifts of extravagance when money was of no consequence. Moved to the right hand yet still in a place of honor. Widowed. Regular exposure to something with a moderate PH. Not enough to harm the epidermis but enough to erode the alloy over time...

“...you'll get used to it...”

Sherlock dug a molar into his cheek to stop the tremble.

The woman stopped in front of him, cherry lips angling into a smile as she tucked her tablet against her breasts. “Carlotta Alexis Magnussen, Mr. Holmes. You murdered my husband.”

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