"Ready?" murmured Holmes. Watson nodded.

"On three. One. Two-"

"Three!" said Holmes, and leapt out from their hiding place, heading straight for the largest man.

Rolling his eyes for his friend's impetuous nature, Watson rapidly followed him, swinging his cane hard to deflect the knife blow meant for Holmes' back before reversing the blow to strike hard at the ribs of the other man to his right. As that man doubled over clutching his ribs, Watson brought the cane hard up against his chin, sending him sprawling back on the floor, unconscious.

Watson shifted his attention back to the knifeman who had dropped the blade to his other hand and chose that moment to step in with an underhand thrust aimed up towards the doctor's ribs; Watson knocked the blade to one side with the back of his hand then brought the cane whistling down against the side of his head. He, too, crumpled to the floor unconscious.

Watson glanced around, satisfying himself that both his opponents and Holmes' adversary were down and out for the count then looked around for Holmes. There was no sign of him; Watson presumed he'd moved further into the warehouse.

Peelers began streaming in at that point, followed by Lestrade pointing and shouting orders. He halted by Watson. "Couldn't wait I suppose?" he remarked, looking down pointedly at the three unconscious men.

Watson shrugged. "You know Holmes," he replied.

Lestrade sighed and nodded. "Well, I guess we'd best start clearing up this mess and see how many Mr Holmes has left for us, shall we?" Shaking his head, he followed Watson into the warehouse proper.

The policemen were cleaning up the last of the gang from what Watson could see. There was no sign of Holmes, but that didn't mean anything; Holmes rarely waited but could be trusted to be in the thick of things. That wouldn't be with the mop-up crew. Watson shook his head, skirted round a pair of bobbies handcuffing a struggling man, and headed towards the back of the warehouse.

Half an hour later, Watson conceded defeat. He limped back round to the front of the warehouse. Constable Clark met him there.

"No sign, sir," he said, shaking his head. Lestrade strode up with a worried look on his face.

"No-one's seen him since it all kicked off, doctor," he said, his expression dark. "I suspect Mr Holmes has gotten himself in over his head."

Watson's mouth twisted as though he had tasted something bitter and unpleasant and wanted to swear roundly but would not permit himself. He turned and limped back into the warehouse.

Holmes had assumed that Watson was only a heartbeat behind him as he dropped his opponent with a firm jab with one baton to the solar plexus followed by an elbow jab to the jaw.

Not that lack of back-up would necessarily have stopped him, per se; it may have caused him to re-evaluate his tactics however.

As he realised the four men he'd been pursuing had led him into what seemed to be a dead end fenced around with high packing crates, he reflected that perhaps waiting for Watson might have been prudent. A glance back over his shoulder confirmed that his exit had been cut off by two more men. Turning back to face his adversaries, he wryly smiled – the hunter suddenly become the prey.

"Gentlemen, feel free to surrender," he quipped, twirling his twin batons. The men glanced at each other, then another man stepped out from behind the others, coils of rope in his hands.

The blood drained from Holmes' face and a dangerous stillness settled over him. "I think not," he said quietly.

"Get 'im, boys," said the one bearing the ropes.

They rushed him all at once – two from behind, four in front. He moved to meet the first two, one baton blocking a haymaker punch whilst the other baton slipped past the other man's guard to bloody his nose. Turn, spin, kick out to drop one of the men behind him whilst he swung both batons out to his sides, connecting with heads; leap forwards headbutt and the man in front of him reeled backwards, stunned, as Holmes executed a spinning back-kick to the chest of the first man. Then bring both batons forward to-

He reeled as twin fists delivered a stunning punch to the back of his head, stunning him. He staggered and dropped to one knee, twisting to block the follow-up blow with the baton in his right hand even as the man to his left kicked the other baton from his hand. He pushed himself up to his feet to follow up the block with a knee-jab to the man's gut but staggered sideways as a billy-club smashed into the side of his head.

A stick came whistling down onto his right wrist and his hand went numb as the baton dropped from his suddenly nerveless fingers; he lurched back, barely ducking a jabbed punch aimed at his face as he clutched his injured arm to his chest.

Hands grabbed him from behind; the next punch connected squarely with his jaw, snapping his head back painfully. For a moment his vision greyed; he would have fallen if not for the hands holding him.

"Bring him back here," ordered the man with the ropes.

"No," muttered Holmes hoarsely, then louder, "No!" as he was dragged forward, feet stumbling as he tried to resist. There were more hands upon him now; he began to struggle wildly as the rope-man readied the coils. Holmes' eyes widened in sudden terror as one of his captors grabbed his wrists from behind, twisting them up behind his back and the rope-man advanced. "No!" he screamed, and went into a wild frenzy, bucking and twisting, kicking out at the men holding him – anything to get away from those ropes and what they represented.

"Blimey, 'e's a wild 'un and no mistake," exclaimed one of the men, then swore as one of Holmes' kicks managed to land home.

"Peelers are 'ere!" yelled one of the others.

The rope-man cursed. "We don't have time for this," he swore. "Take him down, fast. Time for fun later. We'll bring him with us."

Abandoning attempts to restrain Holmes, they began to rain down blows upon his head and body; fists, feet, sticks, all wielding pain as Holmes was struck again and again until finally he slumped to the ground. The last thing he saw as everything went dim was the rope-man approaching him with a sap in his hand. Then the blow connected with his skull just behind his ear, and everything went black.

"He's coming round."

The voice reverberated painfully within his skull; he winced. His head felt like it was splitting in two. Something wet, thick and sticky was drying on the left side of his face, making the skin itch; there was a steady throbbing pain behind his left ear. His right wrist ached abysmally; a hot, pulsing pain that made him nauseous. Or perhaps that was the concussion.

A foot toed his ribs and he groaned, rolling over onto his side away from it. The nudge was followed by a kick to his kidneys and he cried out before biting his lip.

"That's enough. We've better fun than that, lads."

Footsteps coming closer. He slowly opened his eyes, blinking blood out of his left eye as he regarded warily the feet that came to a stop a couple of feet away from his face. Something dropped with a loud clinking sound on the ground between Holmes and the feet; he narrowed his eyes and then suddenly he realised what it was: a set of manacles. Eyes widening, he pushed himself up and scrabbled backwards until his back was against a wall. He crouched there, eyes wide, like a cornered wild animal as he cradled his wrist to his chest. He hadn't dared spare it more than a glance, but he was fairly sure it was broken; for now however, he had more pressing, urgent matters to consider.

Such as staying out of those manacles that had been picked up and were now being dangled teasingly by his tormentor.

"I do believe he's frightened, lads!" remarked the man, taking a step towards Holmes who pressed his back against the wall as if by will alone he could force himself through it. "Look at 'im – the great Sherlock Holmes. Afraid of being tied up."

Holmes tried to shake his head, to deny it, but could only shiver instead. He couldn't understand his own reaction himself; it seemed entirely illogical and unreasoning. Yet there it was; he somehow knew on an instinctive level that he would rather die than let himself be tied up or manacled. "L-leave me alone," he growled, voice hoarse with fear.

The man laughed. "I think not. The boys and me, we're going to have a bit of fun, Mr High-and-Mighty Sherlock Holmes. Not so high and mighty now, are you?" He snapped his fingers, and two men to his left grinned in anticipation as they advanced towards Holmes.

He shoved himself up to his feet and looked around for a way out, but he was trapped. The room was small, with only the one door – and two men lounging around between him and it. The one giving orders appeared to be the leader; he stood beside a small fire where a pathetic pile of coals smouldered; that plus a couple of gas lamps were the only sources of light in the room beside a candle on a small wooden table. A plain wooden chair in the middle of the room was the only other item of furniture.

He struggled as the two men grappled with him, but with a broken wrist he was hampered in a way they were not. Even so, he thrashed and bucked as they tried to restrain him, until the larger of the two men succeeded in grasping his injured wrist and twisting it up behind his back. The resulting white-hot blaze of pain nearly caused him to faint; his knees buckled and he gagged, on the verge of vomiting.

The two thugs hoisted him up by the biceps and dragged him over to the chair. He was almost grateful to sit down; the room was spinning alarmingly and his head was throbbing almost in time with the agony of his wrist. He forced himself to sit upright and stare back at his captors defiantly.

"Strip his shirt off."

Again he struggled; he was outnumbered and they could easily overpower him, but that didn't mean he was going to make things easy for them. Still, they ripped away the torn shirt, cuffing him roughly with their hands as he wrestled them for possession of it, cursing him roundly as they did until finally he sat slumped in the chair, shirtless, bruised and bloodied, his eyes dazed yet still holding only contempt for his captors in their dark depths.

That look changed again to one of sheer terror as the manacles were dangled before him again. He shoved back hard against the chair and tried to rise, but instantly there were three men holding him down in the chair – one in front with his hands on Holmes' shoulders, two forcing his hands behind his back as the leader strolled slowly behind him and bent down, the manacles clinking.

Holmes went berserk at the first cold kiss of iron touching his wrist. He arched his back with a scream of unreasoning terror, his body spasming as he kicked out, thrashing wildly. He flexed against the arms restraining him; he snarled and bit like a desperate wild thing; he twisted and lunged, bucking against their grip, unheeding of the damage they inflicted in turn until one of the men caught hold of his injured wrist and viciously twisted it, hard, with an audible crack.

He screamed, high and shrill, then retched as his body went limp. The second manacle clicked shut about his mangled flesh, eliciting only a tremor as the half-conscious detective slumped in the chair. He was only capable of a faint moan as they then bound him further to the chair with ropes about his chest and waist before tying his ankles to the chair legs.

The leader loomed over him as he sat helpless in his bonds. He cupped Holmes' chin in one hand and forced him to look up.

"Not so cocksure now, are we, Mr Holmes?" he sneered. The detective seemed to be unaware of him however, mumbling and whimpering to himself, half delirious with pain and fear.

"No, no, please...please no..."

"We've broken him, Daws," chuckled one of the men. Daws grinned and patted Holmes' cheek.

"Reckon we might've, at that," he mused. He crouched down slightly until he was on a level with Holmes.

Holmes seemed not to see him; his eyes were glazed over and unfocused as he continued murmuring his litany of pleas, his face white, head tilted a little to one side.

"Oi. Holmes. I'm talking to you," Daws said a little louder, the pat becoming a slap. There was no response from the murmuring man.

"Break his fingers," suggested one of the others.

"You break his friggin' fingers!"

"Alright, I will then," said the other, bending down behind Holmes. There was a sickening snap, followed by another; Holmes shuddered and keened faintly then gagged and vomited over himself before his head lolled to one side as he returned to whispering his faint litany again.

Disgusted, Daws turned away. "Somebody gag him; he'll drive us bleedin' nuts if we have to listen to that all night," he said contemptuously.

Presently the sound ceased.

They came upon the gang by surprise shortly before dawn.

They had found Holmes' batons abandoned in a dead-end of crates that were splashed with blood, along with his coat and cravat. A second careful search around the outside of the warehouse had revealed the marks of a group of men dragging something away from the warehouse towards a small side road that lead down towards the docks.

Lestrade had called in extra forces from the Yard to block off all possible exits from the dock whilst two police steam launches manoeuvred into position in case of a water-born escape.

Then they had combed the dockside buildings in groups, hauling out everyone they found for questioning as they searched for the missing detective. They had dragged them all off into a large warehouse by the edge of the docks which had been searched first and confirmed empty, and each building was hit from a different direction so none inside knew before the door was thrown violently open by the forces of the law.

Had he been less concerned and preoccupied with the whereabouts of Holmes and the state they might find him in, Watson might have been humbled by the loyalty displayed towards Holmes in the police response to his abduction; certainly he would have felt a surge of guilt for the three families and the innocent dock workers rousted out of their homes and work places at such an early hour.

As it was, he was all but obsessed with finding Holmes; he was oblivious even to the pain of his own leg as he limped from building to building with Lestrade and Hopkins, his hopes raised along with his fears at each door they opened and as quickly dashed again when the search of the building proved fruitless.

The gang had recognised the approach of the police at the last moment and made a run for the water; Lestrade and Hopkins had sprung after them in an instant along with a troop of ten officers, but Clark and Watson only had eyes for the one who turned back at the last moment – a wickedly curved knife gleaming in his hand.

Watson had never sprinted so fast in his life. Limp or no, he flew along the wooden walkway, his long legs eating up the distance between himself and the man who was disappearing through the door of a small hut that had been overlooked in the search.

But fast as Watson was, Clark was faster. He took aim with his revolver past the sprinting doctor and carefully, precisely squeezed the trigger. Watson overtook the man as he crumpled to the ground clutching his leg. He paid him no mind as he flung open the door.

He stumbled into the room and came to a halt, breathing hard as he bent over, clutching his leg. He glanced up -

And froze.

Holmes sat in a chair facing the door, bound and gagged. His hands were manacled behind his back, ropes criss-crossing his bare torso. Ropes bound his slender bare ankles to the legs of the chair. His head lolled to one side, caked with blood down the left side, but his eyes were open. His face was curiously blank, his eyes unseeing.

As Watson advanced slowly towards his friend, his eyes remained devoid of even the slightest flicker of recognition.

He sank awkwardly to his knees before Holmes. Close up, he could see – and smell – the dried traces of vomit over the man's chest and pooled in his lap. It had dried into a yellowish crust over the ropes and his chest which was mottled black and purple with bruises. Watson traced a hand ever-so-lightly over the ribs; Holmes did not so much as flinch. Watson stared up into Holmes' blank face.

"Oh dear God. What did they do to you?" he whispered. He rose to his feet and gently reached around the bruised and battered head to loosen the gag. As it pulled away from cracked and bloodied lips, he became aware of a faint sussuration; leaning closer, he could hear it resolve into a faintly breathed murmuring, flat and devoid of intonation like a mantra.

"No. No. Please... no. No. Please... no. No..."

Watson felt bile rise into his throat, hot, sour and nauseating. He turned away, a gloved hand over his mouth whilst he fought to control his stomach. He breathed hard for a few minutes, then swallowed, blinking slowly.

This would not do. He had to get Holmes out of here. Taking a deep breath, he circled Holmes and dropped to his knees behind the chair.

When he saw what had been done to Holmes' right hand, he turned and vomited.

He was dimly aware of someone entering the room, followed by others; he heard Clark gasp and then gag, much as he had done, over the soft noise of Holmes' monotonous litany of meaningless protest. He heard Lestrade turn and berate a couple of his officers for being pussies before yelling for a stretcher and the mariah. But Watson shook his head and fought off further waves of nausea; he had to get Holmes out of those manacles and bonds.

As he set to work untying the catatonic detective, he became aware of other hands assisting him. He was aware of Clark's shocked white face as the constable unlocked the manacles, treating that broken, mutilated hand with such delicate care that Watson felt like weeping himself. Lestrade was at his other side, sawing at the ropes around Holmes' ankles with his pocket-knife, keeping up a stream of curses under his breath that sang in curious harmony with Holmes' own faintly breathed song of denial.

Then Clark gently lifted Holmes up in his arms, Watson cradling the wounded hand carefully then laying it upon the limp man's lap. A police medic stepped in, and he and Watson conferred briefly before the medic poured a measure of chloroform into Watson's own handkerchief and he carefully placed it over Holmes' mouth and nose. After a few moments, Holmes' lips ceased murmuring against Watson's hand beneath the cloth, and those empty, hollow eyes drifted closed.