DISCLAIMER: The character mentioned in this story do not belong to me, I make no money nor do I profit from writing this. They belong to there respective owners and I merely just borrow them from time to time.

WARNINGS: This is a dark fic, with mentions of torture, rape and a very dark doctor. I haven't decided how long this will be yet so I'm going to warn against sexual situations just in case. Slash is part of the plot here as well, if your not into that, then please leave this page now.

A/N: This is my first published story on this site, however I have been writing fanfiction for quite some time now. Even so this is still a special moment for me and I'm glad I was able to share it with all of you. This story hasn't been beta'd, but I'm happy to allow someone to help with grammar and the flow of the story if they contact me.

Watson's POV, Holmes' POV

The Hunt is on.

Chapter 3: Holmes opened his eyes and allowed the numbness to spread through him. Morphine he deduced, he looked around him gingerly, moving parts of his body to determine the extent of his injuries. Right arm broken, one clear break, result of impact on solid surface. Stitches in head, damp hair, its been washed. He lifted the sheets slowly using his good arm, many thin wounds on stomach, some stitching on upper thighs. He slowly tried to sit upright, with a grunt, feeling the tightness off stitching and bandages on his back. Laying back down he called out in a raspy voice "Watson!" barely managing to call out in a whisper. He lay back in silence trying to encourage saliva to soothe his raw throat, as the events of the past day came flooding back to him. Trying to suppress a sob he tried calling for Watson once more, knowing he was the only human being he would allow to comfort him. He needed the soothing voice of the handsome doctor and the soft hands to run through his hair to lull him back to sleep. To help him forget. Just as the tears began flowing down his face he heard the slam of the front door. Watson has left me? No, Sherlock thought, Watson wouldn't leave unless he had to, that must mean he's in danger or is about to put himself in danger. Sitting up and ignoring the pain in his lower back and placing his damaged arm in a sling, Holmes pulls on a jacket. Reaching for his needle on his bedside table he injects another dose of morphine to trick his body into not feeling pain, but dreading the time when his emotions catch up with him and play scenes over in his drug-induced delirium.

Moving around his room and gathering a walking stick and a loaded revolver, Holmes slowly stretches his body out trying to encourage it to work. He has already come to terms with the fact that he would do anything for his dear Watson, including putting himself through severe emotional trauma by returning to the scene of his earlier torture. He had acknowledged his feelings for the doctor a long time ago, but had decided not to act on them out of fear that Watson would not feel the same, but he always held on to a small shred of hope that the sparkle he see's in Watson's eyes when he is looking at him is unknown love. Carefully staggering down the stairs whilst leaning heavily on his stick he calls out for Watson again, hoping he had imagined the noise. But silence was all his comfortable apartment responded with. Walking out into the fresh winter air, Holmes begins tracking Watson immediately, noticing that his fears are true, that Watson has indeed followed his attackers. Groaning inwardly and trying to walk as fast as his battered body will allow him, he silently dreads the scene that he will find. Knowing Watson is rarely an aggressive person, he wonders why he has followed them at all. He begins to infuriate himself, as he can't think of a logical answer, whilst trying to suppress the hope that he's doing it out of love for Holmes. 'Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth' his brain practically purrs at him. Cursing his overactive imagination he nears the warehouse, suppressing a shudder and an almost overwhelming desire to run away as fast as his body will allow him, he creeps up to the door, seeing a figure moving around in the moonlight inside. He recognises the person at once, he spends most of his time staring at him secretly, so he knows the exact build of the man who has been the object of his desires for nearly two years now. He see's him turn slowly but when he see's his face it isn't the normal calm, polite expression that he's so used to seeing, it's twisted in barely contained rage, he is shaking gently and he is gripping his cane with more force than usual. The moonlight reflects off the tear tracks that have stained his face and Holmes controls himself, as he wants to call out his name and take him home and sit by the fire with his doctor fussing over his wounds. Watching as Watson once again disappears from his sight behind some crates, Holmes decides to see how he has planned to tackle this situation. He pulls out his revolver and silently creeps behind Watson planning to be back up if necessary. Once he hears the voices of his attackers he contains the instinctive whimper that threatens to blow his cover. Watching Watson approach the two men was like watching a predator stalk his prey, after he had listened to a small part of their conversation he saw Watson pounce. It appeared to be over in seconds; Watson was displaying several traits that he had never expected he possessed. It was such a shock to hear the three gunshots that Holmes almost ran straight in after him, but after hearing Watson growling at one of the men he refrained from doing so. Holmes crept closer to the doorway, clearly hearing Watson's shout and was shocked at the tone of his voice. His doctor, who is the epitome of Victorian gentlemanliness, was acting like a deranged criminal and using foul language without even flinching. This revelation that there is a side to Watson that even the observant detective hasn't seen excited him, but made him consider how well he knows the doctor after all.

Standing over the bleeding, sobbing man Watson grins down at him. "What's wrong love?" he taunts, "don't like it when someone is being mean back?" Watson looked around to see what he had to work with, there was a sharp knife under a pile of paper to the right of him, and knocking the paper to the floor he grabs the knife. With his extensive medical knowledge of the body, Watson knew he could drag this out for hours without actually killing the man. Holding the knife to the mans cheek, he quickly sliced a small cut, just enough for blood to trickle down his paling face. Grabbing the man's hair and pulling his face upright Watson practically purred in his ear, "the colour red really does suit you." The man tried to jerk his head away but Watson gripped it stronger tugging out a few strands of hair. "Don't you try to move away from me you bastard, you can scream all you want and no one is going to hear you, that's why you picked this place isn't it? So no one could hear him scream. Well I'm going to teach you a lesson about playing with things that aren't yours." The man carried on whimpering with tears pouring down his cheeks, blood flowing from his ruined knees and hands. "You see you took something that belongs to me today" Watson snarled, "and I don't like sharing, I especially don't like sharing my detective. So because I'm a fair man, I'll give you some choices, firstly I can peel your skin off with this knife and wait for you to bleed to death, secondly I can cut your dick off for touching a place that only I'm allowed to touch, or lastly I can give you the same treatment you gave Holmes." The mans eyes widened in horror, he choked out, "Your going to rape me?" Watson chuckled manically back at the terrified man, "No, no, your not… how did you put it? 'Pretty' enough for me. I'm saving myself for someone who's worth going to hell for. There's only one man I love in my life and you treated him like he's nothing. I was simply referring to the rather impressive collection of canes you possess. Your third choice is to have your skin shredded off your back with your own whips."

The man started begging for Watson to just leave him to bleed to death, Watson replied by humming into the quivering mans ear, "Beg all you want, it's just going to make it better for me. I want this to be as long and as painful as possible for you. Maybe I won't kill you, maybe I'll dump your near-dead body on the doorstep off someone who loves you? It doesn't matter if you don't die straight away, there won't be any evidence. You see, I'm a doctor and a detective." The glint was back in Watson's eyes as he ran the blade over the mans arm, ever so gently so it practically tickled him. The man hiccupped as he tried to swallow his sobs. Just as the man hiccupped Watson plunged the knife into the mans forearm causing him to scream out in pain. The doctor didn't seem fazed, "Oops, I slipped" he shrugged, whilst running the blade over the other arm.

Holmes realises that he'd be staring in shock whilst all this has happened, he couldn't contain his elation at the words that Watson had spoken about him, but his surprise that Watson was this dark and sadistic was overshadowing his happiness. Realising that he needed to step in before Watson lost himself to the manic glint in his eyes, Holmes took a deep breath and still clutching his revolver moved to the doorway of the room so the light fell on him. "John?" he croaked cautiously. Watson looked up in shock, the evil gleam in his eye disappearing straight away and a warm concern replacing it. "When did you get here?" replied Watson. "You called me John…" he added as an afterthought. "I've been watching you since you was looking around the warehouse, when I woke up and you wasn't there, I was afraid something would happen to you old boy" Sherlock confessed, "And why wouldn't I call you John, it is your name after all." "You should still be in bed, you've been through a bad time, and I was just out ensuring that justice be done." "Yes I can see that, lets discuss this back at home, I'm feeling a bit faint" whispered Holmes. Holmes moved closer to Watson and put his arm around him and laying his head on his shoulder using his tiredness as an excuse to breathe in the divine scent of his doctor. "Before we leave though doctor, there is one thing that needs tidying up", Holmes murmured whilst gesturing to the now barely conscious man who had caused him so much pain. Without hesitation Holmes raised his revolver and took great care in acquiring a target, with a small smile he shot the man in the forehead, ensuring that there was no witnesses to any of the events that had taken place in the last twelve hours, except Watson and himself.