A serial killer is looking for a new victim in nightime London. For Sherlock a smart murder is just an interesting challenge...until the case turned into too personal. Even Sherlock´s sense of safety can be sometimes questioned.

Disclaimers: I don´t own characters, they belong to ACD and Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat and BBC. I am just using them. The song and lyrics (Sugar, sugar, sugar) belongs to Nick Cave.

Note: I am not a native English speaker, so it may affect to my writing skills and word choices. I am sorry about that.

Warmings: Torture, abuse, non-con, swearing. You have been warning.

Thank you to Cryptic Nymph as being my lovely beta reader and britpicker. :)

That stretch is long
You'll sleep and slide
That stretch will find you
Gagged and tied

The room was filled by a bright hard light. The older man stood next to the cold, metallic table, hich was covered by a thin white sheet. He leaned over the younger man, who was lying naked on the table, tied by his ankles and wrists by thin straps, which had cut red slashes to his skin. The older man fastened a necktie around the other man´s throat and started to tighten it. Black curls and white skin, like Snow White, thought the man suddenly. A fairy tale without a prince to save the day. He tightened the necktie until the young man couldn´t breathe any more.

"Did you have something to say, dear? I cannot hear you." He smiled maliciously. "You really should try to speak more clearly to me, darling. "

The man with black curls didn´t answer. He couldn´t, even if he had wanted to. Instead, he spasmed.

Finally, when his chest´s stillness and his lack of movement revealed his victim had lost his consciousness, the strangler loosened the tie around his white throat. The young man started to gasp in air and cough. The tormentor waited patiently until his victim breathed normally again. Then he tightened the tie around his white throat again.

The tormentor couldn´t get enough of it, endlessly playing with his unwilling toy.

One, two, three….

"Don´t… You are killing me…" the man croaked hoarsely when the tie loosened around his throat. "I can't… go on…."

"One more time, my sweet pet. It's my house and my rules. Do you understand me?"

Four, Five, Six…

Finally he started to get bored.

"How selfish I am," he purred. "Let me help you to cheer up."

His fingers scratched down the younger man´s chest, which had been mutilated into a chess board pattern, carved by a knife into his flesh. The pattern seemed infected, it wasn't healing properly. The feeling of nails on his ripped chest made the young man yelp.

"Oh, still so sore? Maybe I should help you relax. You are so tense, my dear."

His hand rested on his crotch.

His victim startled. "Don´t! Damn you, don´t touch me! Don´t touch me…"

"You are free to stop me." There wasn´t much to add to this.

He held the other man´s soft organ, gentle touches at first, probing how it felt beneath his thick fingers, smoothing it playfully to harden it. The abuser continued his teasing until the organ began to respond. He started with familiar strokes then thrust harder, tightening and loosening his grip rhythmically. The penis in his grip was now so eager and hard. He knew exactly the right techniques to wake up even the most unwilling cock. The young man sighed from his arousal, he couldn´t help himself. He hated his lack of willpower and his disobedient body. He had always been proud of his mind´s power over his body, but now it had melted away like a snow ball in hell.

The man took his hard cock into his mouth to suck it. He felt the soft grip of the other man´s mouth around his cock. It felt good… in a bad, wrong way. The worst thing was the shame and guilt, that he let this happen to him. The other man was abusing him, treating him as his personal whore.

The abuser killed him every single day and night and then brought him back to life. He was losing himself little by little, every day a little more. He was not a willing whore to this disgusting rapist, he was not like that, a tiny voice tried to assure him in the back of his head. The urge to get himself free made him to tug at his restraints, although he knew from his experience that his efforts were useless. They just bit deeper to his white skin. The other man sucked, until the young man started to tremble and gasp as his body was spouting its milk uncontrollably. The abuser spat the still hard cock from his mouth and let semen drip all over him. No, not again... It was incomprehensible, how pleasure could be so painful. Or how pain could be so enjoyable. The mixture of feelings churned inside him into one aching ball. He wanted to vomit.

"You taste sweet, has anybody told you that? Answer me! I want hear your voice, slut."

"No, no.. Haven't…" A self-hatred consumed his innards. He turned his face away; he didn´t want to look at his tormentor.

Predator left. It was over this time. He lay in the silent room, where the lights were always on, still shivering, dirty from his own fluids and blood. The tie was still around his throat as a reminder. As if he could forget.

John… He tried to visualize John´s image… A memory of John… He couldn't let it go. But what would he think of him if he saw him like that, filthy and defiled? Wouldn´t he disgust John? Wouldn´t John be angry at him, when he had left him behind so long ago, not telling him where he'd gone, not even texting him?

Two weeks earlier

Cat found the corpse first. It could well have stayed unnoticed because it had snowed some hours ago, so it was almost covered by snow. Cat still noticed that the corpse of the young man was naked, but she couldn´t see the details, for which she was grateful. She guessed without further research that it was not a pretty sight. But nothing could hide from the street people.

Cat – once known as Catherine – might have forgotten a corpse and walked away. The homeless didn't go to the police if they didn´t have to, and Cat was no exception. Nobody would know, nobody would be hurt and most important nobody would get in trouble. But she knew one man who might be interested in her discovery. The man was different from the others; he gave her money, not out of pity, but as a payment for information. Not only for her, but for the other homeless people too. He called the street people his network.

It's down that road
A lot of little girls get lost

When a young woman like Cat lived on streets, many men thought she was an easy catch, that she was desperate. But that was a mistake. She was homeless because of some unfortunate circumstances and her unwise life choices, but she wasn't a prostitute. She used to avoid and ignore these men, although some of them were very persuasive and even dangerous.

She happened to be a little careless one night. A well-dressed man had stopped first to give her a note, but then he grasped her wrists and leaned close to he. He had whispered, "You will get more, as a reward, just be a good girl."

"You're mistaken," Cat had gasped, before the man had muffled her mouth with his gloved hand and dragged her to a dark alley, pinning her against a rough wall. He had started to rip her clothes off, touching her intimately, taking what she didn´t want to give him by force.

They had heard a deep baritone behind them. "Is this man bothering you?"

The attacker had turned around to see who dared to talk like that, and got a punch straight to his nose. Blood had streamed from his nose when he, his face reddened by fury, attacked to the young black-curled man with the long black coat. The younger man hit him again with his left fist, and the attacker´s ear started to ring. Another kick came straight to his crotch. The newcomer was fast like a snake when he beat the man. Finally, Cat's attacker dropped to the ground, moaning weakly.

"I think that he got the point. Rapists disgust me. They are the worst kind of people," the young man said softly. "Are you all right now?"

"Yes…I am. Thank you. Are you?" Cat said, wondering what this guy wanted from her. People always wanted something. But her saviour didn´t want anything at this moment.

"Better than ever. Come. We have to go, before he wakes. Oh, and my name is Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock didn´t ever ask for anything in return, and he always paid for her for the information she revealed to him. Cat respected him, but they weren´t friends.

It was two years ago.

Cat knew where Sherlock lived, so she decided to visit there. Mrs Hudson sighed about how thin and dirty the young woman was. "I´ll bring you something to eat with your tea." The land lady was so used to Sherlock´s odd acquaintances, although the homeless seldom visited Baker Street. Nothing concerning Sherlock surprised her any more.

Sherlock called Cat in and served tea– well, she made the tea for her and her host, because Sherlock didn´t do that himself. But she didn´t mind. She drank her tea, and Sherlock's pale eyes gave her a piercing stare, probing the reason why she had bothered to come see him. He usually found her on the streets, when he needed her help. Everything unusual would mean an interesting puzzle.

She sat in John's chair.

"Tell me, Cat. Why are you here?"

"You are always looking for fresh corpses, Sherlock. I happened to find one."

Sherlock fixed his greenish blue eyes on hers, clearly very interested, and asked her to go on.

She told him how she had found the mutilated corpse lying on the south bank of Thames. How the naked young man was almost covered by the fresh snow. She had heard rumours, near silent whispers about a killer who called himself Predator looking for a suitable victim. No, she had not seen him, but this new dead body was dangerous. It was twisted, unusual, just how Sherlock liked his corpses. Cat supposed that Predator had left it there. His eyes started to brighten like a lamp inside his mind had turned on. He asked her to show him the place. This murder was fun for him. His weapon against the boredom.

John descended the stairs from his room to the flat to see if there would be some tea, and saw Sherlock leave with an unknown woman. This was unusual.

"Sherlock, where are you going?"

"Fresh air. Just popping outside for a moment. Won´t be long. Enjoy your tea!"

"What, the tea is actually ready? You made tea?"

But Sherlock had already gone.