Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.

Author´s notes:

This story deals with a form of sexual assault (not rape) and is rated accordingly for a reason. Though there will neither be too many details nor any graphic decriptions, please read it only if you are willing to see any such content.

The story is set sometime before The Reichenbach Falls and is AU to the extent that it contains Johnlock (mildly). If that does count as AU at all considering how Moffat and Gatiss deal with the two...

I am no native English speaker and therefore apologize for any mistakes.

And now: enjoy!

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To the Core

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Part 1

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For a few seconds, Sherlock did not know where he was. His head hurt, and he was freezing. Had he fallen asleep on the living room carpet again? No, his brain provided a moment later, this was not Baker Street 221B. He was lying in complete darkness on a concrete floor, judging from the cold and the smell, and he was somewhere damp and probably unpleasant. How tedious.

He must have been drugged, he thought, after having taken stock as best as he could in his situation; furthermore, his hands were bound behind his back and his mouth was gagged. He tried to move his jaw, but that proved difficult. He was thirsty and the cloth tasted rather foul, like mildew. Someone had made an effort. So what had happened? He had been at home...

It had started as something mundane. The February weather was cold and nippy, and Sherlock did not have anything to do. After three days of fretful tedium in his flat, he had gotten a call from DI Lestrade, asking him to assist with a case.

The consulting detective had been delighted, for he had reached a point at which he seriously considered taking his foul mood out on the bison skull this time; John had forbidden him to shoot the wall again, and had found a new hiding place for his gun at that. Though Sherlock was certain he could have found it in no time if he had wanted to, he had not been in the mood to look for it. He was too bored out of his own skull, too annoyed by everything around him which did not manage to hold his attention longer than one minute. And John had gone to visit his sister for a few days, still believing that she had gone off the booze.

The doctor was supposed to be back on that very evening, much too late for Sherlock's taste; therefore he was elated to be called to a crime scene.

The case however had proven to be dull; Sherlock had found the solution after only one good long look, making Anderson bite his hat in anger, so to speak.

Poor Lestrade had therefore had to deal with an upset and angry Sherlock Holmes: "Look, I know you think I called you for nothing, but to me, it is something. You... simply see things that others don't." he had tried to appease the detective.

Sherlock however just shook his head: "You might as well stop looking altogether then. Afternoon." And with that, he strode off, signalling for a cab.

Lestrade looked after him, equally frustrated and disappointed.

His memory later eluded Sherlock on how exactly it had happened, but he was pretty sure that the cab ride had been completely uneventful until the driver had suddenly stepped on the brake, and from that moment on, things became rather fuzzy. Sherlock recalled shouting and his own disbelief as he saw that the cabbie was shot, and then everything seemed to have stopped.

Sherlock had successfully managed to sit up; the motion had sent his head spinning, but there was a wall to lean against until it stopped. They had taken his coat and his shoes, and he was beginning to feel the cold in earnest. He wanted to get up, to move a little, in order to try and keep himself warm.

His brain was not working properly due to the drugs, and he had no idea who would go to such trouble and kidnap him, in the process killing another person in broad daylight with plenty of possible eye witnesses.

It had been around four p.m. when it had happened. John. John would probably have noticed, but he was away from London. And maybe that was for the better, seeing as he might have been captured as well if he had been there. Or killed, which would have been infinitely worse.

Sherlock was pulled out of these thoughts when he heard the squawk of an opening door, and then someone was shining a torch into his face. He squinted, trying to see something; he was in a small, square room which might be in a basement.

He could not see the person behind the light, but he heard the safety catch of a gun being released: "Get up," a harsh male voice ordered, and when Sherlock did not obey, he was being pulled to his feet rather ungently by a second person, also a man. Or rather, gorilla.

Sherlock stumbled a bit but managed to catch his balance; the guy who was holding him seemed to have hands the size of frying pans and had gripped him rather painfully around the neck and by his arm, twisting it a little.

Sherlock did his best not to utter any sound and simply concentrate on walking. He did not want to admit it, but he wished John were there with him.

Up a flight of stairs they went and along a corridor, which led into a room that was dimly lit and seemed to be mixture between office and lounge, furnished with heavy antiques and dark fabrics.

A man was sitting at a desk when they entered, for a second reminding Sherlock of his brother, but when the man looked up, the comparison faded.

He was younger than Mycroft and looked rather fit. Apart from that, he also wore an expensive suit, but along with it, several gold rings on his fingers and a diamond tie pin. As he rose from his seat, a grin spread on his face, revealing a perfect set of teeth which looked as expensive as the rest of him and seemed to glow in the twilight.

"Well, well, well," he said, "pleasure to meet you at last, Mr Holmes."

His voice had a subtle lilt, but Sherlock could not say where he was from; he was speaking without any accent. Like Irene Adler, he was mostly unreadable, which was unnerving; maybe it could be put down to the drug Sherlock had been administered, though.

On some unseen signal from his boss, the second gorilla suddenly grabbed Sherlock as well so that he was unable to move at all, effectively being held in place by the two of them.

The man came to stand in front of his captive now, eyeing him curiously. On a nod from him, one of his men removed the gag; Sherlock ignored his opposite for the time being, tentatively moving his aching jaw. He swallowed a few times; his throat was parched but he was certainly not going to ask for a drink. He was determined not to say anything at all, come to that.

"That's better," the man said, turning serious all of a sudden. His eyes hardened: "My name is Anthony Davenport. Does that ring a bell?"

It did not. Sherlock was certain that he had never seen him before, and the name did not sound familiar.

Davenport shook his head: "That's rather disappointing, Mr Holmes. I have brought you here to remind you of my brother."

Davenport. Outwardly calm, Sherlock frantically racked his brain, but the name did not evoke any association.

"Then I'll help you. Jeremy Davenport." He all but spat the name in Sherlock's face. "He was arrested because you found out that he was connected to a murder, even after the police had given up."

A faint memory which Sherlock had long deleted popped up in his mind: a case which had left Lestrade baffled –naturally- and would have remained unsolved if it had not been for Sherlock, who had spent weeks mulling it over, looking for the one detail which did not fit in the picture. It had been before John, an eternity ago, which was why Sherlock had not kept the memory.

Davenport saw the realization dawning in the detective's eyes: "That's right, now you know. If it weren't for you, he wouldn't have gone to prison. He wouldn't be dead."

Killed in prison then. Sherlock did not recall Jeremy Davenport's face, but he had been fairly young.

"He was stabbed a few months ago," Davenport said accordingly, "and you know what- I really, really wanted to show you how that feels like ever since."

Sherlock mustered all his strength to remain impassive, despite the icy fear which shot through his stomach. He was not easily scared, but his situation seemed dire; even if Mycroft had noticed by now that something was amiss, or if the police had examined the cab and had put two and two together (the chance of which being slim), they would not be fast enough. Davenport only needed to take a knife and do as he threatened, and Sherlock was in a fix.

An image of John flitted through Sherlock's mind, and he suddenly felt despair welling up in him. He wanted to see John again, he did not want to die here. He tried to keep the image in front of his inner eye to have something to hold on to. Maybe there was going to be a way to struggle free.

"I am going to film it," his captor said pleasurably, evidently hoping to provoke some kind of reaction, "and send it to your brother, together with your remains. See how he likes it."

"He will probably salute you," Sherlock could not resist saying. His voice was hoarse and low.

Davenport's stance now changed ever so subtly, his eyes never leaving Sherlock. His gaze wandered up and down the detective's face and over his body, and very, very slowly, his grin returned.

"Lo and behold," he said, huskily. "You do have a voice. And what a voice at that."

He stepped closer, his eyes roaming the pale face in front of him: "Incidentally, this mouth of yours is rather delectable," he muttered, suddenly bending forward until his nose nearly touched Sherlock's, sniffing. Sherlock could not pull away, as he was unable to move due to a hand which was gripping his hair, but he was rather disgusted by this odd behaviour and the man's awfully musky cologne.

"Hmm," Davenport closed his eyes as if he was tasting a particularly good sample of wine, "extraordinary."

He opened his eyes again, contemplating his prisoner: "I don't only like what I see, I also like what I hear... and the scent of you. It'd be a waste to just have you wheezing in agony while I twist the knife in your guts. No..."

He looked Sherlock up and down once more, this time with a positively lecherous expression. "I think I shall have some fun with you first."

Sherlock's mouth went dry; there was no mistaking of what the man meant. The icy fear which had settled in his stomach earlier flared up again, even more so as Davenport stepped closer yet, running one hand over Sherlock's chest and down his torso. Sherlock hoped he wasn't trembling, but when his captor's hand reached his pants and the previously rather playful touch became much firmer, he could not subdue a flinch.

Davenport grinned, increasing the pressure: "Not bad," he murmured,"a bit skinny maybe, but altogether... not bad at all." He smiled at Sherlock: "And I like it if my boys are a little shy... usually makes for good sport."

Sherlock would have recoiled from him if he had been able to. Yet even if he could have moved, his body would not have obeyed his command: he was frozen, paralyzed with terror. He wished he could say something, anything, to talk himself out of this, but for the first time he could remember, words were failing him, his mind was completely blank except for fear and the anxiety for John to be there, to end this.

As it was, he could not help being groped, and he felt nausea welling up in him as he felt his own body beginning to respond, which was utterly humiliating on top of it all. He fought hard to control it, especially when Davenport leaned towards him once more until their skin nearly touched: "Don´t worry," he all but purred, his lips grazing Sherlock´s earlobe. "It seems that you'll like it."

With that, he pulled back: "Bring him to my bedroom, you know what to do. Have him ready for me in ten minutes."

The image of John vanished along with everything else as pure, unadulterated panic seemed to consume Sherlock's mind entirely.

Smiling, Davenport turned and resumed his seat at the desk.

The two gorillas shared a grin as they dragged Sherlock's rigid form towards another door, and there really was not anything he could do.

John Watson tiredly ran his hand over his eyes; he had come home in the early evening, expecting Sherlock to be there, but the flat was empty. He checked his phone: he did not have any messages or missed calls. Maybe Sherlock was at Barts or with Lestrade, he decided, nothing to worry about.

He hoped that Sherlock was not avoiding him after what John had begun to call The Incident; he had not sorted his own feelings about it yet, which was partly why he had gone to Harry's at all, apart from the fact that she had needed help with decorating her new flat.

He paused; trying not to think of something clearly only made you ponder it even more. The Incident had happened after a night out with Mike Stamford. John had been more than a little sloshed, and when he had finally gotten home in the wee hours, he apparently had not found the way to his own bedroom.

Well, found or chosen. He did not remember it anymore, he did not in fact have the foggiest idea how he had ended up in Sherlock's bed in his shirt and boxers, but that was what had happened.

In the morning, they had woken up wrapped around each other, legs entangled, belly to belly, front to front. John blushed at the sheer idea. Not that it was unpleasant- not counting how he must have smelled- but he hated the notion that he had so obviously lost control over himself.

And it gave him a lot to think, naturally, because he clearly had acted upon a subconscious desire, hadn´t he? Or had he only been too drunk? Well, at least he had not been naked, as opposed to his flatmate, who only wore nightclothes in winter or when he wasn´t feeling well. John blushed some more. To his credit, Sherlock had been remarkably laid-back about waking up like that- in the literal sense at that.

But they had not talked about it yet, and John hoped that Sherlock had not had second thoughts in the meantime.

Sighing, he went to his room and began to unpack his bag; Sherlock had been right about his sister, she was still drinking, and upon this discovery, the past days had not exactly been pleasant. If he had not promised her to help, he would have left earlier.

And now John was looking forward to having a shower, reading a little, going to bed early and forgetting about the world, not wanting to see wallpaper paste ever again.

A few hours later, he awoke with a crick in his neck and found that he had fallen asleep in his armchair. For a moment, he did not know what had woken him or which year it was, but then he recognized the sound of his phone.

The clock showed that it was nearing midnight, and Sherlock still did not seem to be home.

"About time," he murmured, but the caller ID was not Sherlock's; the number was withheld.

A sense of foreboding washed over him so powerfully that he all but gasped his name: "John Watson."

"John," Mycroft Holmes said. "I've sent a car."

"Why? What happened? Is Sherlock-"

"No, he's not all right. I don't want to discuss this on the phone. The car should be there any minute now." With that, he hung up.

Cursing and suddenly anxious, John got to his feet.

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To Be Continued

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