Chapter Text
*
Too stunned to equivocate, Tom watched Benedict stalk away, his posture betraying nothing but annoyance.
What in God's name is wrong with him? He'd been bizarre all weekend. First his odd indifference, his lack of affection in bed, his insulting manner at dinner, the…thing with Mark…all that had been upsetting, but Tom had tried to shrug them off and not collect grievances. Filming was intense and did strange things to the psyche sometimes. But now he was charging in like a superhero without, evidently, having bothered to phone the police, without even having thought about it, and furthermore, didn't seem at all upset at Tom's distressing predicament. Something was wrong, completely off in fact.
Just above him, there was a hollow metallic crash, and a heavy thump, very like a body hitting the floor. Tom froze. "Ben?" he called softly.
"God damn it, fucking hell!"
"Oh, Jesus," Tom moaned, recognising the voice. "Henry. Henry!" There was no answer, but Tom heard cupboards yanked open and slammed closed, and solid, angry footfalls, and a counterpoint of low, furious muttering. "Henry! Ben!" Furious tears hazed his vision. "Benedict –"
The footfalls came closer, and Tom shrank back as he heard booted feet – not Benedict's, Benedict's tread was lighter, springier – descending the stairs. Fury at his inability to tamp down his fear overwhelmed him as Henry appeared in the doorway. "What did you do to him, you fucking bastard? What did you do?"
Henry's face was red as he marched to Tom's side. His foot swung, and before Tom could curl up protectively, it slammed into the muscle of Tom's thigh.
Tom howled in pain, trying to clench his teeth and breathe through the sudden blinding yellow-green nausea that swamped him. He rocked back and forth convulsively, wanting to throw up. Tears of agony and rage rolled from his tightly closed eyes. More pain seared through him as Henry grasped his hair and gave his head a good hard shake.
"You smug little fuck." Henry picked up the wet and now soiled gag and rolled it into a large wad.
"No –" Tom adored sexual, consensual bondage – though he fleetingly wondered if he ever would again, if indeed he lived to contemplate it – but couldn't stand the sensation of any obstruction in his mouth. Tom abandoned the sudden two-second mental aside. "Henry, please, please think about this." He wriggled backward, getting leverage with his feet as Henry lunged toward him. "Henry –"
Henry grabbed his hair again, aggravating Tom's already thriving headache and the new pain in his thigh. "Shut up. Shut up. Shut up." He punctuated each short sentence with a hard slap to Tom's cheek.
Tom gritted his teeth and shook his head despite the pain of the repeated blows. He whimpered as Henry grasped his jaw and dug in with iron-hard fingers – practised fingers, Tom realised with horror – and finally relented beneath the pain. A defeated sob escaped him as Henry crammed the wet cloth into his mouth again, stretching his jaw too widely. He tasted dirt and something metallic and wondered if there had been blood on the floor. How many people had been bound and helpless on this floor before Henry had brought him here?
Henry dragged the rope up from round Tom's neck and secured the cloth again. He rocked back on his heels, then noticed the knife Benedict had used to cut the ropes on Tom's wrists. "Well now. That was a close shave, wasn't it?" He held the point under Tom's chin. "Those are my good knives, you spoilt little shit." Heaving himself to his feet with a grunt, Henry stared down at Tom, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He bit his lower lip in consternation, then bent and sliced at the rope binding Tom's ankles.
The edge of the knife sliced into Tom's naked flesh, and he cringed, but stayed silent. His cramped and cold feet flooded with pins and needles as the blood flowed freely again, and he flexed his toes in discomfort.
"Get up." Henry grasped Tom's arm and pulled. "Up!"
Tom stumbled to his still numb feet, wobbling back and forth. Henry held the knife point at Tom's lower back and pushed. "Upstairs. Shift it." Half-blinded by tears, Tom did his best to comply, moving out of the storeroom and toward the dark staircase. He hesitated at the bottom. He could get nearly to the top, turn sharply, kick Henry, catching him in the balls or even the kneecap. He could –
The knife's point pierced his skin just enough to make him jump. "Don't try anything, pal," Henry said softly. "Or I'll cut your boyfriend's cock off in slices."
"No," Tom tried to say, but it emerged as a piteous garble of sound.
"All right, then. Up you get."
Ben, why didn't you call the police? His entire body trembling – and he needed to pee still, but it had faded a bit to an embarrassing inconvenience – Tom ascended the chilly stairs. His heart gave an unpleasant lurch as he got to the top and saw Benedict tied up on the floor, mouth taped, his eyes fluttering. A copper stir-fry pan sat on a wooden island, and Tom suspected that was the source of the awful clang he'd heard. Henry had knocked Ben unconscious.
Benedict stirred and looked uncomprehendingly at Tom. He groaned behind the tape.
Tom wanted to say something reassuring, but he couldn't speak an intelligible word. His stomach clenched. If he couldn't speak, he couldn't persuade Henry to delay and possibly give them time to effect some sort of escape. If he couldn't persuade Henry to delay, Henry would think nothing of torturing him again, or Benedict. And if Henry got started again, he might not stop.
"Move," Henry snarled, shoving Tom forward into the island. He grabbed Benedict by the arm and hauled him up. Benedict staggered and found his feet. He caught Tom's eye, then glared feebly at Henry. "Right," Henry said in a brisk, take-charge tone. "Change of plan. We're going to one of the tenant cottages, the three of us." He looped an arm through Benedict's and held the edge of the knife against his vulnerable throat. Benedict lifted his chin sharply. "Tommy, you make the least fuss and Benny here gets a severed artery. Tu me comprends?"
Mute and nearly insensate with terror, Tom nodded. He couldn't quite relinquish a final glimmer of hope. If someone saw them – someone walking her dog, or gathering from his garden, some courageous soul who'd phone the police immediately – oh, God, was this what all of Henry's victims thought? Waiting, hoping, praying for help that never arrived?
"Let's go. You first, Tom," Henry said, and jerked his chin toward the door. "Out to the car." When Tom hesitated, Henry dug the point of the knife into Benedict's neck. "Now." Benedict grunted in surprise and discomfort, and Tom saw a red smear against Ben's throat. He moved to the door and waited for Henry to open it, then walked outside.
It was a beautiful, beautiful day. Henry's house was set amongst a number of lush variegated trees, all fully leafed in late-summer green, and a sweet breeze carrying the scent of flowers brushed past Tom's face. He heard birds singing, and high overhead, the engine of a recreational aeroplane.
It's too pretty a day to die.
"Go, for fuck's sake." Henry frog-marched Benedict to the Land Rover and opened the back. He turned to Tom. "Stand right there and don't fucking move or make a sound." Without another word he shoved Benedict inside, took a roll of gaffer tape from a capacious pocket, and looped Benedict's hands and feet together.
Tom's body shook with fear and exhaustion and the aftermath of the sedative Henry had given him. His lower face burned from the chloroform pad and the rope digging into his cheeks. The urge to piss was stronger now. Tiny, irregular stones on the cobble drive dug into the soles of his bare feet, and he was uncomfortably aware of his near-nakedness. His brain was screaming imperatives at his body: Run! Run, you fucking arsehole. You're fast. There's got to be a shop nearby, a petrol station, even a road. MOVE YOUR FEET. He couldn't, though – not with Benedict helpless and at Henry's mercy, not even for a minute.
He watched Henry securing Ben; Ben's face was turned away, toward the interior of the vehicle, and his posture was utterly limp. His hands curled loosely, his spine was relaxed, not rigid, and his shoulders slumped as if he were asleep or unconscious. Oh, God. Concussion, maybe? Then the bitter irony of his concern struck him. You're worrying about concussion and you should probably be worrying about Henry scooping his intestines out with a kitchen knife.
Henry turned toward Tom. "Now you."
Not cooperating would likely earn Tom abuse, but he couldn't bring himself to be a model prisoner. He planted his feet as Henry took his arm and shook his head. Fuck you. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.
"Every little act of rebellion is one fingernail I slowly pull off your boyfriend's hand with pliers, Tom." Henry smiled almost sadly. "Trying to escape is one. Not opening your mouth when I wanted you to is two. This is three. Do you want to try for four?"
Tom shook his head in mingled negation and pleading. As if it's going to make a difference whether or not I cooperate. Suddenly he wondered if Henry had raped his female victims. He thought of Katie, missing for so long, her parents bewildered, then frantic, then finally grieving, and whoever the young female fan had been. Oh, Christ almighty, poor little girl. Had Henry brutalised her? Would he assault Tom and Ben too? Desperately, he threw a wild glance toward the road. Please –
"Four."
Turning back to Henry, Tom snarled at him through the wadded tea towel, trying to mask utter defeat. There had to be a way out of this, had to –
"That's the feisty Tom we know and love. No, not back with the boyfriend." Henry slammed the hatch closed, put his hand round Tom's arm – a detatched, impersonal grasp, not intimate or sexual, Tom thought – and dragged him toward the rear passenger seat, opening the door and pushing him inside. "On your tummy." Tom reluctantly lay on his side, then rolled to his belly. He let Henry tape his ankles together, then secure them to his wrists. Henry tested the tensile strength of Tom's bonds by yanking his ankles backwards. Tom yelped at the sudden pain in his shoulders and felt a pat on his thigh. "Good boy. Right, I've got to gather some stuff up, won't be a minute. You and Benny behave yourselves. Take a tip from the boyfriend, Tom." He closed the door, and Tom heard the locks depress.
He's going to kill us.
Tom moaned, then started thrashing as much as he could against his punishing bonds. He folded his thumbs inward and pulled at the cuffs, but they held solid, immovable. He struggled hard, shrieking at the top of his lungs, hoping that someone, anyone would pass by.
Benedict's silence from the rear terrified Tom; surely their combined efforts would attract someone's attention. Tom tried to surge up in order to get a look at Ben – had he fainted? – but the hogtie was brutally effective, and he could scarcely move at all. He writhed in fury and terror, and managed to fall heavily to the floor, wedging himself uncomfortably in the space between the front and rear seats. His cheek scraped against the carpet. It had been recently shampooed – removing bloodstains Tom thought morbidly. He rubbed his burning cheek against the floor in an attempt to dislodge the rope from around his face. Scream, scream bloody murder oh God, oh fuck no, please –
The locks popped up, and the rear hatch opened. Something heavy thudded into the back, and the hatch went down again. Tom heard the front driver-side door opening, and a laugh.
"Can't say you haven't got spirit, Tommy."
As Henry climbed into the car and drove away, Tom wept.
Please, no. Please, please, no. No.
*
His head ached abominably, but Sherlock ignored it as best he could, lying in the rear of the Land Rover and listening to Tom's muffled crying. Tom seemed a bit ahead of schedule. Typical victim responses to the actions of a serial killer were remarkably similar to Kubler-Ross' five stages of grieving model, and Tom had apparently reached the Depression stage already, quite quickly after the Anger stage and having bypassed the Bargaining stage due to inability to communicate. Sherlock was certain his hormones hadn't quite caught up yet. He'd done a paper at uni: Fight, Flight, or Die: Neurochemical reaction and process in victims of serial killers. It had been very poorly received by his peers, such as they were – idiots, the lot of them.
He'd have advised Tom to stay still and calm and conserve his energy for escape, but obviously that was a bit of a problem. It wasn't critical, though. Henry was making mistake after mistake in his panic. He hadn't bothered to determine whether Sherlock had phoned the police, though admittedly he might have heard his conversation with Tom and made a determination on his own. He'd hustled them out in broad daylight, risking someone seeing them. He hadn't looked for Sherlock's phone. He had two victims now instead of one, and though he'd likely enjoy the process of torment and murder, shipping and handling had suddenly become a much greater issue. He'd thrown a heavy bag into the back of the Land Rover, presumably containing some basic implements of torture, but away from his home base his methods and technique would suffer, a decided spanner in the works of any power/control killer, who preferred to exercise the tightest discipline over their choice of crime scene. Scattering forensic evidence willy-nilly – oh, that was a very telling move indeed. Serial killers who made mistakes were easier to escape or overpower. All that was required was the right opportunity. It had to be fairly soon, though – once Henry secured them both in their new location, they had perhaps an hour, possibly two, before he began to torture one or both of them. Weakened and in pain, they had a much slimmer chance of survival. He had to be patient and constantly alert.
Henry drove at a deliberate speed, but even his minor actions demonstrated his shaken psyche: he braked far too abruptly at a traffic sign, took the corner too fast, and overcorrected as the Land Rover swerved slightly. Sherlock winced; the headache was a knife slicing into his brain. He'd managed to turn his head and pull back just enough so that his cheek and temple took the greatest impact from the pan, which wasn't all that heavy – not that it hadn't hurt. He'd been stunned long enough for Henry to bind and gag him and had roused himself to full awareness as Henry was in the cellar abusing Tom. Sherlock had taken a moment to orient himself and then had swept his surroundings for something useful. He'd struggled up as quietly as he could, turned awkwardly, opened a drawer, and found a small paring knife – not terribly sharp, but adequate to cut the tape around his wrists with a little effort. He'd tucked it down the back of his underwear and got on the floor again, his head already throbbing. It was easy to feign grogginess as Henry forced Tom up the stairs and pushed him into the kitchen. Henry was in too much of a rush to realise that Sherlock was a full half metre away from where he'd left him, and Tom was terrified and concerned at once. He'd seen that expression in varying light and shade on John's face from time to time, and it never failed to soothe Sherlock a bit even under the most distressing circumstances. John rarely touched Sherlock unless Sherlock was hurt or otherwise incapacitated, and then he was gentle and kind. It was a trifle puzzling but not entirely unpleasant that Sherlock's occasional – very occasional helplessness seemed to arouse John's more protective and affectionate instincts, though obviously Sherlock would have never mentioned that aloud.
Sherlock felt the edge of the knife pressing against his left arse cheek. That was going to be difficult to explain if Henry saw it, but there was nothing for it now. He was grateful that Cumberbatch appeared to favour rather form-fitting underwear; with a bit of luck it wouldn't slide down his trouser leg. He gauged the route they were taking, out of the tiny village and onto a bumpy, ancient macadam back road. Blinking hard to clear his head – no concussion, but there'd be a hell of a mark – he glanced around the interior of the Land Rover as far as his limited vision would allow.
The carpet on the floor had been recently laundered, but not quite enough to disguise some telltale bloodstains ground into the fibres, nor the faint odour and gritty white powder of the quicklime that had settled into the seams of the leather seats. Sherlock almost laughed. Evidently Henry wasn't the sort to check on or revisit the bodies he'd deposited, if he was still using quicklime; had he been, he'd have discovered that quicklime was rubbish for disintegrating a corpse; it merely mummified the body, preserving it to a reasonable degree in the long run. DNA testing would be a cinch. If he'd done his research – and really, when did murderers, even the clever ones, do the proper amount of research? Never, that's when – he'd have found that potassium hydroxide or sulphuric acid would have done a much faster, cleaner job. Not that those methods were perfect, no caustic compound was despite what sensationalistic literature and tabloids would have the credulous reader believe, but quicklime – really. Though disposal didn't seem to be too much of an issue, if Henry owned as much land as the petrol station clerk had asserted.
The Land Rover braked to a stop, and Henry got out. In the rear seat, Tom had stopped crying, but was still struggling to free himself. Annoyed, Sherlock thumped against the back of the seat in an effort to get Tom to calm down, but it didn't seem to help. Attempting speech was pointless, so Sherlock sighed loudly through his nose and went limp as Henry opened the hatch.
"All cosy back here?" Henry's voice was breathless, falsely jolly.
Sherlock turned his head and looked Henry in the eye, feigning loss of focus. He squinted, frowned, and mumbled behind the tape.
"A bit out of it still? Never mind, we'll bring you round in no time. Right, here we are." Henry leant close and cut the tape round Sherlock's ankles – carefully, Sherlock noted. No point, evidently, in drawing a single drop of accidental blood, if one didn't count the knife slicing at his throat. Sherlock let his legs flop to the floor and groaned. He lifted his head and allowed it to fall again as if the effort was too much.
"Holy Norah, I didn't hit you all that hard! Maybe you're concussed. Is that it? Tommy, I thought your pal here was made of sterner stuff."
Tom let out a muffled string of what sounded like obscenities and profanities. Back to the Anger stage, apparently.
"That's five, Tom." Tom went silent, and Henry smiled at Sherlock. "Good boy. You're learning. That's a whole hand, in case you'd lost count."
Sherlock blinked and frowned again, and emitted a questioning grunt, hoping Henry wouldn't start on him right away. It would be difficult to fight denailed.
"Oh, you must have missed it. Never mind, we'll keep it for a surprise. Come on, up you get." Henry caught Sherlock's arm and dragged him forward until he was half-dangling out of the rear. He righted Sherlock and eased him out the back, steadying him with a solicitousness that exceeded absurdity. "All right? Keep your feet, I've got to look after Tom." He retrieved his bag, slammed the hatch, and went round to the rear passenger door.
After risking a quick glance over his shoulder to ensure that Henry wasn't watching him, Sherlock lifted his head a little and rapidly catalogued his surroundings. They'd gone about five kilometres – first over a smooth municipal road, then onto an inadequately maintained single lane that branched off due northwest to what was still Henry's property, in this instance a farmhouse and stables in a sort of quasi-Normandy style. Judging by the unkempt grass and general disrepair of the structures, the place had been neglected for years, probably too much trouble for Henry to modernise for rent or repurpose. There might be running water, but in all likelihood there wasn't the comfort and convenience of Henry's house, all the little touches Henry had no doubt added over the years, if Tom's half-hysterical assertion had been correct, in order to facilitate a really satisfying kill or two or twenty.
How many he'd murdered was a far more interesting question than Henry's methods or motivations. His eagerness to make both him and Tom suffer was beyond obvious, the letters were indicative of classic revenge-obsession and narcissism – probably Tom didn't even realise that he'd somehow inadvertently triggered Henry's rage – and it was disappointing to see exactly how much money smoothed the way in all walks of life, even a murderer's. Give him a really clever and moderately impoverished serial killer any day – they had to be so much more resourceful.
Henry pushed Tom ahead of him, prodding him with the sharp knife. Tom searched Sherlock's eyes anxiously, then moved close and pressed his cheek against Sherlock's, a defiant and…and admittedly a touching little gesture. Sherlock inhaled the sharp tinge of Tom's fear-infused sweat, and leant into Tom's body, just to reassure him a bit, but swayed a little to maintain his demeanour of disorientation.
Not to worry, TWH. You're not going to die today. I promised Cumberbatch, after all.
Henry clicked his tongue. "That's sweet. Come on, you two – maybe I'll let you have a snog before we get started." He took Sherlock by the arm and put the knife to his throat again. "Shall we, gents?"
Sherlock refrained from snorting with some difficulty. The false urbanity had grey hairs and a pension; he was more curious to see more of the rage that lay behind the mask. The sticky bit would be seeing it without losing life and limb, much less a couple of fingernails. He felt Henry's fingers digging into the flesh of his arm and thought that he'd be afforded the chance very soon. Good.
They went to the farmhouse door. Henry produced an old-fashioned key and turned the rusty lock, then pushed them both inside. It was just as run-down and inhospitable as Sherlock had guessed. The walls were raw stone and mortar, quaintly charming in some houses, but this house was a mere shell. There was a rotting sofa and a club chair clawed by several generations of cats at the end of the room they occupied. Further away in the kitchen area – this place was ahead of the great-room trend by a few hundred years – was a small cast-iron oven, a bare, dark hearth, a wooden cupboard, and a table with two crude chairs. As murder houses went, it wasn't half bad.
Henry let Sherlock go and frowned, looking round the place. "Well. I suppose the chairs will do for now." He gestured at the kitchen chairs with the knife. "Sit. Both of you."
Sherlock wobbled over to the chairs and took one, surreptitiously adjusting the knife tucked into his briefs so that he wasn't dead on it when he sat. Moaning, he leant forward and breathed hard.
"Relax, you'll get yours, Benedict." Henry kicked the other chair over a bit and nodded curtly at Tom. "Now."
Tom thumped into the chair sullenly and glared at Henry with red-rimmed eyes. Sherlock turned away to hide the sudden twinkle in his eyes. TWH wasn't in the least like John, but Henry was right – he did have spirit.
Opening his canvas satchel, Henry withdrew his roll of gaffer tape. He moved behind Tom, started the end of the tape, and wrapped several lengths tightly around Tom's upper torso, securing him to the chair. Then he moved to Sherlock. "Oh, for God's sake." He grasped Sherlock's hair and dragged him upward, holding him as he ripped off more tape with the help of his teeth. He bound Sherlock to the chair, but Sherlock made it difficult; he moaned again and slid down a few centimetres, then sagged forward once more. When Henry had finished, he was fettered loosely enough that a few energetic struggles would free him once he had the chance.
So far, so good.
Panting with effort – he was really out of shape – Henry moved round to face Sherlock and Tom and stared at them for a long minute, his mouth curved in a smile that was almost gentle. Sherlock heard Tom's increasingly agitated breathing and smelled the ammoniac tang of his fear, but forced himself to concentrate on Henry, and on stealthily moving his hand toward the paring knife, easing it up millimetre by millimetre. Henry, if he was anything like a typical stalker-cum-serial killer, and he certainly seemed typical, would take some time to chat – well, gloat – and ratchet up his victims' terror and helplessness before he got down to business.
Henry stared awhile more, then moved forward, scraped at the edge of the tape covering Sherlock's mouth, and ripped it off.
OUCH that HURTS you sodding BLOODY ARSEHOLE
Sherlock blinked hard and let out another moan. He focussed on Henry's chin and wet his lips. OUCH. "What…." He blinked again. "Why…why are you…." He trailed off and let out a shuddering breath.
"I'm going to ask you a question, Benny, and I want the truth now. That was you ringing me from the shop, wasn't it?"
"I don't…I don't know what you mean." Sherlock squirmed a bit in the chair, then teetered backward as Henry cracked him across the face.
"Wrong fucking answer, darling." Henry grasped Sherlock's hair and wrenched his head back. "Tell the truth, now."
Sherlock let out a soft little cry and screwed his eyes shut. "Please…my head…."
"Never mind your head. Was that you?" Henry gave Sherlock's head a hard shake.
"Ah! Yes, yes –" Sherlock let tears well up in his eyes. "Please don't –"
Henry let Sherlock's hair go and straightened up, folding his arms and grinning. "And did you call the police, Benedict?"
Sherlock sniffled and cringed away, noticing Henry's relaxed stance, the way his tongue crept out to swipe at the corner of his mouth, the confident upward tilt of his chin. Doesn't care if I did. "Yes." A tear rolled down Sherlock's cheek, then another.
"And what did they tell you?"
"They…they said they'd send someone round to look into it." Sherlock sniffled again and lifted his own chin in a show of defiance. "And they will, too. Y-you'd better let us go or you'll suffer the consequences."
Henry's smile widened. "I'm sorry I wasn't there to hear that conversation. I've known those chaps all my life. They won't send anybody, you know. The police are our friends. Public servants. Reading about you, I'd have thought that you'd understand. Our sort flies beneath the radar. Hatch, match, and despatch, and God willing that's the only mention you'll ever see of me in the papers – and we've got our local police force to thank for that, in part." He bit his lip thoughtfully. "Well, I don't think 'match' is quite in the picture, but the single life has its compensations."
"Like murdering people." Sherlock shrank further back in his chair. Slowly, he fumbled beneath his jacket and into his trousers, and with his fingertips located the edge of the knife and began to ease it upward. "Tom –" He winced and screwed his eyes shut again. "Tom said you'd killed his friend. And a fan."
"You two had quite a conversation before I got back. Surprised you, didn't I?"
Sherlock said nothing, but stared down at his knees. The handle of the knife slipped obligingly into his palm.
"Took a short-cut. The coppers won't come, Benedict, and if they do, they'll find me at home, alone, reading a book. I'll invite them to have a look around, and they won't find a single scrap of evidence." Henry cast a loving glance at Tom. "It's too bad, really. I'd almost rather that they found you. Then everyone would know. The Burgess Method, they'd call it. But it's early days. We've plenty of time, the three of us."
Sherlock bit his lip to keep from smirking. Burgess Method indeed, as if Henry was that original. Original killers came along every fifty years, if that. And obviously Henry had lived with the odour of corpses so long that he'd become desensitised to it. Any officer worth his salt would recognise it the moment he stepped into the cellar. Covertly, moving only his hand, he began sawing delicately at the tape that bound his wrists. "It was you. The letters."
"Yeah." Henry perched gingerly on the edge of the table. "I'm actually sort of surprised he told you. I'd been sending them for a while now, and he never mentioned them at any of the RADA gatherings. Tommy's the noble, stoic type," he said with a sneer. "Bit of a climber, too, but so many people are, you hardly notice one more, eh?"
Well, here we go. Sherlock closed his eyes again and rolled them. It had been a while since he'd had personal contact with a serial killer. He'd have fallen asleep if he hadn't a job to do. Keeping Henry talking was imperative. He blinked, shook his head a little as if wooziness was taking over and frowned. "He…he did tell me." He glanced over at TWH, who was sitting bolt upright, the rapid rise and fall of his chest clearly indicating his agitation and fright. Tom met his eyes and shook his head as if he'd wished Sherlock had kept quiet.
"I know," Henry snapped. "That's what I just said. Keep up." He shook his head. "He didn't tell the Metropolitan police either. Not word one. I'd watch you, Tommy, after you'd get one. You never noticed that our dinners coincided with those letters, did you? Oh, God." Henry rose and began to pace in front of them. "Some people, like you, Tom…they manage for years, they grow up and they look all right, they look strong and capable, but they're so soft on the inside, and eventually they break. The world never hardens them. You wonder why nature fails to provide for their survival." Moving forward, he clasped Tom's face between his hands, tangling his fingers in Tom's hair and yanking when Tom tried to flinch backward. "You took so fucking much from me."
TWH shook his head and emitted a muffled noise. His respiration gathered intensity and speed along with Henry's.
Sherlock felt the tape round his wrists give. Good. Better still, Henry hadn't bound his feet. Best of all, Henry was physically unfit and wouldn't recognise a mixed martial art if it flipped him upside down and brained him with a chair. Which it was about to do.
Henry was still talking, still holding Tom's head between his hands. Judging by the gleam of sweat on his brow, the pressure on TWH's head indicated by his paling skin where Henry's fingers dug into his face, and the way he'd begun to bite off words and spit them out, he was very close to committing violence. He had Tom's full attention, his silent reactions. In a moment he'd likely demand an actual dialogue – not dialogue at all, but a laundry list of grievances. Anything TWH said would be a mere excuse for torture.
"…Katie," Henry said. "The very same. You should have seen her at the end, Tommy. Begging, pleading, promising me anything." Eagerly, predictably, he fumbled with the knot of the rope holding the gag in Tom's mouth and yanked it down when it wouldn't give easily. He pulled the gag out and let it drop to the floor. "What'll you promise me?"
Tom breathed hard, pulling deep gulps of air into his mouth.
"Come on, Tommy. Tell me. What'll you give me?" Henry's voice shook with mingled rage and pleasure.
Sherlock cut his eyes down and saw the erection in Henry's trousers. Ugh.
"Go fuck yourself," Tom snarled. He reared back and spat at Henry, though it wasn't much of an attempt as his mouth had been leached of moisture.
Still. Oh, dear. Sherlock twisted his hand upward and began to tear at the tape binding his arms down, hoping Henry wouldn't notice.
He didn't. Henry wiped the spittle off with the back of his hand and stared at it in comical amazement. Then he smiled. "You just earned yourself a fuck." He turned and dug in his bag, withdrawing a narrow garden trowel about thirty centimetres long, with a sharp point on the digging end.
Hell. Sherlock sawed faster. The knife handle was slippery with sweat.
"You're not my type, Tommy, but this hasn't got a preference." He waved the trowel back and forth. "I imagine you'll be able to accommodate it. Your boyfriend here has probably got you nice and stretched." He made a small moue of disgust, as if violent assault with a garden implement was a perfectly quotidian experience, but ordinary anal sex was too gauche to be borne.
"No!" Tom struggled wildly against the tape, nearly tipping the chair over in the process. "Get the fuck away from me, you fucking bastard!" Frantic, he kicked at Henry awkwardly. "Get away! SOMEBODY H –"
Henry slammed a hand over Tom's mouth, then snatched it back with a cry. "You cunt!"
Sherlock grinned, seeing the tooth marks on Henry's hand. Well done, Tom! He was no wilting flower.
Henry lifted the trowel to strike Tom across the face, and Sherlock sprang. The top strip of tape still pinned him to the chair, but it wasn't enough to impede his movement completely. He lashed out with a well-aimed kick in his soft middle. Henry whooshed out a great gust of air and dropped to his knees, gasping.
Sherlock ripped the last of the tape from his upper torso and spun the chair round, lifting it in his hands and bringing it crashing down on Henry's head. Henry slumped to the floor, unconscious. In a flash Sherlock grabbed for the tape and securely bound Henry's wrists and ankles, then put him in the same tight hogtie he'd endured. He shoved the wet, dirty cloth that had gagged TWH in Henry's mouth, then wound tape several times round his head. Satisfied, but already experiencing a pang of anticlimax, he leant back on his heels and regarded TWH's would-be murderer. "Incompetent arsehole," he muttered, and got to his feet. He turned to Tom. "Are you okay?"
Tom nodded, clamping his lips shut. "Yes. I –" A great, choking sob escaped him.
There wasn't time for consolation or coddling. Tom could cry in the car on the way home. Sherlock retrieved Henry's knife and crouched behind Tom's chair, cutting him free and gathered up the tape that had bound them both, stuffing it in his pockets. The handcuffs he'd have to deal with in London. "Come on," he said brusquely, getting to his feet. "Let's go."
TWH didn't move. He sat in the chair, trembling, trying to catch his breath but not quite getting there.
"Tom," Sherlock said. "Tom, we've really got to –" He sighed; TWH wasn't paying attention to a single word. John wouldn't cry and carry on like this. Fine, he'd give Tom a moment. He went back to Henry's side, bent, checked to ensure that the bonds wouldn't give and that Henry couldn't move, and then pulled Henry's eye open, watching as the pupil contracted ever so slightly. Not dead, then. He fished Henry's keys from his pocket and slipped them in his own. And Tom was still weeping. Still! Apparently actors just overflowed with emotion. The ordeal was over, the killer apprehended, and Tom was safe, for God's sake – what was there to cry about?
In a flash he saw John's face: disappointed. Human lives, Sherlock. Do you care about that at all?
Sherlock pressed his lips together, then took a few cautious steps towards Tom. "Tom," he said, as gently as he could, "it's time to go." He slipped an arm round Tom's shoulders and eased him up carefully. "Come on. It's okay. I've got you." Murmuring nonsense reassurances, he steered TWH to the door and outside. He unlocked the passenger door of the Land Rover and helped Tom onto the seat.
"Wait. Wait. I've got to piss. I'm bursting." TWH sniffled, and wiped his cheek against his shoulder.
Sherlock smiled tightly. "Righto. Er…let's just step over here." He took Tom's arm, then guided him to the side of the run-down cottage. "I'll…er…just take these down…." He dragged the running shorts down to Tom's thighs.
Tom nodded. "Ben, would you mind –? I can't."
Uncomfortable warmth crept up Sherlock's neck. This was a bit too intimate, which was distinctly odd since he'd had sex with the man, but it would be odder still to refuse since apparently his little diatribe about not being Cumberbatch hadn't penetrated and perhaps now wasn't the time to reiterate. "Of course." He took Tom's cock in his hand and helped him piss, then gingerly shook him off and pulled his shorts back up. "All right, we're off." He handed TWH back into the Land Rover, got in himself, and drove away from the cottage.
TWH leant his head against the window and was silent for the duration of the ride – four and a half kilometres, not five as Sherlock had supposed. Sherlock glanced at him a few times. His experience with kidnap victims post rescue wasn't vast; once the case was solved, he was gone, on to the next thing. He usually hung about long enough to see them delivered to paramedics and didn't bother much with conversation. They generally weren't up for a chat in their state, and in any event rarely had little illuminating information to contribute. Tom seemed no different from the typical victim. That was fine.
As they pulled into the drive and rolled toward the house, Tom asked, "How'd you know the route?" The question was delivered in an incurious tone, though, as if the answer didn't matter much.
"Paid attention," Sherlock replied curtly, and cut the engine.
"He killed a fan of mine. A young girl."
Sherlock frowned. "Stay here. I'm locking the doors." He got out, trotted up to the door, and went inside. A quick reconnaissance of the cellar told him what he needed to know, and he was back up to the main level in moments. He went to the kitchen, picked up the phone, and dialled the Met's Homicide and Serious Crime division, trusting the number was the same.
Of course it was. Sherlock snorted quietly as the voice on the other end answered. "Listen very carefully. I'm calling from the residence of Henry Burgess in Tilford." He gave the address. "A series of violent crimes, among them rape and murder, has been committed here. No, I'm phoning you because Mr Burgess seems to believe he has the local police force in his pocket. Don't interrupt me again. The cellar of the house contains a variety of restraints and implements of torture, as well as chemicals to dispatch the bodies upon their death. The grounds are extensive and I have reason to believe that he's buried his victims within reasonable distance of the house. Ground-penetrating radar and chemical analysis should be adequate to find what you need, but he's been at it for more than ten years so you've quite a job ahead of you. Given that he's a serial killer, though, you should be able to discern his methodology quickly enough. His last victim was a young woman – don't ask her name, I don't know it. I –" He sighed impatiently. "I was coming to that. He's been apprehended and is bound in an abandoned tenant cottage four and a half kilometres northwest of the house. Send someone immediately."
Sherlock rang off and heaved a sigh. They'd send someone local first, of course, but the unusual circumstances would prevent Henry from escaping. He hoped.
He went back to the Land Rover, unlocked it, and got in. Tom was in the same position, leaning against the window. Sherlock sniffed and grimaced, then depressed the window button on his side. TWH was ripe; Sherlock would have urged him out to walk to his own car, but time was of the essence now. He drove to the Audi, left the keys on the seat of the Land Rover after wiping them and the steering wheel clean, then opened Tom's door using his jacket to mask his fingers.
Tom met his eyes once, frowned, started to speak, then went quiet again.
"Come on," Sherlock urged him, and propelled him into the Audi, buckling his safety belt when he showed no inclination to do so. He pulled away at a sedate pace; as he reached the traffic intersection, a squad car raced by, lights flashing. Not a bad response time, all in all.
He swung back on the motorway to London and drove in silence for a while. Traffic was heavier, and the going was slower, so he eased up on the accelerator accordingly, though the temptation to weave the sleek little car through the mass of machinery was strong. He felt the adrenaline draining from his body and the onset of exhaustion and mild letdown that often followed a case. True, there was nothing much more to investigate, though working out exactly how many people he'd killed and how would have been diverting, but it was the only really interesting thing that had happened in the last few days and he wouldn't have minded sticking with it a bit longer. Inter-universe travel was duller than he'd have guessed, not that he'd given it much thought. If he was stuck here for a while longer, he'd have to find something else to divert him.
Truth was, he didn't want to stay here, not at all. He wanted his London, its teeming underbelly. He wanted to remain unbothered by show-business people and reporters and assistants and fans, and he wanted his un-luxurious, cluttered, comfortable flat. He wanted Lestrade and Donovan and even Anderson. And most of all –
Sherlock swallowed past an uncomfortable thickness in his throat. He'd never been one to give himself up to any flux of emotion; independence had been paramount, the ability to choose the paths in his life without hesitation or encumbrance. Mycroft had understood that as no-one else had, and perhaps that was why they'd shared those interludes – they were alike in that way, at least.
But John….
John and Sherlock were nothing alike. John was emotional, not brilliant, not particularly independent. The stream of girlfriends proved that last; he was obviously one of those people who couldn't bear to be without a partner no matter how stupid or volatile or tedious, the sort of person who engendered Sherlock's contempt. Having a flatmate, or amiable company on a case, wasn't the same thing as a partner. Partners, as far as Sherlock understood, were people who spent their free time together, had the same interests, the same friends, the same tastes, the same gloppy sentiments about each other, who were so lockstep-deadly-boring that Sherlock itched just thinking about it.
John probably hadn't even noticed the differences between him and Cumberbatch.
Sherlock shook his head angrily and looked over at TWH again. He hadn't moved; it was starting to get a little strange. "Are you all right?"
Tom lifted his head and turned to Sherlock. His eyes were red, and tears had cut clean salt tracks down his dirty face. "Why were you like that?"
"Like what?"
"So…composed. Was it because of South Africa?"
Sherlock frowned in puzzlement. South Africa? Oh, of course, the carjacking thing. A whole two-hour ordeal. Again, this was probably not the optimal time to remind TWH that he wasn't Benedict Cumberbatch. "Maybe," he said cautiously.
"You know, I always thought if that ever happened to me, something similar, it would be…strangers, someone who wanted a ransom. I didn't think it would be a fr…someone I knew."
"Violence committed by family, friends, or acquaintances isn't at all uncommon," Sherlock said. The first time he'd been kidnapped (he had, by his own count, been abducted or taken hostage sixteen times) the perpetrators had been one of Mycroft's colleagues, hoping to glean information entrusted to Mycroft, specifically locations of missile sites in Pakistan to sell to interested and remunerative parties. Aged fifteen, snatched away from his room at college whilst revising for a chemistry exam and bundled into an ancient Volvo, he'd languished in a tiny room in Sheffield for almost four days before he'd been rescued. He recalled being frightened, but after the initial fear, he'd begun to catalogue facts, and during the phone call they'd allowed him, he'd managed to surreptitiously deliver enough clues to Mycroft for rescue to come a day and a half later. The colleague had been rounded up, drugged, and quietly and summarily dispatched to Pakistan with the information sewn into the lining of his jacket where, acting upon an anyonymous tip, the authorities discovered him trying to re-cross the border. What happened afterward was, Mycroft told Sherlock, simply the appropriate punishment for a kidnapper and a traitor. It just proved that one really couldn't trust anybody. "At least you managed to escape."
"I didn't escape. You saved me. You saved my life. I can't ever repay that."
Sherlock stared out at the road. "It's fine," he muttered.
"No. I really need to –"
"Maybe we can talk about it later," Sherlock said. "I think we both need a rest." He was, in fact, exhausted.
"Shouldn't I have stayed behind, though?"
"Why?"
"Well, to…to aid the police. I'm sure they had questions."
"I doubt there was anything you could have told them," Sherlock replied.
"Yes, but I – surely Henry will say something. He'll say I was there. There'll be forensic evidence."
Sherlock smiled a little. Tom wasn't entirely stupid. He grudgingly admitted to himself that Cumberbatch's choice of partner was not altogether awful. "You really want to embroil yourself in a gigantic scandal? Have you got any idea of how the press will prod at you? You think you're famous now – wait until you emerge as the centre of a serial killing."
"No, you're right," Tom said soberly. "But what if they ask me questions?"
"You're an actor. Act. Besides, you've got an alibi."
Tom frowned, the first expression to overtake his blank dreaminess in an hour or more. "I do?"
Sherlock chuckled. "Me."
"Oh." Tom sighed. "Yes, of course. Stupid of me." He sank back against the plush leather seat and closed his eyes.
The rest of the drive took place in blessed silence. Sherlock drove to Cumberbatch's house and escorted Tom inside, leading him to Cumberbatch's library-cum-office. It was the work of a moment to locate a paper clip and pick the low-quality cuffs.
TWH rubbed his sore, reddened wrists. "Thank you." He peered curiously at Sherlock, but said nothing more.
"Why don't you have a shower?" Sherlock suggested tactfully. You smell awful. "You can borrow something of mine to wear."
"Okay." Tom trudged off to the bathroom, and Sherlock went into the bedroom to change clothes. His were dirty, and if by some miracle the police did happen to stop by, it would be better not to have clothes soiled with dirt from the Burgess property as well as sticky gaffer tape residue. He found an old, soft grey t-shirt with some sort of architectural design on it and a pair of tracksuit bottoms.
He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. A short while later – at least he thought it was a short while later – he felt a weight on the bed beside him, then the warmth of a long body pressed against his. Damp hair tickled his neck, and an arm draped itself across his chest. A droplet of water splashed his collarbone and cooled rapidly.
"Thank you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
Distantly, Sherlock realised Tom was weeping, though why was anybody's guess. He brought a hand up and stroked Tom's hair. "It's all right," he murmured sleepily. "It's okay." His chest ached and he couldn't think why. The touching and embracing upset him, and yet he didn't want it to stop. Tom's body shook next to his, and gradually Sherlock understood that it wasn't necessarily the apology that was the source of Tom's emotions. "You're safe now. You're safe." He rolled on his side and embraced Tom. Tom clung to him tightly.
It wasn't…it was nice, actually. Sherlock let his eyes drift closed again.
*
The glare was unbearable; for a moment Sherlock thought he'd fallen asleep in the sun. At the North Pole. He winced and covered his eyes. Then it hit him:
Half seven.
He sat up, and sure enough, there was Cumberbatch. But he….
Cumberbatch lay in a heap, eyes closed, his wrists tightly bound with wire.
Any semblance of sleep fled at once. "Cumberbatch," Sherlock said harshly, and scrambled to his side. He shook his shoulder roughly. "Cumberbatch, wake up! What's happening?"
There was no response; Cumberbatch's face was white, his body frighteningly still.
"God damn it – wake up! Benedict!"
*