The Case of the Dress Up Murders

A/N: So first Sherlock. Plot bunny wouldn't leave me alone so here we go.

I am currently editing. Donovan's name is misspelled, my spellchecker decided autocorrecting Holmes to Holms was a great idea, and I have Anderson's first name as Mike when it should be Phillip. No idea why I got it in my head that his name was Mike. I swear, I thought it was in the show.

Once editing is done, I will begin posting the second part of the story, chapters 6-10. If there is anything you would like to see, comment and let me know. I have not written the next part, but there will be another baddie, and John and Sherlock working on their relationship together.

This is getting pretty dark, so fair warning. Sherlock!Whump, Sherlock!humilation, Forced crossdressing Sherlock, force feminizing Sherlock, Eventual Johnlock. Torture fic. Don't worry though, there are fluffy feels by the end.

Disclaimer: Don't own, don't make money.

Warnings: Graphic non-con, torture, emotional manipulation, graphic mentions of past child abuse/non-con by parent.

The doll dress is here: albu_252292951_00-1.0x0/2013-two-piece-squre-neck-long-sleeves-unique. jpg (remove spaces)

This is xpost AO3, in case you're wondering. ;)

Full Summery:

Lestrade's team is working a case involving a serial rapist/murderer that targets adolescent boys. Sherlock, of course, is on the case. He is brought in on the third crime scene much to Donavan and Anderson's annoyance. As he's leaving alone, he and Sally are shot with some sort of dart and disappear. Sherlock finds himself locked up in a basement with Sally, drugged on opiates. Sally, though, is clearheaded. Soon, their captor reveals himself to be the man they are already hunting. Confused, he informs Sherlock that he targets those who have a past of sexual abuse as children, and that according to a certain consulting criminal, Sherlock fits his requirements of that and being "unspoiled" since.

He uses Sally as Leverage to get a very high Sherlock to cooperate as he reveals what he has planned, to dress Sherlock as he had the others he's murdered, and have a nice tea party. Sally manages to escape, only to be recaptured and both are moved. Now, Lestrade and team have to deal with uncovering the secrets of Sherlock's past, and trying to find him before his captor tires of him and kills him like he has killed his other "dolls".

Chapter One: Dolls

People like Anderson and Donovan were sure they knew Sherlock Holmes. They were very sure he didn't have a heart and that he only got a thrill out of coming to murder scenes. And this one was perhaps one of the worst kind. It was a string of children between eleven and thirteen who had been raped, abused severely, and murdered, each one left in a room that was decorated like a tea party inside abandoned buildings all over London. They were missing a week, and about the time they discovered the body, another child would be reported missing. They had hit their third scene in three weeks, and if the pattern held true, the next week would show another death. So far no new missing children had been reported, but they had to act fast. And of course, today, Lestrade had called in their resident freak. He'd visited the others scenes, after the bodies had been removed, but of course the freak wanted to see one before the body was taken to the morgue. She sighed deeply and waited for the inevitable.

Before long, a black cab came up and let out Sherlock, and immediately they noticed that he was without his tail of the doctor. He wrapped his coat a bit tighter and walked toward the tape, going through by Donovan. She wondered why he always seemed to gravitate toward her even though she gave him no reason to remotely com in her direction.

"Hello, freak, how are you? Got one that'll really get you off tonight, huh? Where's John?" she asked, not letting anything but heat seep into her voice. John at least was normal.

"At a conference in Wales," he said, rolling his eyes. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm interested in catching a serial killer, not your droll conversation."

She sneered after him. He ignored her and went into the scene. A few moments later, he'd informed them to test the tea for the rapidly denaturing poison that was contained it in for the cause of death, had determined that the killer had been molested, possibly sexually assaulted, as a child, now collected Victorian dolls, dressed his male victims like the dolls that he had, and sewed the clothing himself by hand. He himself had a mother that wanted a daughter instead of a son. A DNA sample should be attainable in the seaming of the dresses he put the boys in, because no one that sewed by hand could avoid pricking their finger now and then. He lived above or within a doll shop, and could be certain to have the clothing of the children he'd killed still in his possession. He told Lestrade he'd figure out where he lived quickly for Lestrade.

He stepped out into the air outside and breathed in deeply. It was a cold night, and the case, though grisly, had been easy enough for him to put together. They really should have called after the first murder. While it was true he didn't have the killer in hand, he was confident he'd make his way to his flat within a short time. After all, how many doll shops could there be in London? Still, though, there was something tickling at the back of the mind, as though there was something he was missing, something right in front of him…

Sally was the last one left outside, the crime scene had been taped off, and no one seemed too interested once the cars with the lights flashing had left. Lestrade, Anderson and the small forensics team were all that were left. Anderson had gone around the back to check on the back entrance when Sherlock showed up.

"Enjoy yourself, freak?" Sally asked with another sneer at the consulting detective. He fixed her with a glare.

"I've solved your case, isn't that enough for you? Now, if you do not mind, I shall go actually catch your criminal, doing your job," he said and went to walk off. He flinched, then and reached up and pulled a tiny dart from his neck. He turned and stared at her, his eyes crossing, and he slumped to the ground. Sally frowned and felt a sting herself, and found the world spinning around her violently as she fell just as hard.

"Where's Donovan?" Anderson shouted into the building the others were inside of. Sally had been on duty outside.

Lestrade looked up. "She should be right there. She was standing out there at the tape."

Both went out and looked around. Lestrade felt a crunch under his boot. He reached down and picked up a metal dart. He looked over and saw another one glinting on the sidewalk beside an all too familiar blue scarf.

"I think we've got a problem," Lestrade said, pulling out his cellphone and texting madly.

-Somewhere Else-

Sally blinked, her dark eyes opening slowly and sluggishly. She thought for a moment that perhaps she drank too much the night before, but no…she was at a crime scene. It was dark, but there was a little light streaming in from a high window that was frosted nearly opaque. She felt handcuffs around her wrists and felt she was secured to a pole of some sort. She looked over to her side and saw that she wasn't alone. She sighed. Of all the people to get kidnapped with, she had to get kidnapped with the freak. He was still out, head dropped, dark curls falling over his face. She couldn't see what she was personally secured to, but it seemed to be pipes or columns of some sort running down in the basement.

There was a bang and Sherlock sat up straight suddenly, blinking and looking around him. He barely noticed her as a rotund man came toward them. He had a huge grin on his face. He was balding, the top of his head quite shiny. His hair that remained was dark brown. A pair of square framed glasses perched on his pudgy and pockmarked nose. He wore a decent suit, navy blue, but it was rumpled quite a bit. Sally assumed from dragging them around unconscious since he didn't have accomplices.

"Sorry for the accommodations, sergeant," he said, smiling at Sally as though it was the most normal day in the world.

"What have you taken us for?" she said, trying to at least figure out why she was here.

"He's the one we were after, the one that killed those three children," Sherlock said, and she looked to see he was still groggy. That was strange, she was clearheaded. He should have cleared whatever was used before she did. She watched the balding man carefully as he crouched between Sherlock's legs with a grin.

"Of course, dear Sherlock. I knew you'd realize who I was right away, but do you have any idea why I've brought you here? You know, you remind me of my dolls? I saw you at the first crime scene, the next day, you know, and I thought, my, my, what a pretty boy is he," he said, tilting Sherlock's head upward, finger digging painfully into the soft flesh under his chin. "Not too witty today, are you? Oh, I doubt that. Here, time to give you a bit more, don't want you deducing your way out now do we?"

He pulled a syringe from his pocked and popped the cap, jabbing it into Sherlock's leg in one fluid movement, getting a gasp from the man under him. "There we go. Now you can't do a terrible lot of thinking, now can you?"

Sherlock lifted his head and frowned. "Wha…Wha you want with her?" he finally managed.

He smiled at him. "Oh it was a matter of convenience. You are notoriously hard to control, I hear from a certain consulting criminal. He gave me the most excellent idea of holding an extra hostage to get you more…agreeable. I was going to take your dear John, but he wasn't with you, so I settled for her."

Sally couldn't help herself; she gave a derisive snort. "You could have picked someone better, we hate each other," she said with a roll of her eyes.

"Ah, is that true, Sherlock?" he asked, lifting his head slowly. "Do you hate her?"

Sherlock's jaw worked. "Leave me alone," he said finally, though it came out sound a bit like lemmalone.

"Oh, no, you've got a tea party to come to, Sherlock. You won't break like my other dolls, now will you?" he said, holding his face upward and petting it gently. "I've got a perfect outfit in mind for you, has lovely short dark curls, just like you, yes…"

Sherlock tried to extract his head from the grip and muttered, "Goway," sluggishly. "Leggo…"

"I'm afraid not, Sherlock. I've got a lovely time planned for us. So right now, let's stand up here, I'll need your measurements to complete the look I have planned," he said, pulling a tape from one pocket and a small notepad and golf pencil from another.

Sherlock shook his head, refusing to stand when he was pulled. "Now, now, if you throw a tantrum, your not-friend here gets to suffer. Is that what you want? I don't like my little ones to throw tantrums, it makes me very upset."

He moved over toward Sally and Sherlock's slumped posture moved to watch. "See, until we have our tea party, I can't play with you, but I can play with her…" he said, pulling a knife from a holster at his back and tracing the blade on her neck. She sucked in a breath. Well, she'd die here. No way the freak was going to do what he wanted.

"Stop," he muttered, almost too low for him to hear. The man turned back to him, but Sally caught the almost manic gin on his face.

"What was that? Are you going to cooperate?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded. He moved back to him and roughly yanked him to his feet. "First, this has to go…" he said, taking his knife and ripping down the sleeves of the shirt Sherlock was wearing. Sally realized his coat was crumpled the floor beside him, leaving him in a blue long sleeved button up shirt. The shirt fell away. She frowned at him. The man was skinny. She could see his ribs. She remembered something about John and Lestrade saying that he forgot to eat sometimes for days on end, and refused to eat when on a case. At the time, she had thought it was merely attention seeking behavior.

"Sherlock, you don't take care of yourself, look at this…" the man said running hands over Sherlock's sides. "Are you anorexic or something?"

Sherlock didn't answer, just stared upward. "Oh my," he said. "And what's this?" he said, running hands down Sherlock's bare arms. "You cut, don't you? That's a surprise, even M didn't know about this…"

At that, Sally's head did snap around and stare. She could see the lines of perfectly straight lines running from his shoulder down the sides of his arms. There weren't any fresh ones that she could see, but there were lots in different stages of scarring. Some were pink and relatively recent. She noted they stopped a couple inches below the inside of his elbow, but she saw two wide, thick cuts nearer to his wrists. The man ran fingers over the deeper scars and smiled.

"Hum, let's see about here too?" he said and she saw him flinch as the man undid the belt and dropped his black trousers to the floor. She saw the distinct marks of fresh cuts across the top of his thighs under the hem of his black boxers. Lines followed down to the just above his knees in various stages of healing. Well, that answered the question of what kind of underwear he wore. "You hide it now, don't you? I bet your doctor friend would be very disappointed if he saw this, wouldn't he?"

"He thinks I stopped," he muttered, almost sadly. Sally couldn't believe the emotion that was belied in those simple words. The man ran his hands over the scabs and scars, fingers lingering on the inner part of his legs enough that she caught the shaking in Sherlock's bound hands.

"Why, Dolly?" the man said softly.

"Hum…" Sherlock said, looking away. He wasn't going to dignify him with an answer when he wouldn't even speak of it with his John.

"Dolly, now, now, remember what happens if you don't cooperate, your not-friend is going to gain my attention…" he said, and Sally was amazed that Sherlock's hazy eyes locked onto her again. She, for the first time, saw emotion flitting there. Emotion that she was sure that this freak, this man, didn't have.

"Forget and feel," he muttered, turning his eyes away from her and staring upward again.

"Forget what?" he continued, running his hands over the wounds along his legs still, and Sally could tell that Sherlock was trying to put it completely out of his mind, and failing, either from shock or from whatever drug had been injected.

"Mem'ries," he slurred. "Forget them."

"Oh, my what kind of memories, little one?" he purred, hands stroking the taller man's sides against the ribs softly.

"No…" he said softly. "Don't…"

"Yes, little one, you'll tell me, or I'll take my knife and carve your not-friend with it," he said, and Sally saw his hands gripping Sherlock's biceps and squeezing enough that she saw redness blooming around his hands.

Sherlock swallowed, thinking if it was just this psychotic bastard, it would be different, but he wasn't alone. He turned his head to look at Sally, hoping to find her looking away, but no, she was staring.

"M'father, okay…f'get 'im. Wanna f'get, your case 'minded me of 'im, so I did it," he said finally, head rolling to look the other way.

The man ghosted hands over Sherlock's face then, bringing his face to stare at him. "And why do you want to forget him? And why on earth would my case of all things remind you of your father?"

Sherlock shook his head out of the grip. "Stop, lock'd up this, don bring it out, p-please…" he was begging. Sally's eyes widened. "Deleted it, tried, keeps comin' back, don't…"

"No, no, remember what happens, little Doll?" he gestured toward Sally.

"F-fine…he hurt us…th-then he left and it was me…alone…so he hurt me…" he said quietly, words still slightly slurred and stammered.

"How?" he whispered into Sherlock's ear.

"P-please…not this…I don't…" he begged. "I can't…"

"Oh you can, M said you would do just fine. Now, what did he do, little one? Did he hit you? Did he beat you? Did he starve you? Or did he touch you? Or did he do what I did to my other little dolls? Did he love you that much?"

Sherlock shivered violently. "No, stoppit…" he slurred, but he held up the silver knife and Sherlock's eyes danced and followed it. "Aight! Yes, all of it, just stop!" he begged, and Sally was taken completely back, her mind reeling at the victims they'd found. All had been beaten severely, all raped, and all looked perfectly fine when they were found.

The man seemed satisfied by his victim's state of distress and Sally watched with disgust as the man took his time taking Sherlock's measurements, wrapping the tape around his waist, hips, each thigh, chest, arms, everything seemed to take twice as long as it should as the man's hands lingered against the pale skin. And good lord was the man pale. Sally had to wonder if the man ever went outside without the bloody coat on. Finally he was done and he stepped back and smiled, leaving him to slide down to the ground still clad in his boxers. He kicked away the trousers where they'd fallen and smiled down at Sherlock again. Sally realized his shoes were sitting with his coat between them. He stared upward as he tried to move his legs to a more comfortable spot. He then took off and the door banged closed again.

She wasn't sure what to do. She worked at the cuffs but there was no way she could pull her hands free, and with the freak drugged up like he was… He faded in and out of consciousness from what she could tell, occasionally muttering something, but it was barely coherent. After a couple hours he sat up suddenly.

"I have the worst headache," he muttered, rolling his head around on his shoulders. "Dammit Mycroft…where the hell are you when I actually need you?"

"Who's Mycroft?" Sally asked.

He started and glanced over, blinking, as if realizing for the first time he wasn't alone. "Oh, it wasn't in my head, wonderful, you really are here," he said sighing, and banging his head into the pole behind him.

"Who's Mycroft?" Sally asked again, louder, ignoring his statement completely.

"My overprotective and interfering older brother who usually has a tail on me whether I like it or not, except of course, today he would choose to call his men off," Sherlock said with a sigh. "Not sure why, he already knows John is out of town, so normally he'd have at least one care tailing me and one at the flat. Bastard. I'll send him a whole cake when I get out of here," he said, looking around. His eyes weren't as quick as Sally knew they should be, he was obviously still drugged, but at least coherent.

"How does he do that?" Sally asked, not really understanding and honestly surprised that Sherlock had a brother. And he was interfering and overprotective. Wasn't that the strangest thing?

He snorted. "He doesn't work for the British government. Last time I listened to him I wound up in Buckingham Palace in a sheet. If he'd put his endless funds onto something besides following me around…stupid British government."

Sally was a little confused. "Where is he now?"

"Off taking over some small country, probably," Sherlock huffed and sighed. "Otherwise I wouldn't be stuck here; he'd already have come in on his white horse. He loves to do that when he thinks I can't handle things myself. Usually he's wrong. But of course, this is the one time I do need him and he's nowhere to be found. And he wonders why I tell him to bugger off the rest of the time."

Sally smiled though. "Sounds like any other older brother to me."

Sherlock fixed her with a glare. "You have no idea. Though I guess in his own way, he thinks he's making up for things…" he said leaning his head against the thick pipe behind him. "He thinks he could have done something about the drugs and he could not. I made that choice, nothing was going to stop me."

Sally blinked. Obviously, whatever the bastard gave him was making him chatty and honest. "You know what he's giving you don't you? That's why you're not asleep anymore."

"Oh yes, between the coke and the heroine I used to shoot, this is not that strong. Medical grade narcotics. Doesn't work so well on me. Going to have to detox again after I get out of this, if I live of course. I hate detox. Goddamn Mycroft dragging me there."

Sally couldn't resist. She'd always wondered. "Why'd you start drugs, Sherlock?"

There was a long pause and she wondered if he was going to answer. "Too much. First the boarding school, then uni. No one likes a freak, too many of them to deal with it. Drugs made it hurt less when they yelled and hit. Needed oblivion…found it in a needle. Blanks the entire brain for me, stops the synapses, pauses the working, and that never happens otherwise. Can't shut it off, y'know? Just keeps going, never stopping, swirling with information I can't fucking delete."

There was a bang and they both looked up. The rotund man returned. "What is this? You should have been out of it for another couple hours at least, Dolly."

Sherlock sneered. "I'm most certainly not your 'Dolly'. Who are you and what are we doing here?" he demanded, attempting to project strength into a voice that was quite bereft of it. "Basement, obviously, and…hey!"

Before he could get anything out, the strange man had plunged another syringe full of something into his thigh muscle. "He warned me you used to use, my but you have quite the resistance to opiates, don't you? I'll have to double your dosage, Dolly."

"Not your Dolly," he muttered, his head starting to spin.

"No, shh, you will be. I'm half done with your lovely outfit, sweetheart. Now, now, just relax until we have our little tea party. But don't worry; I plan to keep you for a while. Now that I got my perfect Dolly. Those others don't compare to you. I was worried when he suggested it, since I'm fond of little ones. But he was right, so very right. You're so much better. Pretty as a picture, smooth, and a little grooming, you'll be just like one of the little ones. I'll be down to divest you of this nasty stuff," he said, running a hand down his chest and plucking at the sparse hairs on him. His hand dipped down into his boxers making him jump. "Oh yes, that has to go…"

"Stop that," he muttered, frowning as he squirmed away from the hand. "Stoppit!" he tried, but his words were becoming more slurred as the drugs began to slow down his head.

The man stood back up. "Yes, yes, I'll be back to deal with that. Can't have that on you, now can I? No, dolls are nice and smooth with pretty porcelain skin. I'll get some covers for those scars on your legs. Can't have them show!"

Sally was starting to worry now. They'd been there hours, more than six by now, and she was beginning to worry about food and water. She didn't fancy dying of thirst or hunger in a dirty basement with some psycho child rapist and murderer who apparently decided that the freak, of all people, was what he wanted. If he liked children, why was he going after Sherlock? It didn't make any sense.

Once he was gone she turned back to him. "Sherlock!" she called, using his name for perhaps one of the few times ever in her life.

He turned a bleary eyed look over to him. "Sherlock, how can we get out of this?"

She wondered if he understood him but he shook his head. "Can't tell…no info."

"Sherlock, focus! If anyone can figure this out, you can! If we don't, you're going to end up like those kids!" she said. She wasn't sure why that bothered her. How could she feel like this about him? She thought, for some reason, seeing him in such a situation would give her joy. Instead…

He blinked owlishly at her for a moment. "Can't think. Got time. Didn't kill right away. Spent a week with each victim. Cuffs?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I can't slip them."

He glanced to his coat between them. "Lock picks," he said glancing at his coat and she understood.

"In your coat? A set of lock picks?" she asked and he nodded to her, trying to turn around, pushing one leg sluggishly toward it, trying to push it closer to her. As he turned, she could see the extent of the cuts across both his legs now. The precision with which they were applied was impressive, equidistant apart and apparently the exact same depth. She could tell they went further up under the hem of his shorts when he shifted.

"Sleeve, right side…in cuff…" he mumbled, forcing the coat toward her with his toes a few inches.

She reached out with her own foot and snagged the material and inched it closer to her until she thought she could get to it with her bound hands. "Got it," she said.

"Missed it," he mumbled. "Can't…believe I missed it…" Then he giggled almost hysterically for a second and was quiet, head starting to loll forward.

She flipped around and yanked the coat in, moving along the seams until she managed to get to the arm. Of course, the first one she found was the left one. She huffed in frustration but managed to query what he meant. "What did you miss, Sherlock? Stay with me. You work best when you're thinking. Tell me what you missed. You are always talking ideas out loud. Don't pass out on me, okay?"

He turned toward her and blinked again, eyes unfocused. "The victims…" he muttered. "They were all…molested by their…fathers…he…works at the school…nurse…" he said softly. "Moriarty…damn him…put him on me…he found out. Dunno how…how'd he find out? Father and Mycroft removed the records…they're gone…he purged the files. All the hospital records…they're gone. Moriarty had them…" he was rambling now, his eyes rolling and hazy. "How did he get the records? When they took me away that night…the police were there, but he paid them off, I know he did…no one would know…not Mycroft Holmes' little brother…oh no we can't let anyone find out something happened to him, can we? People talk, I know, musta been the first responders, someone talked and they talked to Moriarty, dammit! Why can't they keep their mouths shut…makes me remember…" Sherlock paused, breathing heavily and Sally swore he was on the edge of hyperventilating.

"Sherlock!" Sally called, getting him to focus on her. "Calm down!"

He stared for a minute then closed his eyes, concentrating on his breathing. "Happens when I'm like this…started drugs to forget, y'know…shut down m'brain, moves too fast, far too fast sumtims…but scary, so damn scary to not be able to think right after so long…"

She continued working with the bloody coat. How had she managed to work around to the bottom instead of the top? She groaned in frustration, but heard the bang of the door. She turned forward, dragging the coat and dropping it behind her back.

The guy seemed far too happy as he skipped down toward them pulling a metal table with him that rattled across the floor. She stared because he was skipping; pulling the table at a quick pace, excited by what he was going to do. And she just thought about how weird this situation got as he hummed under his breath as he got closer. How…strange. This guy was insane.

He undid Sherlock's cuffs and quickly snapped them onto the table, then pulled another set and secured the other side. He picked up a bowl, and she realized it was a bowl of hot wax. He smiled as he tipped the bowl over Sherlock's chest and the detective gasped at the hot wax contacted his chest and stomach. He thought for a moment then he divested his victim of his boxers, dropping them beside him on the floor, and even though Sally couldn't see what he was doing, she knew all too well as Sherlock practically popped his wrist out of place as he yelled then.

"Wha…stop…" he begged, and she heard the pain in his voice.

"There, there, Dolly, let that set for a moment, I'll go get the second pot for your back, had to keep it warm, and the electric doesn't work down here," he said smiling and leaving again.

Sally heard him breathing heavily, but all she could see was the top of his head and his hands as he wriggled them against the cuffs. She heard another clink and realized he must have cuffed his ankles before he left. She was back on the coat though, because damn it all, she'd lost the sleeve when she'd dropped it, but finally she felt the distinct hardness of something inside the seam. Carefully she worked it out, dropping one of the picks into her open palm as soon as she could. But the door was opening again. He came back over and tapped on the wax that was rapidly drying on Sherlock's chest, humming.

There was a clink and Sherlock was flipped onto his stomach, groaning as his arms crossed over each other in an obviously painful manor. Then he yelped again as he continued coating him with the wax. This time, he went ahead and covered his arms as well. He stood back.

"Such a lovely thing. You don't find many boys your age unspoiled. Maybe that's why I never found a lovely doll that was older. I only desire that which no one has touched, you know, well, no one that someone else has touched with their permission, lovely. Not your fault what people do to you against your will. Imagine my surprise when M let me know that my infatuation was well placed, and that you fit my desires! Never thought I'd find such in a grown man, but I'm happy I did... And I have to make sure," he said. "Please, tell me, little Dolly, are you indeed a virgin like he said you were? Never touched, by man or woman? Or…even yourself? Except of course what I know of, because that's why you're here, since daddy dearest was so fond of you…"

"Wha ya mean…" he mumbled into his arms. "Dunno what you mean."

"Tell me, or I'll do something not nice to your not-friend over there."

His eyes turned back to her and he gulped. "Yes, never, too m-many m-mem'ries."

He clapped his hands briefly before flipping the detective over with a little more force than necessary. "Goody! I had it on good authority that M was good for his word but I just thought I'd check. Good thing too, I really didn't want to shoot you both before I had our tea party. And I don't honestly have another friend lined up after you…M thought you'd entertain me for several weeks at least…won't that be fun? Then I don't have to worry about being caught when I steal the other little ones!"

Then he started to pull the wax off Sherlock's body with great ripping sounds as the sparse hairs on his chest and stomach left on it. Sally cringed. She had her eyebrows and lip waxed now and then. But she'd never gone and got a full Brazilian or anything. He let out a loud yelp when he got down to the thick pubic hairs. Sally squirmed, imagining how much that had to hurt. The guy hadn't even bothered to shave the hair down before he dumped he wax over him. She'd never had it done, but knew enough friends that had bikini waxes, and it hurt like hell. Before long, the man stood back, dropping his last bit of wax into the trash can, leaving Sherlock breathless. She had to give him credit, he didn't scream.

"Not bad, here, let's finish up," he said, reaching into a bag and removing a razor, again flipping him when he needed to do so. She heard his breath harsher now than before. "That wasn't as bad as I thought, I've only had to wax one of my toys, the oldest one, and it was just a little. I thought a grown man would have more to do…but you're quite smooth already. You do make a perfect replacement for a child. You should be proud, Sherlock, really, you're saving at least two or three lives, because I would have had at least two or three more before you caught me. Now I've got a lovely one all to myself."

"Prat," she heard Sherlock say, breathless.

He smiled and looked at him. "Daddy, call me Daddy, there little Dolly."

Sherlock huffed, and she looked up, still able to see his hands crossed at the elbows probably, head resting on them, his dark curls showing above them. Suddenly his head shot up and he squeaked. She could only see the top of his forehead from her position, though, and his hands were splayed wide, jerking against the cuffs.

"Now what was that?" he said, and Sally was pretty sure she didn't want to know what he was doing. "Do you want me to take this over and play with your not-friend?"

She heard him gulp. "N-no…" he said softly.

"Now what are you going to call me, Dolly?" he said, and Sally winced as a low keen escaped him. "Come on, or I'm going to give you a cut to remember me by, and then I'll cut her throat for you to watch. It hurts so much more when I turn it the other way…"

"D-dad-d-dy," he stuttered finally and then his head dropped with a sigh onto his crossed arms, and he moved where she could see him dragging the silver knife's handle up his spine.

"Perfect! Now, I'll go get the under-layer of the lovely outfit I have for you," he said with a smile, running from the area, leaving him breathing heavily with his face in the table.

"Sherlock!" she called again, not sure what else to do as she was attempting to work with the cuffs. "Come on, say something, you have to have some witty retort about how stupid this guy is!"

His silence spoke volumes more than anything he could have said. What this guy was doing, it was so much more than just what he'd done to the other three boys he'd taken. No, he was using those murders to get to Sherlock specifically, and this M, or Moriarty, as Sherlock said, had something to do with it all. Her stomach growled and she realized that far more than six hours must have passed while she was out, because it felt more like twelve. She looked up; the light from the window was fading. It had been night time when they'd been at the crime scene. Shit, she thought. A day at least.

Sally worked at the cuffs diligently but didn't have time to finish as he came back too quickly. He held an armload of clothes and a doll. He held up the doll, a faceless doll with short, curly dark hair. It wore a Victorian dress of black lace and red satin.

"See there, isn't that just like you, Dolly?" he asked, smiling at him.

He unhooked the cuffs on his ankles, and she saw him try to kick out, only to be caught easily as a set of black ruffled pants were slipped onto his body. The insane man was humming now as he put socks and petticoats on him. Done with the lower half he unhooked him from the table, pulling him off and pushed him toward his previous position, pushing him down to the floor and pulling a black lacy camisole over his head. Sherlock frowned and started to pick at the ruffled mess in his lap. A moment later, both his hands were cuffed behind the pipe again, leaving him blinking as the man took off again.

"Sick fuck," Sally heard Sherlock mutter and she laughed out loud. She'd never heard him cuss before, at least not like that, and she couldn't help it in the situation.

"You got that right, Sherlock," she said. "I know if you weren't drugged to the gills you'd have us out of here, wouldn't you? Even if you don't like me."

He looked over and she swore she saw sincere emotion in his eyes. "Don' hate ya, ever'one hates me, s'okay, m'usta it."

She paused, thinking about that. He was used to being scorned. Before it had driven him to drugs…but now… She cursed under her breath as she fiddled with the cuffs blind. It was so much harder when she wasn't looking. But then the door banged again and she sighed in frustration.

"Shh," he said, rolling his eyes over to her. "He'll take me up, get out…call Greg…get help…go left at the stair, door's there…" he said, trying not to slur as the man came back with a black lace and red satin dress identical to that which the doll was wearing as it lay beside Sherlock's now black socked foot.

The man removed the cuffs completely now and pulled him forward, sliding the dress over his head and shifting it down. It fit absolutely perfectly, and if Sherlock were smaller, he would have looked exactly like a little girl the way his large eyes were dilated especially from the drugs. He held him standing by the shoulders.

"Now, there's a good Dolly. You behave, when we're done, I'll let your friend go, okay? No fighting, okay? We'll have tea and cakes and a lot of fun…okay? Just like a good little Dolly."

Sherlock nodded slowly, brain so sluggish he could hardly put two words together. Then he looked at his arm to feel another pinch as he injected him again. Dully, he wondered how long before the dosages triggered an overdose. He'd had one of those. They were not something he wished to repeat. He looked up at him. "Just in case, you shake off the effects quickly. Wouldn't want you running off in the middle of our tea party, you know? You'll have to sit in Daddy's lap after all, and I can't have you getting up and falling down and hurt your pretty little self." He half drug, half pulled him out of Sally's line of sight.

She waited a moment and then tackled the cuffs with fervor when she heard the door bang closed. She seriously doubted he had any intents of letting her go at all, not if she was leverage to get Sherlock to behave well. And no matter how amused she should be at the fact the freak had been dressed up like some sort of living doll, she found herself frantic to get him out. He'd shown obvious care about what was happening to her despite them having no relationship to speak of that should have meant he would risk anything for her. Yet, he had backed down every time he threatened to harm her. This wasn't the freak she knew. Not at all. Maybe she didn't know him at all.

The cuffs fell away and she jumped to her feet and then found the door to be locked from the other side. Of course, and it was the only exit. She went back and grabbed Sherlock's coat and worked out the remaining lock picks and set about picking the door as silently and quickly as she could. When it was done she debated doing what he asked and trying to take him out on her own. No, the safer route was to call for help. Who knew if he had accomplices and he might just stab Sherlock the moment she came into the room. Her gun was gone, and she had no access to other weapons. She rifled Sherlock's pockets and found his cellphone. She turned left and slipped out the door into a large open lot. She hid herself beside the steps and dialed Lestrade's number.

It rang a couple times, and Greg's voice came on the line.

"Sherlock?" he said, panicked. She heard John's voice in the background.

"No, look, help, the doll guy, he has Sherlock, and he's planning on…" there was a brilliant flash of bright white light in her vision and the world suddenly had every bit of color sucked out of it.