The hitting felt a hundred times worse than it had looked. By the time Rasul was done, Sherlock's back was bruised, red welts rising quickly, and spots of blood were appearing on his T-shirt. He curled up tightly in a ball around the teddy Lizzie had given him. He remembered the warmth of her hugs, the special feeling he got inside when he was chosen above John to go shopping or help with the dishes, when he was allowed to watch TV with Kevin or play outside with John. He mourned.
Rasul was breathing heavily, quite pleased with the effect of his punishment on the boy. It was almost refreshing to inspire visible fear like that. Mycroft didn't show his fear nearly that overtly anymore, which made him that bit less interesting. It was going to be fun having them both back. Perhaps he would just make Mycroft watch Sherlock get beaten. That would make a change. Rasul smiled at the thought of his oldest son, his hands tied behind his back, watching his brother’s punishments. That would make him cry.
Rasul looked over at Sherlock when the little boy stopped sobbing audibly. He smiled slightly when he saw how tightly he was clutching that bear. Rasul nudged the tight ball of boy apart to expose the bear, and then tore it from his grasp. Sherlock tried to hold onto it, and then flinched away from the resulting kick in the ribs.
"Please can I have him back, Daddy?" he whispered almost silently.
"Of course you can't have it back, you moron, I've taken it from you. Did you steal this from the Watson's?"
"No! Lizzie gave him to me."
"Liar. And don't mention that fat loser in my presence."
"She's not a fat loser, and I'm not a liar" Sherlock said at almost normal volume. He tightened up in a ball again to protect his chest and face from the three sharp kicks that followed.
"If I say you're a liar, then you are. I bet you stole this straight out of that other boy's bedroom."
"What did I just say?" Rasul shouted, kicking him again "what I say goes. Now then. What shall we do with it? Tell you what..." He picked up a pair of scissors from inside his desk. Sherlock gasped, desperate to reach out and take the teddy back, but not daring. Rasul held the bear above his head and pushed the scissors down across it's arm. The limb fell to the floor, stuffing ballooning out of the end. Sherlock began to cry again. Much harder this time, as his father cut the bear into small chunks.
"Daddy, please!" He begged. But it was too late. The bear lay in chunks on the floor by Sherlock's head.
"Pick them up and put them on the fire, boy. I don't what it littering up my study." He said coldly. Sherlock stood up shakily, his arm wrapped around his jarred ribs. He stooped to pick up the bits of the bear, his last reminder that, for a short time, he had been happy, and took them over to the fire. There was no way to get out of it. The bear was ruined. Sherlock slipped it's arm into his pocket, and placed the rest on the fire. Tears streamed down his face, a seemingly never ending supply. "Go to bed, boy. And stay in your room until I come and get you. There will be no dinner, breakfast or lunch. I will consider letting you out for dinner tomorrow. But only if you're good. Do you understand?"
"Good. Now get out." Sherlock shut the door behind him and limped up the stairs. He managed to drag himself to his bedroom, and had just about collapsed on his bed before he was asleep, overcome with sadness, humiliation, loss and pain. He understood why Mycroft had tried to kill himself.