Aggressive Mimicry, NC-17, Moriarty/Sherlock
Title: Aggressive Mimicry
Pairing: Moriarty/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Length: 5800 words
Warnings: BDSM, trigger warnings for dubcon and noncon
Summary: "I could always let him go," Moriarty says, face darkening -- still sore about Sherlock's rejection of his 'Jim from IT' persona, Sherlock notices with a spark of interest and, yes, he can use that. "For a price."
Notes: Set in a BDSM!AU (but not that other one). Written and originally posted for this prompt at the kinkmeme. Basically, completely gratuitous porn.
Sherlock is, nominally, a sub. That is, when he has sex he generally prefers to be tied down, at least a little bit. He likes being on his knees. He likes the feel of a warm hand on the back of his head. He's not picky -- gentle or rough, male or female, they're all good, they're all satisfying, as long as he can look up through his lashes and hear, "Good boy," murmured to him, low and approving.
The key word here is "nominally".
Because subs are weak, are delicate. They are empty-headed and pretty. They are shallow and sensitive and need a dom to protect and care for them.
So far as he can tell, none of these things are actually true. About him, at least.
There are red dots on John Watson's chest. Sherlock counts four, probably because he's got several on his own, making a total of at least six, probably closer to a nice round number like ten. He can't see a single one of the rifles. He's deduced the location of all four of the snipers targeting John, but he's not afraid to admit that he's not a very good shot with a handgun. There's no way he can shoot them all from across the pool before being shot down himself.
These are not good odds.
Not good odds at all. He knows it and Moriarty knows it. John, too, has shown that he'd figured it out by grabbing Moriarty and telling him to run. Not the best plan really, but -- but Sherlock appreciates the loyalty. It's more than he's ever been offered in the past.
"I could always let him go," Moriarty says, face darkening -- still sore about Sherlock's rejection of his 'Jim from IT' persona, Sherlock notices with a spark of interest and, yes, he can use that. "For a price."
The parlance goes something like -- Sherlock barely remembers, he's deleted it so often, but people keep telling it to him so some of it's stuck, a faded afterimage in the clutter of his thoughts -- doms are the strong ones, the protectors and providers. Subs are the weak ones, meant to be claimed and owned.
Some of it is society. Some of it is biology. Sherlock's never been entirely clear on the line between the two, but he's never had to be because he's never bothered with it. He doesn't have to now, because for all Moriarty is leering and posturing, he is so boringly typical a dominant.
But, pretty.
"What do you want?" Sherlock asks and puts a subtle tremor in his voice. He slouches, slightly -- not too much, not enough to give himself away, but enough to make his height and clothes look as if they fit less, as if it's his coat making him bigger. It isn't, but it's easy to pretend otherwise. I'm afraid, he tells himself. I'm afraid, I'm afraid of him. He frightens me.
"You." Moriarty licks his lips, and it's meant to be threatening (crass, Sherlock thinks), but it isn't. It isn't, because Moriarty had thrown himself at Sherlock already, and the hurt in his eyes when Sherlock had brushed him off (a curt "I'm not interested" when Moriarty had asked if he'd had a dom, because Moriarty had been boring) had been genuine.
Sherlock sucks his lower lip into his mouth and bites down. He sucks on it until it hurts a little, as if he's undecided. He looks at John, a quick dart of his eyes first to meet John's horrified ones, then down to the floor. Three seconds, don't forget to adjust your breathing, he tells himself. Fear. Fear, fear, fear. Quicker breathing, indecision, curl your shoulders forward to look smaller, and then --
And then pretend you're being brave. Chin up, jaw clenched, and Moriarty's so hungry for victory that he laps it up, triumphant and so very easy.
"I'll do it," Sherlock says, and now his voice is strong, determined -- false bravado, or a convincing facsimile thereof. "Just let him go, and let me go -- " pause, nervous as he realizes what he's agreeing to, "Let me go afterwards."
Don't hurt me. Too soon? Maybe not yet -- maybe later, when he's on his knees, when there's a hand in his hair, firm and confident. Maybe when his knees hurt and his scalp burns and the ground is hard and unyielding against him.
"Sherlock -- Sherlock wait," John interrupts. He lurches forward until a warning shot rings out. The bullet ricochets off the tiled floor.
"Nuh-uh," Moriarty teases smugly in a sing-song voice. He grins like a cat who'd found something small, wriggling, and helpless between its paws. "Stay out of this, Johnny. I don't care about you."
"Sherlock," John tries again, looking beautiful and anguished and miserable. "Sherlock, you don't have to do this."
"Yes, John," Sherlock says, and tries to will the truth into John's mind. It's fine, it's under control, I know what I'm doing. Trust me. "I do."
--
Once John's gone, Moriarty takes the time to look him up and down, gaze hungry. The snipers wink out one-by-one until there's only a single red dot remaining on Sherlock's chest. Then, that one goes out too. Alone? Are they alone now? If so, he still has John's gun; he could --
"Don't even think it, Sherlock," Moriarty warns, and his voice -- deep, commanding, nothing at all like the faux friendliness he'd used before -- sends a shiver of anticipation down Sherlock's spine. "You think I won't kill your pet if you go back on our deal?"
Right. Sherlock drops his eyes, lets the slouch crawl up his spine, lets his shoulders curl. "Fine. Just do it. Whatever it is you want with me."
"Yes, I think I will." The words start light, in that queer cadence that sounds just a little too mad to be appealing, but end with a low, dangerous growl. Sherlock doesn't suppress the way he twitches at the change in Moriarty's tone -- alert, attentive, a slight recoil to hint at reluctance. Moriarty picks up on it, of course.
The mad lilt is out of his words entirely when he next speaks. "On your knees, Sherlock."
Force me. Sherlock quirks an eyebrow, then draws them together in indecision. It's -- it's harder to do it while he's pretending to be himself, but no, he knows what Moriarty wants, and he knows what he wants, so.
He gets to his knees, not hiding the slight grimace when the fabric of his trousers presses against the dirty pool tile. Moriarty's taller now -- still not intimidating, not especially, not yet. But, interesting, and Sherlock does like things that are interesting.
"Now crawl," Moriarty orders.
"No," he says calmly, defiantly -- boring, too boring. He doesn't want to just sit around and take orders, not even from Moriarty, who is both surprising (a brilliant criminal, a worthy opponent, not as dangerous as Mycroft but still better than most) and disappointingly predictable (a dom with control issues, really?).
Moriarty backhands him across the face -- not hard, not like they're fighting. Sherlock's had worse from his own clumsiness. Moriarty backhands Sherlock like it's sex, pulling his punches to do the maximum amount of noise with the least amount of pain.
Better, but not good enough.
You can hit me harder than that. Sherlock prods his jaw thoughtfully (minimal damage, hadn't even split the skin), then says mildly, "So, rape. Is that because you can't satisfy a willing sub?"
"Molly never complained," Moriarty says, burying his hand in Sherlock's hair. He pulls, rough, and the movement jerks Sherlock's head back, giving him a clear view of the bulge at Moriarty's groin. It hurts.
And just like that, Sherlock's hard.
He's hard and aching and suddenly aware of the part of himself that's really quite interested in how Moriarty's cock would feel against the back of his throat. His heart pounds. He can almost pretend it's fear.
"Wait, stop," he says, the familiar script coming easily to him. He doesn't lick his lips, and averts his eyes from Moriarty's erection, as if the sight makes him uncomfortable.
"No, I don't think I will," Moriarty says. He undoes his trousers and brings his cock out. It is thick, heavy, and already hard. He guides it to Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock's mouth waters; he turns his head away.
Boring. Try harder. Force me, force me.
"Come on, Sherlock," Moriarty coaxes. The slide of his cock against Sherlock's cheek leaves a slick, wet trail. "Open up."
"Try and I'll bite you," he threatens, and Moriarty cuffs him again. It startles a laugh out of him. "Is this honestly the best you can do?"
Moriarty doesn't have a gun, but he does have a knife, and the sudden appearance of it at Sherlock's face sends a thrill of excitement racing through his body. "Open your mouth. Now."
Sherlock parts his lips, not struggling when Moriarty shoves his cock into Sherlock's mouth. They're uncoordinated against each other -- Moriarty thrusting in deeper when Sherlock's trying to take a breath, pounding roughly against the back of Sherlock's throat until it makes his eyes water. Sherlock braces his hands on his knees, forcing himself to take it. He can feel the calmness -- the trance-like, peaceful state he falls into sometimes -- at the edges of his consciousness, wanting him to give in, telling him that he's safe.
Except, he's not safe. He can't really trust Moriarty, and he gives himself a mental shake. Focus, he tells himself, digging his nails into his thighs.
What do I want, what do I want? He wants Moriarty to pull his hair again, wants to feel the flare of pain and the disorientation caused by a sudden shift in his field of vision. So he ducks his head, drops his gaze, presses hard against the head of Moriarty's cock (uncircumcised, recently washed, smelling of musk and soap and tasting mostly of skin) with his tongue, as if trying to push him away.
Like a beautifully manipulated puppet, Moriarty yanks on Sherlock's hair, forcing his head back. The movement slips his cock free from Sherlock's lips (bitten earlier, properly swollen now), momentarily stretching a wet strand of saliva between them.
Don't lick your lips. Sherlock doesn't.
"You're so pretty with your lips wrapped around my prick," Moriarty says. He's still holding the knife, and when Sherlock tilts his head slightly, he can watch its blade glint under the fluorescent lights. The blade drifts closer -- fear, excitement, the heady rush of adrenaline -- until it's lying flat against Sherlock's cheek.
Sherlock holds his breath, but there's no bite of pain, nothing to mark Moriarty splitting his skin, just the cool, laser-intense scratch of the tip of the knife against his body. It travels down his cheek, along his jaw, then dangerously underneath his throat. It gives his laryngeal prominence a wide berth, but curves wide to trail down the side of his throat and down his collarbone, before coming to a stop at his supra-sternal notch.
Moriarty twists the knife, and, oh. Sherlock's breath hitches, because that's the sharp cut of metal through skin. It stings, making his whole body tighten. Moriarty brings the knife to Sherlock's face, a single bead of blood caught on the tip, and Sherlock wants to touch his tongue to it, wants to taste the blend of salt and metal and sweat.
"Stop," he murmurs. He wriggles, and realizes belatedly that he's still got both hands free, that to struggle realistically he needs to -- he lashes out, grabs Moriarty by the ankle, and manages to bring him crashing down on top of him with a rough jerk. The knife goes skidding across the floor -- Moriarty's a less stupid dom than most, getting rid of his props when he loses his balance -- and lands in the pool with a wet plop.
Sherlock kicks Moriarty in the ribs; Moriarty punches him in the stomach. Moriarty's clumsier than him, less graceful, less accustomed to dirty scuffles on the ground. Sherlock gets the upper hand and holds it, long enough for them to both realize he's won. Then, he loosens his grip enough for Moriarty to get free, lets him reverse their positions so Sherlock is the one on his back, Moriarty looming over him.
"Oh, you're going to regret that, Sherlock," Moriarty hisses.
Sherlock squirms, twisting and kicking when Moriarty brings his hands to Sherlock's trousers. He cries out when trousers and pants are pulled down to his knees, exposing him. "Stop!" You're hurting me? No, obviously not true. "Get off me!" Sincere enough, punctuated with a knee in Moriarty's groin that earns Sherlock another backhand, this one hard enough that he tastes the blood.
Better.
"Do you always fight so hard?" Moriarty complains, sounding half-genuine. A droplet of sweat lands on Sherlock's collarbone. He mouths the side of Sherlock's face -- sloppy, wet. His teeth scrape against Sherlock's cheek. Their erections slide against each other, bare skin to bare skin. "I'll kill John if you don't give in. I have him."
No he doesn't. Sherlock watched John walk out, received the text (Out safely.) on his phone. John. Fuck, John. John undoubtedly called Mycroft, which means -- "Forty minutes, maximum, before my brother arrives. With his own snipers," Sherlock whispers. And then, in speaking tones, more strained, "Fine. Just don't hurt him."
He lets Moriarty strip off his trousers and shoes and is thoroughly unsurprised that Moriarty's apparently prepared with a condom and small packet of lubricant in one of his pockets ("Planned this out from the beginning, I see" "I was hoping for a bit of fun before I killed you" "After, you mean?").
Sherlock can't go under, not now. It's not safe because under his surface illusion, Moriarty's too smart. He's a predator, just like Sherlock. Not quite, though, because Sherlock's prey is dangerous while Moriarty's is just... easy. Sherlock observes instead, cataloging facts upon facts in his mental database.
Moriarty shushing him as he prepares him, lubed fingers stretching the ring of muscle (less violent than the norm), the presence of the condom (Moriarty has to know about his drug history -- everyone knows about the drug history), and his hands, warm and solid at Sherlock's hips to keep him still (no conclusion).
"It hurts," he gasps when Moriarty presses into him, slow and steady and still almost too much. "It hurts, it's too much, stop, please stop," he pleads, and, yesyesyes Moriarty keeps going. He tightens his grip when Sherlock tries to twist away.
"Stop moving," Moriarty orders, and it hooks into Sherlock's limbs, stills him (careful careful careful don't trust him don't lose yourself careful). It feels like he's being split apart, and he can't breathe until Moriarty stops, sheathed in him all the way. Moriarty strokes a hand down Sherlock's back, approving.
"I want to mark you," Moriarty growls into Sherlock's ear as he fucks him. "I want to smear my name all over your body until everyone knows I've fucked you. What would John think, hmm? When you go home and he sees everything I've done to you. Think he'll be jealous? Think he'll wish he got there first? Is that why you're here? Do you want to --"
"Safeword," Sherlock interrupts calmly.
Moriarty goes still and silent behind him. The moment shatters. The world shifts, and suddenly he's Sherlock Holmes again, with a life and responsibilities and people to keep safe. The stillness at the edges of his awareness recede, then dissipate entirely.
How disappointing.
Interesting, the effect a single word can have. He was enjoying himself so much more ten seconds ago.
Moriarty's still inside him, a not-unwelcome feeling of being filled and stretched. He can hear Moriarty thinking (not literally, but Sherlock can read it in his lack of movement, in the way Moriarty's hands are loose on his hips, the way their bodies are pressed closely together). Stopping, reason for stopping, hesitation on -- on whether or not he ought to stop, on whether he still has the upper hand or if everything he's done has been done with permission.
Moriarty begins to move again. This time, he doesn't speak.
Sherlock braces himself on his forearms and focuses on breathing. Yes, yes, good -- and then, like flipping a switch, Less good, repetitive, dull, boring. He feels too bereft, too unanchored. His knees don't hurt but will eventually. The tile is cool and smooth under his fingertips (except for the grout, recently replaced but still rather rough). There are smears of dirt on his cuffs (and his elbows too, undoubtedly; he'll have to get the suit dry-cleaned when he gets home). John's probably worried about him; doms had a tendency to worry about him.
Moriarty's fucking him and it's -- it's pleasant, stimulating, but not enough to drive the thoughts from his head. Not enough to hold his attention. He could have more fun on his own.
He doesn't have any orders to follow or ignore (admittedly he usually does the latter and forces a punishment). Having nothing is -- it feels wrong; he's not sure how wrong, but wrong enough that it bothers him. It feels like insects crawling under his skin. "What do you want?"
He sneaks a glance at Moriarty over his shoulder. Moriarty's eyes are closed. His lips, parted. He wears an intent expression -- though what he's so focused on, Sherlock can't be certain. If he's heard Sherlock's question, he has no intention of answering it.
"Moriarty," murmured low, groaned around the rhythm of his thrusts. No response. "James. Jim. Jimmy. James Moriarty," Sherlock says, tasting the name in his mouth, curling his tongue around its vowels. "Is that your real name?"
Moriarty's rhythm falters. At Sherlock's next words, it stops entirely.
"Jim? Jim from IT?" Sherlock mimics in a credible imitation of the voice Moriarty had used when they'd first met. "Was it annoying, having to answer to Jim? Jim, will you get the door? Jim, do you want a coffee? Jim, I kicked out the power cord for my computer and it won't turn on, can you help me?"
Moriarty slaps him on the arse. "Shut up," he orders darkly, seriously enough for the words to send a pleasant heat down Sherlock's back, like stepping into a hot shower. "I should have known you'd be one of those subs," he adds. "No more talking."
"Not talking is boring," Sherlock responds immediately, automatically, and Moriarty slaps his arse again (obvious, predictable, a gag would have been better or at least a blindfold to make his eyesight less distracting). "You won't be able to get enough force with one hand to do more than sting, especially not in our current position. Spanking's boring. Fucking's boring."
You're boring me, not stated outright, but obvious enough, hurtful enough. More than, really. Moriarty doesn't want to be boring. He's desperate for the attention. He spends days (maybe even weeks) orchestrating elaborate plans that hold Sherlock's attention only for the couple of days it takes to bring it all crashing to the ground -- criminals chased and caught, delivered to Lestrade for processing.
"I don't care what you like," Moriarty says, and even he doesn't sound convinced.
"That much is obvious," Sherlock agrees, casually dismissive (boring, boring, talking is boring, having all his senses is boring, how had he thought this was a good idea?). He lays his head down on his arms in a way carefully discovered to be as insulting as possible. "Let me know when you finish."
When, after several more seconds, Moriarty withdraws from Sherlock's body until they're no longer touching, Sherlock nods to himself mentally. He'd thought so. He rolls onto his side. "How much time has passed? I said forty minutes, that was --"
"Thirteen minutes ago. Seventeen left." Giving Moriarty ten minutes to sneak out of the building without getting caught, and Sherlock ten minutes to get dressed and -- well, do the same, because the last thing he wants is his brother knowing about his sex life. Total and complete avoidance is the only way to make this possible. Sherlock likes never seeing his brother, ever. Moriarty frowns at him.
It's a familiar expression, one Sherlock's seen on lovers in the past, usually when they're about ready to break and ask him, Are you sure you're a sub? Do you even want this? "Yes" and" most of the time", but his thoughts distract him constantly. It's usually not deliberate, but he does tend to end scenes out of boredom partway through.
Sherlock's still wearing his shirt. He doesn't want it to get any dirtier, so he takes it off delicately and tosses it onto his trousers, several feet away. Moriarty stares at him. Boring. "Seventeen minutes left. Did you like it more when I pretended to be scared? You had no problems believing it."
Too easy.
Moriarty frowns at him some more. Sherlock can't read his thoughts, but he can watch the turning of the gears in his mind. He watches as Moriarty reviews his mental footage of the past few minutes, then watches him as he arrives at some conclusion.
"Sixteen minutes," Sherlock says, and sits up to check himself for dust. His palms are dirty, as are his knees. There is a tender spot on his hip that might become a bruise. He prods at it -- actually, probably not. He has a couple other bruises, on his ribs and his elbow, from his scuffle with Moriarty, but they're all minor enough to ignore.
"What do you like?" Moriarty finally asks, sounding confused.
"Telling you would be boring," Sherlock says and gets to his feet. He's naked while Moriarty is fully clothed, but he only notices it in the part of his mind that notices everything, the part of his mind he'd been hoping to temporarily silence. "Are you done?"
Moriarty's already disposed of the condom -- probably slipped off when his arousal faded, which means more penetration's out of the question. He glances at the pool (seeking out the knife that'd gotten lost in it), then at the hollow of Sherlock's throat.
Sherlock hasn't seen the mark Moriarty's left yet, the clean nick where he'd split the skin, but it stings from where his sweat has mixed with it. He touches his fingertips to it to properly examine the damage, and they come back with a small spot of red.
Moriarty licks his lips, rolls his shoulders, and shifts his weight. Suddenly he looks bigger -- not literally, but it's still enough. It's enough to make the part of Sherlock that makes him a sub perk up and take notice. "You made me drop my knife," he says, and nods at the pool. "Bring it back."
"And if I don't?" Sherlock asks, even though he can feel the way Moriarty's voice pushes at him, the way part of himself is already thinking about it. He knows where it is the water, and it wouldn't have drifted too far. A jogging start, followed by a headfirst dive with one hand out in front of him to grab the hilt and push himself to the surface in one smooth motion.
Moriarty tucks himself back into his trousers and zips himself up. He sticks his hands in his pockets and shrugs. "Then I'll leave now and not use it on you. And we both know you want this as much as I do."
Sherlock refuses to move and after several seconds, Moriarty shrugs nonchalantly and turns away. One, two, three steps, and Sherlock is expecting him to stop at three but he doesn't, just keeps going. The surprise of having his prediction proven wrong is enough for Sherlock to blurt out, "Wait," and dive into the water.
The pool's lighted, making it child's play to retrieve Moriarty's knife. When he breaks the surface of the water, Moriarty grabs his hand, helping him out of the pool. His hand touches the small of Sherlock's back, supporting him automatically. Sherlock passes him the knife. As soon as it's in his hand, Moriarty shoves him back to the ground. The water makes him slippery, and he skids on the floor when he lands.
"Now," Moriarty says dangerously, and his shoes click on the tile as he advances on Sherlock. "Let's try this again."
Sherlock scrambles backwards (on his arse, and it's awkward and he's sore and wet and his hands are cold and there is water in his eyes) until his back hits the wall. He widens his eyes and parts his lips, breathes more quickly. Fear, time to show fear now. "Stop," he says, and watches the drip of water from the hilt of the knife; if he's careful, if he concentrates, it almost resembles blood. "Get away from me."
Moriarty drops between Sherlock's parted legs without warning. His shadow falls over Sherlock's face when he cringes against the wall, bringing his arms up protectively. And -- "Keep an eye on the time," he warns again in his usual tone, and gets a brief nod in response.
"Hands behind your back. Keep them there," Moriarty orders and Sherlock would say no -- he would, at any other time he'd force the issue, but they have a time limit. So he twists his hands behind his back and hooks his fingers together so they won't dislodge by accident.
Moriarty holds the blade to the light, angling it in a way that makes it shine. "I'm going to hurt you so much, Sherlock," he promises. "And when I'm done, you're going to beg me for more."
Moriarty brings the knife straight to the underside of Sherlock's jaw, tilting his head up with the flat of the blade. It's cool against his skin, even cold, and a twist of real fear, proper fear, settles in his chest. That's a real knife -- a sharp knife, and if Moriarty were to slit his throat right now, Sherlock wouldn't be able to stop him or get to help before he bled out.
Fuck. Fuck.
Moriarty pushes his jaw further back with the knife, until all Sherlock can see is ceiling and the part of the wall right above his head. He has a moment's warning -- a puff of warm air against his throat, followed by Moriarty's hand on Sherlock's thigh (for balance, because he's leaning in) -- and then there's warmth at the base of his throat, wet and stinging and good, good like the way Moriarty's fingers tighten painfully on his thigh, digging into the muscle.
He thinks he groans. He's not sure. Moriarty mouths his way up Sherlock's throat and Sherlock shivers. "Stop it," he says weakly, but he can't turn his head, can't move away -- not while he's pinned like this, held by knife and hand and the bulk of Moriarty's body looming over his own. "Please," he says, "please."
"Shh," Moriarty murmurs. The cold metal against Sherlock's jaw disappears abruptly. "Don't move an inch, or it goes into your stomach. Close your eyes."
Sherlock closes his eyes and the world drifts away -- not all the way, but enough, enough that the man in front of him (Moriarty, his thoughts whisper, danger and beauty and genius, all rolled into one convenient package) consumes his senses. The world narrows down to Moriarty's hand on his thigh and mouth against his throat, to the trickle of water in his hair, dripping down his back and along his body, faintly tickling. His world is the taste of chlorinated water on his lips, and the smell of cologne, but mostly, mostly it's the feeling of being cold everywhere but where they touch.
It isn't a surprise but his muscles still twitch involuntarily when he feels the light press of the knife's edge to his torso (over the ribs, blade angled slightly). "I'm going to cut you. I'm going to cut you open, right here. Shut up," Moriarty says sharply into Sherlock's ear when Sherlock opens his mouth, "or you'll regret it."
It hurts -- hurts more than it should, hurts enough for the fear to spiral into his chest, bright and roaring -- when the knife breaks his skin, and he must have made a noise, some noise, because fuck, because fuck, what is he doing. Because he is blind and still and letting a madman carve him up like a Christmas turkey.
Moriarty's hand tightens on his thigh, and slides upwards. "Now you're getting it," he sing-songs, voice going high and unnerving.
Another cut -- on his chest, but he can't tell where, can only tell that it's there, that it hurts and burns and fuck. Safeword, he thinks, safeword safeword safeword, but he can't say it because then it'll stop. What -- what did normal people use, what was it --
"Yellow. Yellow yellow yellow," and Moriarty hears him (stops, for a moment, and presses a kiss to Sherlock's jaw). But he keeps going; the blade disappears for a moment, only to reappear as a sharp pressure against the inside of his thigh (femoral artery, Moriarty could bleed him out in minutes, has no reason not to).
"Don't move," Moriarty orders. "It's okay," he continues, and drags his tongue wetly down Sherlock's throat. "It'll be okay as long as you hold still. Just hold still," he repeats, voice warming now, becoming smooth and reassuring. "Good boy."
Close your eyes. Hands behind your back.
"Don't," Sherlock says, trembling. His eyes are still closed; he can't see. All he can hear is the rushing of his blood in his ears. "Don't do it. Please, don't cut me. Yellow, yellow. Stop."
"Yes," Moriarty says. "Come on."
Sherlock's struck by the sheer range of his voice, because it's low now, low and soft and rough with wanting. The hand on his thigh disappears, but Sherlock knows what Moriarty's doing; he listens and it's obvious -- the rasp of the zip, the rustle of cloth, and then the familiar sound of skin sliding against skin.
"Yes, keep talking. I want to hear you beg."
The blade slides up his thigh -- sharp and dangerously close to his groin, wet with his blood. He wants to open his eyes, wants to see it for himself, but he can't. Close your eyes, echoes in his mind, crowding out the rest of his thoughts.
"Please," Sherlock begs, and he pulls the fear in, makes it stronger, embraces it until his breath hitches and his chest aches. "Please. Moriarty. Let me go. Don't hurt me. Please, please, please."
"I'm going to hurt you so much. I'm going to cut you open," Moriarty promises, and the knife bites into Sherlock's thigh. His breath is warm on Sherlock's ear. It makes him shiver. "I'm going to cut you open and take you apart and you're going to let me."
"No," Sherlock whimpers, and breathes more quickly. He can feel his face burning, can feel the fear in his chest and in his lungs. "No, I won't. No, don't." He turns his face away and squeezes his eyes shut tightly. Several tears escape from the corners of his eyes and trail down his cheeks, a slow tickling sensation that stops abruptly when Moriarty's lips press against his cheek, capturing a droplet.
A thumb wipes away the tears on the other side of his face, then presses against Sherlock's half-open mouth. Moriarty tastes of salt and pre-ejaculate. Sherlock licks his thumb clean and suddenly Moriarty presses his palm firmly against the side of his face. His fingers curl around Sherlock's jaw. There's a noise (knife landing on the ground, his thoughts say, Ignore.), and suddenly Moriarty's weight is on top of him, pushing him against the wall.
"Fuck Sherlock," Moriarty groans, sounding breathless and pained. He memorizes the sound, records it in his mind and stores it for safekeeping. "Do it again."
Sherlock shakes his head helplessly, focusing his thoughts. Several more tears trickle down his face. "I can't, I can't, stop it" he whimpers, and Moriarty tenses, shuddering against Sherlock's hunched shoulders and splattering his belly with come.
Then Moriarty's fingers wrap around his cock, firm and hard and perfect. Sherlock groans in pleasure, hips arching. Several strokes later and he's coming too, hard enough that it takes him several seconds to come back down, chest heaving as he breathes.
And that's it -- that's enough, and he's coming back to himself again, the world coming back to him in sharp relief. Sherlock opens his eyes and brings his wrists out from behind his back. He rubs them, but they aren't sore; he hadn't been tied, not literally.
There are several cuts on his body -- on the inside of his thigh, and on his torso -- but none of them are very deep, and all of them are well within the realm of safe. He's confused for a moment because he'd thought they'd been deeper, they'd hurt so much, but oh, of course --
"The chlorine in the water," Moriarty says, and again, his voice is different again, beautifully versatile. "You forgot about it."
Moriarty puts a hand on Sherlock's side then slides it around to his back, leaning close as if to embrace him. For a moment, Sherlock's tempted. He likes to be held after sex, peaceful and protected in his partner's arms. He sways forward enough that Moriarty's expression softens in the way of most doms, becoming gentle and protective and wrong, wrong, wrong.
It sets off an alarm in Sherlock's mind. That's not what this is about. You can't trust him, his mind reminds him coldly.
Moriarty backs off immediately when Sherlock pushes him off and gets to his feet. He passes Sherlock a handkerchief and Sherlock uses it to wipe himself mostly clean. They have -- he doesn't know. He's not sure how long his eyes have been closed, how long Moriarty had been cutting him. "Time?"
Moriarty looks at his watch, then the mobile in his pocket. "A few minutes. I have to go."
Sherlock as well; he dresses quickly and makes himself as presentable as he can. He's post-coital and sore, in his arse and in his shoulders and on his bruises. It feels great. It makes him want to curl up to someone and put his head in their lap. It makes him want to lie in a bed and go to sleep. Can't, he thinks. Not yet.
They pause before leaving, eyes catching as Sherlock pulls on his coat and Moriarty finishes sending a text.
The moment stretches, breaks.
By the time Mycroft's team arrives, they are both gone.
--
Also, if anyone cares, I am still soliciting prompts (mostly AU/crossovers with stuff I've read, but I don't really care) here, which is basically where I go when I'm writer's blocked or drunk and feel like posting hilariously unedited commentfic with no plot.
Pairing: Moriarty/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Length: 5800 words
Warnings: BDSM, trigger warnings for dubcon and noncon
Summary: "I could always let him go," Moriarty says, face darkening -- still sore about Sherlock's rejection of his 'Jim from IT' persona, Sherlock notices with a spark of interest and, yes, he can use that. "For a price."
Notes: Set in a BDSM!AU (but not that other one). Written and originally posted for this prompt at the kinkmeme. Basically, completely gratuitous porn.
Sherlock is, nominally, a sub. That is, when he has sex he generally prefers to be tied down, at least a little bit. He likes being on his knees. He likes the feel of a warm hand on the back of his head. He's not picky -- gentle or rough, male or female, they're all good, they're all satisfying, as long as he can look up through his lashes and hear, "Good boy," murmured to him, low and approving.
The key word here is "nominally".
Because subs are weak, are delicate. They are empty-headed and pretty. They are shallow and sensitive and need a dom to protect and care for them.
So far as he can tell, none of these things are actually true. About him, at least.
There are red dots on John Watson's chest. Sherlock counts four, probably because he's got several on his own, making a total of at least six, probably closer to a nice round number like ten. He can't see a single one of the rifles. He's deduced the location of all four of the snipers targeting John, but he's not afraid to admit that he's not a very good shot with a handgun. There's no way he can shoot them all from across the pool before being shot down himself.
These are not good odds.
Not good odds at all. He knows it and Moriarty knows it. John, too, has shown that he'd figured it out by grabbing Moriarty and telling him to run. Not the best plan really, but -- but Sherlock appreciates the loyalty. It's more than he's ever been offered in the past.
"I could always let him go," Moriarty says, face darkening -- still sore about Sherlock's rejection of his 'Jim from IT' persona, Sherlock notices with a spark of interest and, yes, he can use that. "For a price."
The parlance goes something like -- Sherlock barely remembers, he's deleted it so often, but people keep telling it to him so some of it's stuck, a faded afterimage in the clutter of his thoughts -- doms are the strong ones, the protectors and providers. Subs are the weak ones, meant to be claimed and owned.
Some of it is society. Some of it is biology. Sherlock's never been entirely clear on the line between the two, but he's never had to be because he's never bothered with it. He doesn't have to now, because for all Moriarty is leering and posturing, he is so boringly typical a dominant.
But, pretty.
"What do you want?" Sherlock asks and puts a subtle tremor in his voice. He slouches, slightly -- not too much, not enough to give himself away, but enough to make his height and clothes look as if they fit less, as if it's his coat making him bigger. It isn't, but it's easy to pretend otherwise. I'm afraid, he tells himself. I'm afraid, I'm afraid of him. He frightens me.
"You." Moriarty licks his lips, and it's meant to be threatening (crass, Sherlock thinks), but it isn't. It isn't, because Moriarty had thrown himself at Sherlock already, and the hurt in his eyes when Sherlock had brushed him off (a curt "I'm not interested" when Moriarty had asked if he'd had a dom, because Moriarty had been boring) had been genuine.
Sherlock sucks his lower lip into his mouth and bites down. He sucks on it until it hurts a little, as if he's undecided. He looks at John, a quick dart of his eyes first to meet John's horrified ones, then down to the floor. Three seconds, don't forget to adjust your breathing, he tells himself. Fear. Fear, fear, fear. Quicker breathing, indecision, curl your shoulders forward to look smaller, and then --
And then pretend you're being brave. Chin up, jaw clenched, and Moriarty's so hungry for victory that he laps it up, triumphant and so very easy.
"I'll do it," Sherlock says, and now his voice is strong, determined -- false bravado, or a convincing facsimile thereof. "Just let him go, and let me go -- " pause, nervous as he realizes what he's agreeing to, "Let me go afterwards."
Don't hurt me. Too soon? Maybe not yet -- maybe later, when he's on his knees, when there's a hand in his hair, firm and confident. Maybe when his knees hurt and his scalp burns and the ground is hard and unyielding against him.
"Sherlock -- Sherlock wait," John interrupts. He lurches forward until a warning shot rings out. The bullet ricochets off the tiled floor.
"Nuh-uh," Moriarty teases smugly in a sing-song voice. He grins like a cat who'd found something small, wriggling, and helpless between its paws. "Stay out of this, Johnny. I don't care about you."
"Sherlock," John tries again, looking beautiful and anguished and miserable. "Sherlock, you don't have to do this."
"Yes, John," Sherlock says, and tries to will the truth into John's mind. It's fine, it's under control, I know what I'm doing. Trust me. "I do."
--
Once John's gone, Moriarty takes the time to look him up and down, gaze hungry. The snipers wink out one-by-one until there's only a single red dot remaining on Sherlock's chest. Then, that one goes out too. Alone? Are they alone now? If so, he still has John's gun; he could --
"Don't even think it, Sherlock," Moriarty warns, and his voice -- deep, commanding, nothing at all like the faux friendliness he'd used before -- sends a shiver of anticipation down Sherlock's spine. "You think I won't kill your pet if you go back on our deal?"
Right. Sherlock drops his eyes, lets the slouch crawl up his spine, lets his shoulders curl. "Fine. Just do it. Whatever it is you want with me."
"Yes, I think I will." The words start light, in that queer cadence that sounds just a little too mad to be appealing, but end with a low, dangerous growl. Sherlock doesn't suppress the way he twitches at the change in Moriarty's tone -- alert, attentive, a slight recoil to hint at reluctance. Moriarty picks up on it, of course.
The mad lilt is out of his words entirely when he next speaks. "On your knees, Sherlock."
Force me. Sherlock quirks an eyebrow, then draws them together in indecision. It's -- it's harder to do it while he's pretending to be himself, but no, he knows what Moriarty wants, and he knows what he wants, so.
He gets to his knees, not hiding the slight grimace when the fabric of his trousers presses against the dirty pool tile. Moriarty's taller now -- still not intimidating, not especially, not yet. But, interesting, and Sherlock does like things that are interesting.
"Now crawl," Moriarty orders.
"No," he says calmly, defiantly -- boring, too boring. He doesn't want to just sit around and take orders, not even from Moriarty, who is both surprising (a brilliant criminal, a worthy opponent, not as dangerous as Mycroft but still better than most) and disappointingly predictable (a dom with control issues, really?).
Moriarty backhands him across the face -- not hard, not like they're fighting. Sherlock's had worse from his own clumsiness. Moriarty backhands Sherlock like it's sex, pulling his punches to do the maximum amount of noise with the least amount of pain.
Better, but not good enough.
You can hit me harder than that. Sherlock prods his jaw thoughtfully (minimal damage, hadn't even split the skin), then says mildly, "So, rape. Is that because you can't satisfy a willing sub?"
"Molly never complained," Moriarty says, burying his hand in Sherlock's hair. He pulls, rough, and the movement jerks Sherlock's head back, giving him a clear view of the bulge at Moriarty's groin. It hurts.
And just like that, Sherlock's hard.
He's hard and aching and suddenly aware of the part of himself that's really quite interested in how Moriarty's cock would feel against the back of his throat. His heart pounds. He can almost pretend it's fear.
"Wait, stop," he says, the familiar script coming easily to him. He doesn't lick his lips, and averts his eyes from Moriarty's erection, as if the sight makes him uncomfortable.
"No, I don't think I will," Moriarty says. He undoes his trousers and brings his cock out. It is thick, heavy, and already hard. He guides it to Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock's mouth waters; he turns his head away.
Boring. Try harder. Force me, force me.
"Come on, Sherlock," Moriarty coaxes. The slide of his cock against Sherlock's cheek leaves a slick, wet trail. "Open up."
"Try and I'll bite you," he threatens, and Moriarty cuffs him again. It startles a laugh out of him. "Is this honestly the best you can do?"
Moriarty doesn't have a gun, but he does have a knife, and the sudden appearance of it at Sherlock's face sends a thrill of excitement racing through his body. "Open your mouth. Now."
Sherlock parts his lips, not struggling when Moriarty shoves his cock into Sherlock's mouth. They're uncoordinated against each other -- Moriarty thrusting in deeper when Sherlock's trying to take a breath, pounding roughly against the back of Sherlock's throat until it makes his eyes water. Sherlock braces his hands on his knees, forcing himself to take it. He can feel the calmness -- the trance-like, peaceful state he falls into sometimes -- at the edges of his consciousness, wanting him to give in, telling him that he's safe.
Except, he's not safe. He can't really trust Moriarty, and he gives himself a mental shake. Focus, he tells himself, digging his nails into his thighs.
What do I want, what do I want? He wants Moriarty to pull his hair again, wants to feel the flare of pain and the disorientation caused by a sudden shift in his field of vision. So he ducks his head, drops his gaze, presses hard against the head of Moriarty's cock (uncircumcised, recently washed, smelling of musk and soap and tasting mostly of skin) with his tongue, as if trying to push him away.
Like a beautifully manipulated puppet, Moriarty yanks on Sherlock's hair, forcing his head back. The movement slips his cock free from Sherlock's lips (bitten earlier, properly swollen now), momentarily stretching a wet strand of saliva between them.
Don't lick your lips. Sherlock doesn't.
"You're so pretty with your lips wrapped around my prick," Moriarty says. He's still holding the knife, and when Sherlock tilts his head slightly, he can watch its blade glint under the fluorescent lights. The blade drifts closer -- fear, excitement, the heady rush of adrenaline -- until it's lying flat against Sherlock's cheek.
Sherlock holds his breath, but there's no bite of pain, nothing to mark Moriarty splitting his skin, just the cool, laser-intense scratch of the tip of the knife against his body. It travels down his cheek, along his jaw, then dangerously underneath his throat. It gives his laryngeal prominence a wide berth, but curves wide to trail down the side of his throat and down his collarbone, before coming to a stop at his supra-sternal notch.
Moriarty twists the knife, and, oh. Sherlock's breath hitches, because that's the sharp cut of metal through skin. It stings, making his whole body tighten. Moriarty brings the knife to Sherlock's face, a single bead of blood caught on the tip, and Sherlock wants to touch his tongue to it, wants to taste the blend of salt and metal and sweat.
"Stop," he murmurs. He wriggles, and realizes belatedly that he's still got both hands free, that to struggle realistically he needs to -- he lashes out, grabs Moriarty by the ankle, and manages to bring him crashing down on top of him with a rough jerk. The knife goes skidding across the floor -- Moriarty's a less stupid dom than most, getting rid of his props when he loses his balance -- and lands in the pool with a wet plop.
Sherlock kicks Moriarty in the ribs; Moriarty punches him in the stomach. Moriarty's clumsier than him, less graceful, less accustomed to dirty scuffles on the ground. Sherlock gets the upper hand and holds it, long enough for them to both realize he's won. Then, he loosens his grip enough for Moriarty to get free, lets him reverse their positions so Sherlock is the one on his back, Moriarty looming over him.
"Oh, you're going to regret that, Sherlock," Moriarty hisses.
Sherlock squirms, twisting and kicking when Moriarty brings his hands to Sherlock's trousers. He cries out when trousers and pants are pulled down to his knees, exposing him. "Stop!" You're hurting me? No, obviously not true. "Get off me!" Sincere enough, punctuated with a knee in Moriarty's groin that earns Sherlock another backhand, this one hard enough that he tastes the blood.
Better.
"Do you always fight so hard?" Moriarty complains, sounding half-genuine. A droplet of sweat lands on Sherlock's collarbone. He mouths the side of Sherlock's face -- sloppy, wet. His teeth scrape against Sherlock's cheek. Their erections slide against each other, bare skin to bare skin. "I'll kill John if you don't give in. I have him."
No he doesn't. Sherlock watched John walk out, received the text (Out safely.) on his phone. John. Fuck, John. John undoubtedly called Mycroft, which means -- "Forty minutes, maximum, before my brother arrives. With his own snipers," Sherlock whispers. And then, in speaking tones, more strained, "Fine. Just don't hurt him."
He lets Moriarty strip off his trousers and shoes and is thoroughly unsurprised that Moriarty's apparently prepared with a condom and small packet of lubricant in one of his pockets ("Planned this out from the beginning, I see" "I was hoping for a bit of fun before I killed you" "After, you mean?").
Sherlock can't go under, not now. It's not safe because under his surface illusion, Moriarty's too smart. He's a predator, just like Sherlock. Not quite, though, because Sherlock's prey is dangerous while Moriarty's is just... easy. Sherlock observes instead, cataloging facts upon facts in his mental database.
Moriarty shushing him as he prepares him, lubed fingers stretching the ring of muscle (less violent than the norm), the presence of the condom (Moriarty has to know about his drug history -- everyone knows about the drug history), and his hands, warm and solid at Sherlock's hips to keep him still (no conclusion).
"It hurts," he gasps when Moriarty presses into him, slow and steady and still almost too much. "It hurts, it's too much, stop, please stop," he pleads, and, yesyesyes Moriarty keeps going. He tightens his grip when Sherlock tries to twist away.
"Stop moving," Moriarty orders, and it hooks into Sherlock's limbs, stills him (careful careful careful don't trust him don't lose yourself careful). It feels like he's being split apart, and he can't breathe until Moriarty stops, sheathed in him all the way. Moriarty strokes a hand down Sherlock's back, approving.
"I want to mark you," Moriarty growls into Sherlock's ear as he fucks him. "I want to smear my name all over your body until everyone knows I've fucked you. What would John think, hmm? When you go home and he sees everything I've done to you. Think he'll be jealous? Think he'll wish he got there first? Is that why you're here? Do you want to --"
"Safeword," Sherlock interrupts calmly.
Moriarty goes still and silent behind him. The moment shatters. The world shifts, and suddenly he's Sherlock Holmes again, with a life and responsibilities and people to keep safe. The stillness at the edges of his awareness recede, then dissipate entirely.
How disappointing.
Interesting, the effect a single word can have. He was enjoying himself so much more ten seconds ago.
Moriarty's still inside him, a not-unwelcome feeling of being filled and stretched. He can hear Moriarty thinking (not literally, but Sherlock can read it in his lack of movement, in the way Moriarty's hands are loose on his hips, the way their bodies are pressed closely together). Stopping, reason for stopping, hesitation on -- on whether or not he ought to stop, on whether he still has the upper hand or if everything he's done has been done with permission.
Moriarty begins to move again. This time, he doesn't speak.
Sherlock braces himself on his forearms and focuses on breathing. Yes, yes, good -- and then, like flipping a switch, Less good, repetitive, dull, boring. He feels too bereft, too unanchored. His knees don't hurt but will eventually. The tile is cool and smooth under his fingertips (except for the grout, recently replaced but still rather rough). There are smears of dirt on his cuffs (and his elbows too, undoubtedly; he'll have to get the suit dry-cleaned when he gets home). John's probably worried about him; doms had a tendency to worry about him.
Moriarty's fucking him and it's -- it's pleasant, stimulating, but not enough to drive the thoughts from his head. Not enough to hold his attention. He could have more fun on his own.
He doesn't have any orders to follow or ignore (admittedly he usually does the latter and forces a punishment). Having nothing is -- it feels wrong; he's not sure how wrong, but wrong enough that it bothers him. It feels like insects crawling under his skin. "What do you want?"
He sneaks a glance at Moriarty over his shoulder. Moriarty's eyes are closed. His lips, parted. He wears an intent expression -- though what he's so focused on, Sherlock can't be certain. If he's heard Sherlock's question, he has no intention of answering it.
"Moriarty," murmured low, groaned around the rhythm of his thrusts. No response. "James. Jim. Jimmy. James Moriarty," Sherlock says, tasting the name in his mouth, curling his tongue around its vowels. "Is that your real name?"
Moriarty's rhythm falters. At Sherlock's next words, it stops entirely.
"Jim? Jim from IT?" Sherlock mimics in a credible imitation of the voice Moriarty had used when they'd first met. "Was it annoying, having to answer to Jim? Jim, will you get the door? Jim, do you want a coffee? Jim, I kicked out the power cord for my computer and it won't turn on, can you help me?"
Moriarty slaps him on the arse. "Shut up," he orders darkly, seriously enough for the words to send a pleasant heat down Sherlock's back, like stepping into a hot shower. "I should have known you'd be one of those subs," he adds. "No more talking."
"Not talking is boring," Sherlock responds immediately, automatically, and Moriarty slaps his arse again (obvious, predictable, a gag would have been better or at least a blindfold to make his eyesight less distracting). "You won't be able to get enough force with one hand to do more than sting, especially not in our current position. Spanking's boring. Fucking's boring."
You're boring me, not stated outright, but obvious enough, hurtful enough. More than, really. Moriarty doesn't want to be boring. He's desperate for the attention. He spends days (maybe even weeks) orchestrating elaborate plans that hold Sherlock's attention only for the couple of days it takes to bring it all crashing to the ground -- criminals chased and caught, delivered to Lestrade for processing.
"I don't care what you like," Moriarty says, and even he doesn't sound convinced.
"That much is obvious," Sherlock agrees, casually dismissive (boring, boring, talking is boring, having all his senses is boring, how had he thought this was a good idea?). He lays his head down on his arms in a way carefully discovered to be as insulting as possible. "Let me know when you finish."
When, after several more seconds, Moriarty withdraws from Sherlock's body until they're no longer touching, Sherlock nods to himself mentally. He'd thought so. He rolls onto his side. "How much time has passed? I said forty minutes, that was --"
"Thirteen minutes ago. Seventeen left." Giving Moriarty ten minutes to sneak out of the building without getting caught, and Sherlock ten minutes to get dressed and -- well, do the same, because the last thing he wants is his brother knowing about his sex life. Total and complete avoidance is the only way to make this possible. Sherlock likes never seeing his brother, ever. Moriarty frowns at him.
It's a familiar expression, one Sherlock's seen on lovers in the past, usually when they're about ready to break and ask him, Are you sure you're a sub? Do you even want this? "Yes" and" most of the time", but his thoughts distract him constantly. It's usually not deliberate, but he does tend to end scenes out of boredom partway through.
Sherlock's still wearing his shirt. He doesn't want it to get any dirtier, so he takes it off delicately and tosses it onto his trousers, several feet away. Moriarty stares at him. Boring. "Seventeen minutes left. Did you like it more when I pretended to be scared? You had no problems believing it."
Too easy.
Moriarty frowns at him some more. Sherlock can't read his thoughts, but he can watch the turning of the gears in his mind. He watches as Moriarty reviews his mental footage of the past few minutes, then watches him as he arrives at some conclusion.
"Sixteen minutes," Sherlock says, and sits up to check himself for dust. His palms are dirty, as are his knees. There is a tender spot on his hip that might become a bruise. He prods at it -- actually, probably not. He has a couple other bruises, on his ribs and his elbow, from his scuffle with Moriarty, but they're all minor enough to ignore.
"What do you like?" Moriarty finally asks, sounding confused.
"Telling you would be boring," Sherlock says and gets to his feet. He's naked while Moriarty is fully clothed, but he only notices it in the part of his mind that notices everything, the part of his mind he'd been hoping to temporarily silence. "Are you done?"
Moriarty's already disposed of the condom -- probably slipped off when his arousal faded, which means more penetration's out of the question. He glances at the pool (seeking out the knife that'd gotten lost in it), then at the hollow of Sherlock's throat.
Sherlock hasn't seen the mark Moriarty's left yet, the clean nick where he'd split the skin, but it stings from where his sweat has mixed with it. He touches his fingertips to it to properly examine the damage, and they come back with a small spot of red.
Moriarty licks his lips, rolls his shoulders, and shifts his weight. Suddenly he looks bigger -- not literally, but it's still enough. It's enough to make the part of Sherlock that makes him a sub perk up and take notice. "You made me drop my knife," he says, and nods at the pool. "Bring it back."
"And if I don't?" Sherlock asks, even though he can feel the way Moriarty's voice pushes at him, the way part of himself is already thinking about it. He knows where it is the water, and it wouldn't have drifted too far. A jogging start, followed by a headfirst dive with one hand out in front of him to grab the hilt and push himself to the surface in one smooth motion.
Moriarty tucks himself back into his trousers and zips himself up. He sticks his hands in his pockets and shrugs. "Then I'll leave now and not use it on you. And we both know you want this as much as I do."
Sherlock refuses to move and after several seconds, Moriarty shrugs nonchalantly and turns away. One, two, three steps, and Sherlock is expecting him to stop at three but he doesn't, just keeps going. The surprise of having his prediction proven wrong is enough for Sherlock to blurt out, "Wait," and dive into the water.
The pool's lighted, making it child's play to retrieve Moriarty's knife. When he breaks the surface of the water, Moriarty grabs his hand, helping him out of the pool. His hand touches the small of Sherlock's back, supporting him automatically. Sherlock passes him the knife. As soon as it's in his hand, Moriarty shoves him back to the ground. The water makes him slippery, and he skids on the floor when he lands.
"Now," Moriarty says dangerously, and his shoes click on the tile as he advances on Sherlock. "Let's try this again."
Sherlock scrambles backwards (on his arse, and it's awkward and he's sore and wet and his hands are cold and there is water in his eyes) until his back hits the wall. He widens his eyes and parts his lips, breathes more quickly. Fear, time to show fear now. "Stop," he says, and watches the drip of water from the hilt of the knife; if he's careful, if he concentrates, it almost resembles blood. "Get away from me."
Moriarty drops between Sherlock's parted legs without warning. His shadow falls over Sherlock's face when he cringes against the wall, bringing his arms up protectively. And -- "Keep an eye on the time," he warns again in his usual tone, and gets a brief nod in response.
"Hands behind your back. Keep them there," Moriarty orders and Sherlock would say no -- he would, at any other time he'd force the issue, but they have a time limit. So he twists his hands behind his back and hooks his fingers together so they won't dislodge by accident.
Moriarty holds the blade to the light, angling it in a way that makes it shine. "I'm going to hurt you so much, Sherlock," he promises. "And when I'm done, you're going to beg me for more."
Moriarty brings the knife straight to the underside of Sherlock's jaw, tilting his head up with the flat of the blade. It's cool against his skin, even cold, and a twist of real fear, proper fear, settles in his chest. That's a real knife -- a sharp knife, and if Moriarty were to slit his throat right now, Sherlock wouldn't be able to stop him or get to help before he bled out.
Fuck. Fuck.
Moriarty pushes his jaw further back with the knife, until all Sherlock can see is ceiling and the part of the wall right above his head. He has a moment's warning -- a puff of warm air against his throat, followed by Moriarty's hand on Sherlock's thigh (for balance, because he's leaning in) -- and then there's warmth at the base of his throat, wet and stinging and good, good like the way Moriarty's fingers tighten painfully on his thigh, digging into the muscle.
He thinks he groans. He's not sure. Moriarty mouths his way up Sherlock's throat and Sherlock shivers. "Stop it," he says weakly, but he can't turn his head, can't move away -- not while he's pinned like this, held by knife and hand and the bulk of Moriarty's body looming over his own. "Please," he says, "please."
"Shh," Moriarty murmurs. The cold metal against Sherlock's jaw disappears abruptly. "Don't move an inch, or it goes into your stomach. Close your eyes."
Sherlock closes his eyes and the world drifts away -- not all the way, but enough, enough that the man in front of him (Moriarty, his thoughts whisper, danger and beauty and genius, all rolled into one convenient package) consumes his senses. The world narrows down to Moriarty's hand on his thigh and mouth against his throat, to the trickle of water in his hair, dripping down his back and along his body, faintly tickling. His world is the taste of chlorinated water on his lips, and the smell of cologne, but mostly, mostly it's the feeling of being cold everywhere but where they touch.
It isn't a surprise but his muscles still twitch involuntarily when he feels the light press of the knife's edge to his torso (over the ribs, blade angled slightly). "I'm going to cut you. I'm going to cut you open, right here. Shut up," Moriarty says sharply into Sherlock's ear when Sherlock opens his mouth, "or you'll regret it."
It hurts -- hurts more than it should, hurts enough for the fear to spiral into his chest, bright and roaring -- when the knife breaks his skin, and he must have made a noise, some noise, because fuck, because fuck, what is he doing. Because he is blind and still and letting a madman carve him up like a Christmas turkey.
Moriarty's hand tightens on his thigh, and slides upwards. "Now you're getting it," he sing-songs, voice going high and unnerving.
Another cut -- on his chest, but he can't tell where, can only tell that it's there, that it hurts and burns and fuck. Safeword, he thinks, safeword safeword safeword, but he can't say it because then it'll stop. What -- what did normal people use, what was it --
"Yellow. Yellow yellow yellow," and Moriarty hears him (stops, for a moment, and presses a kiss to Sherlock's jaw). But he keeps going; the blade disappears for a moment, only to reappear as a sharp pressure against the inside of his thigh (femoral artery, Moriarty could bleed him out in minutes, has no reason not to).
"Don't move," Moriarty orders. "It's okay," he continues, and drags his tongue wetly down Sherlock's throat. "It'll be okay as long as you hold still. Just hold still," he repeats, voice warming now, becoming smooth and reassuring. "Good boy."
Close your eyes. Hands behind your back.
"Don't," Sherlock says, trembling. His eyes are still closed; he can't see. All he can hear is the rushing of his blood in his ears. "Don't do it. Please, don't cut me. Yellow, yellow. Stop."
"Yes," Moriarty says. "Come on."
Sherlock's struck by the sheer range of his voice, because it's low now, low and soft and rough with wanting. The hand on his thigh disappears, but Sherlock knows what Moriarty's doing; he listens and it's obvious -- the rasp of the zip, the rustle of cloth, and then the familiar sound of skin sliding against skin.
"Yes, keep talking. I want to hear you beg."
The blade slides up his thigh -- sharp and dangerously close to his groin, wet with his blood. He wants to open his eyes, wants to see it for himself, but he can't. Close your eyes, echoes in his mind, crowding out the rest of his thoughts.
"Please," Sherlock begs, and he pulls the fear in, makes it stronger, embraces it until his breath hitches and his chest aches. "Please. Moriarty. Let me go. Don't hurt me. Please, please, please."
"I'm going to hurt you so much. I'm going to cut you open," Moriarty promises, and the knife bites into Sherlock's thigh. His breath is warm on Sherlock's ear. It makes him shiver. "I'm going to cut you open and take you apart and you're going to let me."
"No," Sherlock whimpers, and breathes more quickly. He can feel his face burning, can feel the fear in his chest and in his lungs. "No, I won't. No, don't." He turns his face away and squeezes his eyes shut tightly. Several tears escape from the corners of his eyes and trail down his cheeks, a slow tickling sensation that stops abruptly when Moriarty's lips press against his cheek, capturing a droplet.
A thumb wipes away the tears on the other side of his face, then presses against Sherlock's half-open mouth. Moriarty tastes of salt and pre-ejaculate. Sherlock licks his thumb clean and suddenly Moriarty presses his palm firmly against the side of his face. His fingers curl around Sherlock's jaw. There's a noise (knife landing on the ground, his thoughts say, Ignore.), and suddenly Moriarty's weight is on top of him, pushing him against the wall.
"Fuck Sherlock," Moriarty groans, sounding breathless and pained. He memorizes the sound, records it in his mind and stores it for safekeeping. "Do it again."
Sherlock shakes his head helplessly, focusing his thoughts. Several more tears trickle down his face. "I can't, I can't, stop it" he whimpers, and Moriarty tenses, shuddering against Sherlock's hunched shoulders and splattering his belly with come.
Then Moriarty's fingers wrap around his cock, firm and hard and perfect. Sherlock groans in pleasure, hips arching. Several strokes later and he's coming too, hard enough that it takes him several seconds to come back down, chest heaving as he breathes.
And that's it -- that's enough, and he's coming back to himself again, the world coming back to him in sharp relief. Sherlock opens his eyes and brings his wrists out from behind his back. He rubs them, but they aren't sore; he hadn't been tied, not literally.
There are several cuts on his body -- on the inside of his thigh, and on his torso -- but none of them are very deep, and all of them are well within the realm of safe. He's confused for a moment because he'd thought they'd been deeper, they'd hurt so much, but oh, of course --
"The chlorine in the water," Moriarty says, and again, his voice is different again, beautifully versatile. "You forgot about it."
Moriarty puts a hand on Sherlock's side then slides it around to his back, leaning close as if to embrace him. For a moment, Sherlock's tempted. He likes to be held after sex, peaceful and protected in his partner's arms. He sways forward enough that Moriarty's expression softens in the way of most doms, becoming gentle and protective and wrong, wrong, wrong.
It sets off an alarm in Sherlock's mind. That's not what this is about. You can't trust him, his mind reminds him coldly.
Moriarty backs off immediately when Sherlock pushes him off and gets to his feet. He passes Sherlock a handkerchief and Sherlock uses it to wipe himself mostly clean. They have -- he doesn't know. He's not sure how long his eyes have been closed, how long Moriarty had been cutting him. "Time?"
Moriarty looks at his watch, then the mobile in his pocket. "A few minutes. I have to go."
Sherlock as well; he dresses quickly and makes himself as presentable as he can. He's post-coital and sore, in his arse and in his shoulders and on his bruises. It feels great. It makes him want to curl up to someone and put his head in their lap. It makes him want to lie in a bed and go to sleep. Can't, he thinks. Not yet.
They pause before leaving, eyes catching as Sherlock pulls on his coat and Moriarty finishes sending a text.
The moment stretches, breaks.
By the time Mycroft's team arrives, they are both gone.
--
Also, if anyone cares, I am still soliciting prompts (mostly AU/crossovers with stuff I've read, but I don't really care) here, which is basically where I go when I'm writer's blocked or drunk and feel like posting hilariously unedited commentfic with no plot.