Claridge's

[jim_moriarty]

Closed to shutupimagenius and dearjohnwatson.
R-18 for sexual content, dub-con, and god-only-knows-what.
Continuation of the Jim Likes Texting RP at dressing221b, picking up right in the middle of things at the hotel room.

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[shutupimagenius]

Sherlock squirms a bit under him, starting to groan before biting down hard on his lip to silence himself. He kept telling himself that he had enough self-control to get through this, but Jim was so good at rubbing him in all the right (and wrong) ways, which he currently was doing rather successfully. Feeling his erection press into his stomach, Sherlock closed his eyes and bit harder onto his lip, tasting a hint of blood from the force of it.

He's snapped out of the haze of arousal for a moment when he casts a worried glance at John's sleeping form. That groan hadn't sounded like anything good was happening in his dream, and he wondered again whether or not to wake him. It really was difficult to think with Jim pulling him off and grinding against him like that. Forgetting that he wasn't supposed to for a moment, Sherlock moaned, partly in genuine arousal and partly for being at a loss of what to do about John. He went quiet after that, pulling his eyes open to glance up at Jim, curious as to how he would react. He didn't exactly try to stifle himself this time, and he had to admit to himself that he was painfully curious as to what Jim would do about his breaking the rules already.

[dearjohnwatson]

John's body gave a shudder, his left arm was laid out away from his body, almost stretching towards the two men. The hand of that arm began its intermittent tremor again, thrumming against the mattress. A nice sheen of sweat was coating the man's brow, yet he hadn't woken up yet.

Sherlock was still digging into his bullet wound, but he was scooting closer to him on the couch. Their height difference made it perfect for Sherlock to attack his nipples with his tongue and teeth. John was crying out for him to stop. Every time his voice was about to work, it would close up and all that was let out was a whimper. "Sherlock ... pl--please ... "

His voice was soft, but Sherlock certainly heard him because he was glancing up along John's chest. Licking his skin like a feline, Sherlock seemed to think John was asking for more.

[jim_moriarty]

A thrill surges through Jim to hear Sherlock moaning in pleasure, and it's all the better as he senses the ambiguity as Sherlock is torn between him and John. Jim thrusts eagerly down against him before he bothers to try controlling himself. They have rules to follow, and Jim forces himself to stop his motions then despite how much he wants to keep going.

"Uh-uh," Jim chastises, a smirk lifting his lips even as he's breathless with arousal. He shakes his head and pushes himself back up to his knees, no longer rubbing against Sherlock's body, depriving them both. He reaches up to cup Sherlock's cheek and stroke his thumb over lips. Their faces are close enough that Jim can feel Sherlock's breath, and Sherlock can certainly feel his. God he wants to have him. He does have him, willingly trapped under Jim's hands and Jim's body, and his fingers curl possessively along his jaw.

John is visibly trembling by now, undoubtedly tormented in sleep and in dire need of their heroic assistance. Jim isn't interested in letting Sherlock go to him; they have rules, after all. Jim might sound a bit too excited when he says, "naughty," his body trembling in a new kind of excitement as he slips his hand over Sherlock's throat, pressing down hard for several exhilarating moments in punishment.

[shutupimagenius]

Sherlock stares up at Jim with a vaguely uneasy look, knowing now that he had gotten in over his head as per usual. His eyes are focused on John, squirming against his bonds and against Jim in the need to do something about John's turmoil.

"Wait. John, he...I have to..." he tries to form a coherent protest, tries to get Jim to stop for a moment, but it was no good. He knew he had suggested this, asked for it, even. There was no way out. He wasn't even sure he really wanted one. "Jim-" he tries again to come up with some compelling reason for him to stop, before he was silenced by a hand to his throat. Any whimpers and moans were stifled in favor of the choked-off sounds of his airway being cut off. He pressed his lips together to stop himself, going still in order to appease his own terms.

[dearjohnwatson]

John was near to sobbing, the pain was growing more and more undeniable in his tortured sleep. In a dream, pain wasn't present. In a nightmare, pain could crop up without warning. John was all too aware of both instances.

Sherlock stopped attacking his chest, his thumb still held into the wound. He had blood streaking his cheek a little, John gasping when he felt the thumb pull free to be replaced with his tongue over the wound. He felt it then, the jagged bits of a bullet wound, the drip of his own blood down his chest. John reached out then to pull Sherlock's mouth away from his face and saw the man's mouth covered in blood as though he'd been feasting on his flesh. He was licking his lips and moaning, the doctor was reminded of a vampire with a jolt.

He shoved Sherlock away then and the man went rather willingly. He flopped back on the couch, licking his bloody fingers. As he watched him lick those fingers, he was staring at him with such inhuman eyes that would haunt John for a terribly long time. He was regressing.

[jim_moriarty]

Watching Sherlock regather himself to silence, giving in to Jim and complying, has Jim exhaling shakily with excitement. As Sherlock goes quiet, Jim relaxes his hold. He trails his fingers desirously over Sherlock's throat and down his chest, his whole body buzzing with the thrill of watching and hearing Sherlock choke and quickly control himself at Jim's command.

"You don't usually wake him in the night when he's upstairs dreaming." Although Jim doesn't really know that. He knows John has nightmares and lingering effects of PTSD. He figures Sherlock, ever observant, recognizes it when it's happening. But if their evening was enough to go by, despite living together and defying death together, John and Sherlock have been ridiculously inattentive to each other.

Jim curls his fingers over Sherlock's chest, stroking down his sternum, and continuing down his abdomen and lower. He's eager to get back to touching Sherlock in all sorts of dirty ways. With the way John's whimpering, Jim doesn't know how long this will last. Although he wonders if he can get Sherlock off despite it. His lips twitch toward a smile as he thinks he probably can. "John will be fine without being woken this time either."

[shutupimagenius]

Taking in a deep breath when he was free to do so, Sherlock willed himself to keep from panicking for his own sake. He knew that Jim was right, that he had never woken John before from his nightmares. After tonight, though, it didn't feel right to just let it go anymore, considering their mutual feelings for each other. He wanted to touch and soothe John, even just for a moment. As much as he'd wanted this, wanted Jim, he wished he could call time out just long enough to calm John down. He knew it was no good, sure that he'd have to go through with his and Jim's game before he got the chance.

He shivers a bit under Jim's touch, biting hard on his lip to keep in the sounds of approval. Looking for any reason to stop feeling this foreign sense of guilt, he finds some comforting logic in Jim's words, enough to get him back into their little game. "Alright." he whispers, relaxing again under Jim's touch and hoping he'd earned himself more attention.

[dearjohnwatson]

Watching the self-satisfied vampire previously known as his flatmate, John was watching the edges of his vision blur. John tugged his jumper back down over the wound, and it was like it didn't even exist again. There was a dull ache that he processed as possibly the gunshot, but this wasn't like how he remembered getting shot. Sherlock was moving to stand, feeling a bit anxious about their height difference for the first time in a while. Sherlock looked bigger, taller, and far more menacing.

"Why won't you tell me what's going on? Where's Moriarty? And who's side are you really on?" John's logical mind was trying to work on overdrive to deduce Sherlock's methods. He was sure he knew every little eccentricity. This ... was not Sherlock.

"I have no idea what you're on about, John. It's just you and me. It's always been just you and me. We're in this together, always. You and me." Sherlock continued to languidly lick the blood staining his fingers, which upon further observation didn't seem to be coming clean off the detective's sinewy digits.

"This isn't you. I know you." Even in his dream, his voice didn't sound all that confident.

John took a step back when Sherlock advanced, each step forward was another step back. "Are you having me on? Is this a joke? It's gotta be ... c'mon, quit it Sherlock." John should have known from years of restless nights that calling out a dream only meant you were in too deep to do it yourself.

But Sherlock was still moving forward, that hungry predator look in his eyes only getting darker. It almost looked like his eyes were doused into shadow, the brilliant gray-green was looking less and less familiar. John shook his head and raised both palms up to stop Sherlock from moving forward. When Sherlock met his hands, he continued pushing John back as if he wasn't even there.

[jim_moriarty]

Jim presses a finger to his lips in a shush, and presses the finger to Sherlock's lips as well, in a playful reminder that Sherlock's still not supposed to talk even if it is to agree with him. Jim doesn't mind but it's so much more fun this way. He eases quickly into the distraction of the touch, stroking Sherlock's lips as he leans down to him. Sherlock had agreed with him, agreed to continue, and the deep kiss Jim gives him shows his satisfaction with the decision. For a long moment he slowly moves his lips over Sherlock's warm mouth. As he pulls just slightly back, he reaches down between their bodies and grabs onto him again.

Unlike the lazy strokes from before, his firm hold and suddenly fast rhythm have a more direct purpose. He nuzzles Sherlock's cheek, under his jaw, and kisses him more. He flexes his fingers over the bindings on Sherlock's wrists, stretching his fingers before wrapping them around one of Sherlock's wrists to continue ensuring Sherlock can't move his arms. Jim's aching for relief, but before he continues he wants to get Sherlock unbearably close. Or at least to see how close he can get before he's gasping audibly and moaning again.

[shutupimagenius]

Sherlock presses his lips together obediently under Jim's finger, flexing his hands aimlessly under his hold as Jim leans over him. His eyelids flicker and close when he gets that fantastic kiss as a reward, a shiver running down his spine as he arches slightly in an attempt to get more contact.

His mouth falls open in a barely audible gasp when Jim takes hold of him again, immediately biting down on his lip to stop the sounds threatening to spill forth from his mouth. He tried, really tried, to stay still, but Jim was relentless and it was glorious and he couldn't help but buck his hips against his hand. He really hadn't realized how difficult his own game would be, considering he'd hardly been quiet or still at all during this. He gives a strained whimper, chewing on his lip until he could taste blood.

[dearjohnwatson]

With his hands braced on Sherlock's chest, the man kept moving until John was brought up against a wall. There was a fleeting smile chasing across Sherlock's lips, devious eyes still staring him down. As Sherlock moved to lean in and kiss him -- John seemed to think that Sherlock's solution to his confusion was just to kiss him and make him forget, and it usually worked. He caught himself and gave a hard shove forward. Peeling his back up off the wall, without warning the drywall exploded behind him. Being thrown forward, John landed hard on his front as debris and dust fell all around him, choking him.

The doctor sat up as quickly as he could, realizing there was gravel and sand under his hands as he pushed his torso up off the ground. When he looked behind him to the source of the blast, John almost felt the tug of his dream as he went from 221b Baker Street ... to Afghanistan.

Beige fatigues, dog tags burning, one hundred pounds of gear, strap digging into his chin, sweat trailing down the backs of his thighs, indiscriminate shouting in many different languages. John quickly began to assess the situation and mark out his friendlies. Checking that his gun was loaded, safety off, John Watson prepared to head into the fray. He was not a medic today, his red cross armband was missing on purpose.

[jim_moriarty]

To Jim's great amusement Sherlock's not very good at this game, but Sherlock's also not bad enough for punishment. So Jim keeps going, and the heat between their bodies build until Jim's pleasingly sweaty. The struggling, the whimpering, the sliver of blood has Jim's breath rushing hard and quick on Sherlock's cheek as he pulls Sherlock closer.

He slows abruptly when Sherlock's too close, stopping before letting him finish. Torture can be an art form when executed properly, although this time it's rather more difficult when Jim's sweaty and wanton and suffering as well; he's bringing Sherlock up and down with rather less grace than he'd prefer, although nonetheless effectively.

Jim collapses down on him then, devouring the slight taste of blood on Sherlock's lips. He wants to be overwhelmed by skin, sweat, blood, and sex, pressing all that desire through that kiss. Jim wants him with sudden veracity, raw and dry and now. For a brief moment, his hand tightens on Sherlock's hip as Jim makes a sudden movement as though he could take Sherlock just then. Fuck, no, he can't. Not from this position. Not without finding the scattered necessities around the bed. He makes a frustrated huff and gets started on that.

With hands firmly on Sherlock's shoulder and hip, he guides Sherlock to roll over underneath him.

[shutupimagenius]

Sherlock's brows furrow in frustrated desire, the urge to grab hold of Jim more powerful than he had originally anticipated. He fancied himself with more restraint than this. But then, he was in bed with the two people who could ever crack his armor, so he supposed it was to be expected.

He can't move or make noise, so he settles on giving Jim a look of absolute longing and impatience. It seems like ages that Jim hovers over him, depriving him of his touch and making him want more than he thought he could want anything.

Finally, finally, Jim is on top of him again, kissing the breath out of him completely and making him feel how badly Jim wants this too. He feels his hand tighten on him as though he was going to just take him then and there, which Sherlock couldn't and wouldn't argue with. He notes with distant satisfaction that Jim is just as impatient as he is, smirking slightly despite himself because there wasn't a rule against being smug. He compliantly follows Jim's direction and rolls over, feeling exposed and restive and exhilarated all at the same time.

[dearjohnwatson]

John's sleeping form had gone still, but his face betrayed the terror behind those lids.

The whizzing past of bullets, so close to his ear that he could've sworn the bullet singed a part of his hair. The dust began to clear and John was faced with that wall. That wall. The only wall he could remember. The wall that returned every time, without prompting. It was barely three feet tall, man made of big stones and years of sand storms. The gunfire was coming from just over that hill, the enemy had the better vantage point. What were they doing there? Why weren't they moving to the better cover just off to their right and left, in the trees. Trees? Trees.

John turned to see which soldiers were with him. Marko, Red, Henry, those were the boys he immediately saw on his right, all of which were taking on fire and yelling indiscriminately at each other. As always. They were brothers, from Ireland. They fought near to constantly, even and especially in the heat of battle. John kicked Marko in the foot, the ginger closest to him and they stopped arguing to turn and look at him. "Cut the crap boys and do what you're known for!" Red and Henry crossed themselves and got an inhuman smirk on their faces. They checked their weapons, nodded, and suddenly returned fire. John swung his attention over to his other side. Jimmy Boy, Patch and Sam were on his left. Jimmy was on the horn, trying to relay their position for reinforcements when the RPG landed at their feet.

With the grace of a World Cup soccer player, John threw his leg out a kicked the thing as hard as he could, sending it into the aforementioned trees, blowing the trunk of an old tree to splinters when it finally exploded. That wasn't the first time he's had to kick a grenade, marveling at the fact that their enemy was using such outdated technology that still had delay timers. As he was shaking off the feeling of another near death experience, the gunfire increased. John was really sick of hearing all of that gunfire.

[jim_moriarty]

Jim arches an eyebrow at Sherlock's smug look. When Sherlock is rolled over, his backside exposed and hands still tied, Jim places a hand between Sherlock's shoulder blades and presses down in a show of dominance, enjoying the way Sherlock looks almost helpless while face down beneath him. Jim's had power in many things for a long time, manipulating what he doesn't directly control, but he's been more careful with Sherlock thinking the man would run from any direct force. The seduction was careful, but this is beyond that. Jim suspects he could do anything to Sherlock now.

He wants to.

He sits up enough to check on John. With John's forehead lined with distressed, his eyes squeezed from pain or terror, Jim briefly wonders what the hell he's dreaming before dismissing it. John's still steadfastly asleep, which is all that's of concern. Jim has rather more immediate matters seeking his attention, particularly the willing pliant warm person underneath him making his body ache.

Which leaves Jim with a theory to test, important enough to pause his search for supplies. To see how far Sherlock's willing to submit, how much he's willing to take, Jim brings his hand down on Sherlock's arse hard enough to sting. Maybe Sherlock will think it punishment for being smug, rules or no, or maybe he'll figure it out like he so often does. The sudden smack of skin on skin makes a lovely sound. Already Jim's moving down on him again, eager to see how Sherlock responds when he figures out Jim might fuck him dry, if he hasn't already. Jim's prick nudges Sherlock's hip, smearing precum over his skin as a reminder he's not covered.

[shutupimagenius]

Sherlock lets his arms lower behind his back, unable to see Jim for a moment with his face pressed into the pillow as it was. He felt his hand on his back and saw him again, positioned behind him and looking as though he had all sorts of brilliant ideas for what to do with him. He shivered at the thought, sure that he would let Jim do anything and everything he wanted without question. He would likely encourage it, even.

He follows Jim's gaze as he looks over at John, wondering what he would think if he woke up and saw this. This is the one situation where he really wouldn't want to be saved from. If anything, he'd want John to join in with the thorough domination. He almost hopes he wakes up, now, as he's sure it wouldn't take any convincing at all to get John to join in.

There's a sharp inhale elicited from the harsh slap, biting his lip again to stop a groan that would simultaneously break the rules and betray that he'd actually liked that. It was both the pain and the realization that he couldn't do anything to protest or to get back at Jim when he was like this that made this so exciting in such a twisted way. He glances back up at Jim when he feels him pressing against his hip, realizing his intent fairly quickly. He was sure it would hurt, but then maybe that was part of the appeal. He shifts his hips back against him, a silent urging that whatever he planned on doing, that he should get on with it.