You, Me, and The Devil Makes Three [5/?]
anonymous
January 8 2011, 06:48:29 UTC
221c was pitch black, dusty, and empty except for a huddled mass of a person on the floor.
Sherlock heard John fumbling around for a light switch, but Sherlock knew that there wasn’t a working one. John soon gave up and allowed Sherlock to move cautiously toward the poor, shivering soul who had probably been maimed by Moriarty’s hand.
"Hello?" Sherlock asked curiously to the back of the motionless body.
"Please," the man's mousy voice squeaked.
Sherlock knelt down carefully beside the man. He slowly raised his hand and was about to place it on the victim’s arm compassionately when, in one swift motion, the stranger grabbed his wrist and pressed cold metal deep into his temple.
His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and Sherlock could see John wielding a gun in his direction. The doctor's hands were steady but his face wore an exasperated expression. He wasn't looking at Sherlock. He was looking at his captor.
“Sorry our reunion isn’t exactly ideal, but it could get pretty fabulous if you let it! How’ve you been, boys?” Sherlock cringed as Moriarty’s voice grated his nerves. “Don’t answer that. I don’t really care. Let’s just get down to business, shall we loves?”
“What is it you want this time?” Sherlock managed to ask as Moriarty backed him toward the wall, gunmetal indenting his skin.
“What do I want?” he mocked. “I believe the real question is -- what do you want, Sherlock Holmes?”
Sherlock voice was lost somewhere in his throat, but he cleared it and words came back to him, “I don’t know what you mean.” He knew exactly what Moriarty meant, and was baffled at how personal this attack was against him. How could Moriarty possibly have known about The Thoughts? His entire body tightened and stomach churned with anxiety. Had he a tiny Jim Moriarty parasite nestled in the deep crevices of his mind?
“Hm, well, I could always demonstrate for Johnny boy what exactly you’ve been wanting for, what, the past month or so? You know what, yes. I think I’ll do that. I do love acting. Ohh John, Ohh Jim!” he started in a mock-orgasmic kind of voice, “I want you two so badly, it hurts. It’s so wrong, but so right! I can’t contain myself. I need to fuck you both! Ooh, yes, blah blah blah!” he barked the last word with such viciousness and Sherlock jumped skittishly as explicit visions flooded into his mind.
The room was quiet for what felt like years to Sherlock until Jim's voice cut in--“Got nothing to say for once, I see!”
“You really need to get a hobby,” John said snidely. Moriarty seemed to have forgotten his presence for a moment as he regarded John curiously.
“Oh but I have a hobby, dear, and that’s playing with you two. I’ve been absolutely dying to play with you boys properly, as you know from that little present I gave that boy--Tom? Ryan? I don't remember his name. Tell me, Johnny. Has Sherlock ever propositioned you?”
“Oh for god’s sake…fuck off,” John spat, gripping his gun tighter.
“Oh ho, feisty. Daddy likes. Keep that up for later. You know why Sherlock likes you, Dr. Watson? He wants to fuck you hard in that tiny little hole of yours. That’s all he sees you as, anyway. A tiny fuckhole. Nothing else. He keeps you around and sees you as a piece of meat.”
“You’re on drugs. You must be high.”
“You’re not very attractive though. Your face is kind of like a rotten potato, but I supposed under that hideous clothing you’ve got a decent body. The army doesn’t muck around with that kind of stuff. I suppose Sherlock’s just settling for whatever he can get. I don’t blame him for throwing me in the mix.”
John’s voice sounded about three pitches higher, “Excuse me? You make it seem like Sherlock and I are already shagging. Which I’ll have you know, we are not.”
“Yet!” Moriarty said gleefully and thrust Sherlock into the grimy wall face first and raked a hand through his curls.
You, Me, and The Devil Makes Three [6/?]
anonymous
January 8 2011, 06:58:08 UTC
“Let go of him!” John yelled and Sherlock heard him shuffle closer.
“I didn’t want to go to the tapes, but so be it. It needs to be done.” He let go of Sherlock’s hair and with his free hand, he fished in his jacket pocket and pulled out a sleek mobile phone. He typed something with nimble fingers and a recording began, “…yes, oh god. Yes,” Sherlock’s voice rumbled through the speakers of the mobile. A very recognizable sound of hand to flesh played for several seconds. “Take him deeper, Jim. Jesus Christ, yes, John. Beautiful, oh god…fuck!” Sherlock’s voice cried as the recording ended.
Sherlock’s heart felt like it was going to tear through his chest and he dropped his head down in shame. He tasted bitter bile, but swallowed it down as he said, “How did you get that.” It was more a command than a question.
“Not important. I want to hear what Johnny has to say!” Moriarty’s voice was almost hysterical. He was obviously enjoying this scenario greatly.
John said, “You’re good, Moriarty. How’d you do it? Found someone with Sherlock’s voice? You go through so much effort to play with us. It’s sad, really.”
Moriarty guffawed brusquely. “Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt, darling. I’ll just have to prove it to you once and for all,” a pause as he shouted, “Boys!” Sherlock heard a stamping of feet, John’s muffled grunts, and the sound of a gun sliding across the floor.
“Very good. Take Johnny’s gun outside and lock the door behind you.” The stamping receded and the door slammed and clicked.
All Sherlock heard was John’s ragged breathing, which sounded so far away and so very pained.
“I’m going to kill you, you creep!” John said and then Sherlock heard him running in his direction.
“Not-uh! Down boy!” Jim cried as the gunmetal was taken off Sherlock’s head and presumably pointed at John, who instantly stopped. “Good boy. Now, let’s start this party, shall we?”
Jim spun Sherlock around, pushed him forward, and he bumped into John.
“Let me remind you both that I have two large blokes outside that door with AK-47s on hand. Here you go,” he threw two condoms at Sherlock and John but they just dropped to the floor.
“Strip!”
This is it, Sherlock thought. The Thoughts are going to come true. His aching desire was going to be fulfilled. But it was wrong. Why wasn't he putting up a fight? Why was he standing there like an idiot, positively ravenous with anticipation? Who was he? He didn't recognize himself. He had to have been possessed as he reached for his zip and-
“Sherlock what are you doing!” John cried. He still didn’t understand that Sherlock needed to do this. “You can’t really be going through with this.”
Sherlock didn't answer. He didn't dare waste his time answering.
There had been an overbearing itch that had to be scratched for an entire month and finally he would be able to sate it--he would be able to reach out and scratch the blasted itch.
Sherlock’s shoes were thrown at the wall, his shirt was unbuttoned and thrown to the ground and trousers were crumpled along with them. Moriarty was watching them patiently, smiling a crude smile. Sherlock was already aroused and everyone could see it. Dear god, he couldn’t wait to do this--
John stared at Sherlock’s bulge as if it was one of the marvels of the universe.
“The plot thickens,” Moriarty added. “Strip, Johnny, or I’ll shoot your leg and it will be a more painful fuck than it needs to be. Oh, I know. Sherlock, help him.”
Sherlock was naked except for his boxers and he turned toward John stoically. He pulled the jumper and undershirts off adeptly, and John let him. Down and off went the shoes and trousers.
Sherlock and John stood apart, bare chests heaving in anticipation. And they were very different feelings of anticipation. John anticipated with fear, while Sherlock anticipated with sheer concupiscence. John remained still as Sherlock rocked back and forth on his heels and watched Moriarty strip before them.
Moriarty walked up to John in cat-like steps and stopped when they were merely centimeters apart. “I’m only doing this for you, Sherlock. I would never do this on my own time.”
You, Me, and The Devil Makes Three [7/7]
anonymous
January 8 2011, 07:10:20 UTC
This turned out to be quite dark, so a warning: non-consensual sex Moriarty crushed his mouth onto John’s and reached a hand under the band of the doctor’s undergarment. John gave a noise of struggle, and Jim pulled the undergarment down completely exposing John to Sherlock. Sherlock stared in awe at the thin, elegant fingers around John’s large cock and felt warmer all of a sudden. He gulped. Moriarty was stroking John in rhythmic movements and John was, to his chagrin, hard. Sherlock had to bite his hand to stifle his moan.
Moriarty parted from John and flung him toward Sherlock. John simply stared at Sherlock with a pleading look in his eyes. John didn't want this, that much was clear, but Sherlock was going to change his mind.
Sherlock pulled John toward him hungrily and sucked on his neck until it bruised. John had remained still the entire time and hadn’t moved a muscle. Sherlock was grateful for his compliance. His mouth traveled down John’s body, lapping up the sweat that’d been secreted.
Sherlock licked John’s precum from his prick skillfully and gripped a hand on his firm arse. He didn’t dare look at John’s face. He couldn’t bear to see the disappointment.
“Aww, cute!” Moriarty cooed obnoxiously. “Why don’t you ever tell me I’m beautiful?” Moriarty skipped over and pulled John onto the floor with him harshly, leaving Sherlock kneeling without a cause. “I’m so glad you’re finally playing with me, Sherlock. John, arse up!"
John didn't budge. He sat upright, staring off into the distance. Who knows where his mind was. Sherlock only knew he was growing impatient.
"John," he barked hoarsely. "Do as he says."
"You really do want this, don't you, Sherlock? You're not even trying to stop it," he said grimly. Sherlock saw him tense up. "How can you make this okay for yourself? How?" The words hadn't touched Sherlock in the slightest. All he could think about was pounding hard and fast into John.
Moriarty grabbed the gun from his heap of clothes and pointed it at John's forehead. "Enough talking! I said arse up, bitch!"
John shook his head in disappointment after catching Sherlock's evil glare. He turned around, and positioned himself on all fours.
Sherlock lubed himself and pushed inside John hastily. And just like that, he had fully transformed into someone--something monstrous. He pounded hard, flesh slapping flesh and his nails dug into John's back. John was trying his best to remain upright on his arms, seeing as he was being jostled forward due to Sherlock's harsh thrusts.
"Jim looks lonely. Suck his cock, won't you?" Sherlock heard his voice growl. Jim's cock was obediently pushed quickly into John's mouth, and John gagged with disgust. That wasn't in Sherlock's fantasy. John didn't work his tongue along the shaft, he didn't take Moriarty deeper. He was whimpering. And he hadn't said "Fuck me harder, Sherlock," in that deliciously lustful tone that Sherlock had fantasized about. Something was not quite right.
He watched the scene before him and saw something that cause time to move slowly. A droplet of water rolled down John's cheek and splattered to the ground. He was crying. Sherlock suddenly realized what he was doing, where he was, and who he was with--the drop of water waking him up from some restless slumber. He had to stop this. He looked at Moriarty, who gave him a repulsive wink. He looked at the gun laying conspicuously on the floor near them. It was at an arm's length reach.
He lunged himself toward the gun, aimed it point-blank at Moriarty and pulled the trigger. Skin and blood were torn off his right cheek and splattered onto the wall behind him. He screamed bloody murder, and Sherlock fired a second time to silence him. The bullet tore through his brain. Moriarty slumped forward, lifeless.
Moments after he fired, there were a barrage of bullets outside and a resounding bang of two bodies falling against the outer door of 221c.
Sherlock turned his neck slowly to see how John was taking it all. He could tell John didn't recognize the man before him any longer. John's mouth twitched and, after staring at Sherlock for one final, tedious moment he looked toward the door.
The door flung open, and Lestrade was silhouetted in the blinding light.
Re: You, Me, and The Devil Makes Three [7/7]
anonymous
January 19 2011, 05:40:46 UTC
Will there be a sequel? Will John forgive Sherlock because Sherlock offed Moriarty? Or will he be too totally disgusted and take off, leaving only ANGST? Or will Sherlock merely regret having lost any more opportunities for his OT3?
Re: You, Me, and The Devil Makes Three [7/7]adhyra_19January 21 2011, 20:10:26 UTC
"Sherlock suddenly realized what he was doing, where he was, and who he was with--the drop of water waking him up"
Wow, I really, really liked this. Despite all the darkness and twisted edges of the story (which speak of your talent to paint this disturbing landscape) you gave Sherlock the chance to break the spell that had been consuming him and put an end to the nightmare, and you made it happen with exquisite timing. Kudos!
Sherlock heard John fumbling around for a light switch, but Sherlock knew that there wasn’t a working one. John soon gave up and allowed Sherlock to move cautiously toward the poor, shivering soul who had probably been maimed by Moriarty’s hand.
"Hello?" Sherlock asked curiously to the back of the motionless body.
"Please," the man's mousy voice squeaked.
Sherlock knelt down carefully beside the man. He slowly raised his hand and was about to place it on the victim’s arm compassionately when, in one swift motion, the stranger grabbed his wrist and pressed cold metal deep into his temple.
His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and Sherlock could see John wielding a gun in his direction. The doctor's hands were steady but his face wore an exasperated expression. He wasn't looking at Sherlock. He was looking at his captor.
“Sorry our reunion isn’t exactly ideal, but it could get pretty fabulous if you let it! How’ve you been, boys?” Sherlock cringed as Moriarty’s voice grated his nerves. “Don’t answer that. I don’t really care. Let’s just get down to business, shall we loves?”
“What is it you want this time?” Sherlock managed to ask as Moriarty backed him toward the wall, gunmetal indenting his skin.
“What do I want?” he mocked. “I believe the real question is -- what do you want, Sherlock Holmes?”
Sherlock voice was lost somewhere in his throat, but he cleared it and words came back to him, “I don’t know what you mean.” He knew exactly what Moriarty meant, and was baffled at how personal this attack was against him. How could Moriarty possibly have known about The Thoughts? His entire body tightened and stomach churned with anxiety. Had he a tiny Jim Moriarty parasite nestled in the deep crevices of his mind?
“Hm, well, I could always demonstrate for Johnny boy what exactly you’ve been wanting for, what, the past month or so? You know what, yes. I think I’ll do that. I do love acting. Ohh John, Ohh Jim!” he started in a mock-orgasmic kind of voice, “I want you two so badly, it hurts. It’s so wrong, but so right! I can’t contain myself. I need to fuck you both! Ooh, yes, blah blah blah!” he barked the last word with such viciousness and Sherlock jumped skittishly as explicit visions flooded into his mind.
The room was quiet for what felt like years to Sherlock until Jim's voice cut in--“Got nothing to say for once, I see!”
“You really need to get a hobby,” John said snidely. Moriarty seemed to have forgotten his presence for a moment as he regarded John curiously.
“Oh but I have a hobby, dear, and that’s playing with you two. I’ve been absolutely dying to play with you boys properly, as you know from that little present I gave that boy--Tom? Ryan? I don't remember his name. Tell me, Johnny. Has Sherlock ever propositioned you?”
“Oh for god’s sake…fuck off,” John spat, gripping his gun tighter.
“Oh ho, feisty. Daddy likes. Keep that up for later. You know why Sherlock likes you, Dr. Watson? He wants to fuck you hard in that tiny little hole of yours. That’s all he sees you as, anyway. A tiny fuckhole. Nothing else. He keeps you around and sees you as a piece of meat.”
“You’re on drugs. You must be high.”
“You’re not very attractive though. Your face is kind of like a rotten potato, but I supposed under that hideous clothing you’ve got a decent body. The army doesn’t muck around with that kind of stuff. I suppose Sherlock’s just settling for whatever he can get. I don’t blame him for throwing me in the mix.”
John’s voice sounded about three pitches higher, “Excuse me? You make it seem like Sherlock and I are already shagging. Which I’ll have you know, we are not.”
“Yet!” Moriarty said gleefully and thrust Sherlock into the grimy wall face first and raked a hand through his curls.
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“I didn’t want to go to the tapes, but so be it. It needs to be done.” He let go of Sherlock’s hair and with his free hand, he fished in his jacket pocket and pulled out a sleek mobile phone. He typed something with nimble fingers and a recording began, “…yes, oh god. Yes,” Sherlock’s voice rumbled through the speakers of the mobile. A very recognizable sound of hand to flesh played for several seconds. “Take him deeper, Jim. Jesus Christ, yes, John. Beautiful, oh god…fuck!” Sherlock’s voice cried as the recording ended.
Sherlock’s heart felt like it was going to tear through his chest and he dropped his head down in shame. He tasted bitter bile, but swallowed it down as he said, “How did you get that.” It was more a command than a question.
“Not important. I want to hear what Johnny has to say!” Moriarty’s voice was almost hysterical. He was obviously enjoying this scenario greatly.
John said, “You’re good, Moriarty. How’d you do it? Found someone with Sherlock’s voice? You go through so much effort to play with us. It’s sad, really.”
Moriarty guffawed brusquely. “Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt, darling. I’ll just have to prove it to you once and for all,” a pause as he shouted, “Boys!” Sherlock heard a stamping of feet, John’s muffled grunts, and the sound of a gun sliding across the floor.
“Very good. Take Johnny’s gun outside and lock the door behind you.” The stamping receded and the door slammed and clicked.
All Sherlock heard was John’s ragged breathing, which sounded so far away and so very pained.
“I’m going to kill you, you creep!” John said and then Sherlock heard him running in his direction.
“Not-uh! Down boy!” Jim cried as the gunmetal was taken off Sherlock’s head and presumably pointed at John, who instantly stopped. “Good boy. Now, let’s start this party, shall we?”
Jim spun Sherlock around, pushed him forward, and he bumped into John.
“Let me remind you both that I have two large blokes outside that door with AK-47s on hand. Here you go,” he threw two condoms at Sherlock and John but they just dropped to the floor.
“Strip!”
This is it, Sherlock thought. The Thoughts are going to come true. His aching desire was going to be fulfilled. But it was wrong. Why wasn't he putting up a fight? Why was he standing there like an idiot, positively ravenous with anticipation? Who was he? He didn't recognize himself. He had to have been possessed as he reached for his zip and-
“Sherlock what are you doing!” John cried. He still didn’t understand that Sherlock needed to do this. “You can’t really be going through with this.”
Sherlock didn't answer. He didn't dare waste his time answering.
There had been an overbearing itch that had to be scratched for an entire month and finally he would be able to sate it--he would be able to reach out and scratch the blasted itch.
Sherlock’s shoes were thrown at the wall, his shirt was unbuttoned and thrown to the ground and trousers were crumpled along with them. Moriarty was watching them patiently, smiling a crude smile. Sherlock was already aroused and everyone could see it. Dear god, he couldn’t wait to do this--
John stared at Sherlock’s bulge as if it was one of the marvels of the universe.
“The plot thickens,” Moriarty added. “Strip, Johnny, or I’ll shoot your leg and it will be a more painful fuck than it needs to be. Oh, I know. Sherlock, help him.”
Sherlock was naked except for his boxers and he turned toward John stoically. He pulled the jumper and undershirts off adeptly, and John let him. Down and off went the shoes and trousers.
Sherlock and John stood apart, bare chests heaving in anticipation. And they were very different feelings of anticipation. John anticipated with fear, while Sherlock anticipated with sheer concupiscence. John remained still as Sherlock rocked back and forth on his heels and watched Moriarty strip before them.
Moriarty walked up to John in cat-like steps and stopped when they were merely centimeters apart. “I’m only doing this for you, Sherlock. I would never do this on my own time.”
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Moriarty crushed his mouth onto John’s and reached a hand under the band of the doctor’s undergarment. John gave a noise of struggle, and Jim pulled the undergarment down completely exposing John to Sherlock. Sherlock stared in awe at the thin, elegant fingers around John’s large cock and felt warmer all of a sudden. He gulped. Moriarty was stroking John in rhythmic movements and John was, to his chagrin, hard. Sherlock had to bite his hand to stifle his moan.
Moriarty parted from John and flung him toward Sherlock. John simply stared at Sherlock with a pleading look in his eyes. John didn't want this, that much was clear, but Sherlock was going to change his mind.
Sherlock pulled John toward him hungrily and sucked on his neck until it bruised. John had remained still the entire time and hadn’t moved a muscle. Sherlock was grateful for his compliance. His mouth traveled down John’s body, lapping up the sweat that’d been secreted.
Sherlock licked John’s precum from his prick skillfully and gripped a hand on his firm arse. He didn’t dare look at John’s face. He couldn’t bear to see the disappointment.
“Aww, cute!” Moriarty cooed obnoxiously. “Why don’t you ever tell me I’m beautiful?” Moriarty skipped over and pulled John onto the floor with him harshly, leaving Sherlock kneeling without a cause. “I’m so glad you’re finally playing with me, Sherlock. John, arse up!"
John didn't budge. He sat upright, staring off into the distance. Who knows where his mind was. Sherlock only knew he was growing impatient.
"John," he barked hoarsely. "Do as he says."
"You really do want this, don't you, Sherlock? You're not even trying to stop it," he said grimly. Sherlock saw him tense up. "How can you make this okay for yourself? How?" The words hadn't touched Sherlock in the slightest. All he could think about was pounding hard and fast into John.
Moriarty grabbed the gun from his heap of clothes and pointed it at John's forehead. "Enough talking! I said arse up, bitch!"
John shook his head in disappointment after catching Sherlock's evil glare. He turned around, and positioned himself on all fours.
Sherlock lubed himself and pushed inside John hastily. And just like that, he had fully transformed into someone--something monstrous. He pounded hard, flesh slapping flesh and his nails dug into John's back. John was trying his best to remain upright on his arms, seeing as he was being jostled forward due to Sherlock's harsh thrusts.
"Jim looks lonely. Suck his cock, won't you?" Sherlock heard his voice growl. Jim's cock was obediently pushed quickly into John's mouth, and John gagged with disgust. That wasn't in Sherlock's fantasy. John didn't work his tongue along the shaft, he didn't take Moriarty deeper. He was whimpering. And he hadn't said "Fuck me harder, Sherlock," in that deliciously lustful tone that Sherlock had fantasized about. Something was not quite right.
He watched the scene before him and saw something that cause time to move slowly. A droplet of water rolled down John's cheek and splattered to the ground. He was crying. Sherlock suddenly realized what he was doing, where he was, and who he was with--the drop of water waking him up from some restless slumber. He had to stop this. He looked at Moriarty, who gave him a repulsive wink. He looked at the gun laying conspicuously on the floor near them. It was at an arm's length reach.
He lunged himself toward the gun, aimed it point-blank at Moriarty and pulled the trigger. Skin and blood were torn off his right cheek and splattered onto the wall behind him. He screamed bloody murder, and Sherlock fired a second time to silence him. The bullet tore through his brain. Moriarty slumped forward, lifeless.
Moments after he fired, there were a barrage of bullets outside and a resounding bang of two bodies falling against the outer door of 221c.
Sherlock turned his neck slowly to see how John was taking it all. He could tell John didn't recognize the man before him any longer. John's mouth twitched and, after staring at Sherlock for one final, tedious moment he looked toward the door.
The door flung open, and Lestrade was silhouetted in the blinding light.
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I'll have to mull over different scenarios, and get back to you on that!
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Wow, I really, really liked this. Despite all the darkness and twisted edges of the story (which speak of your talent to paint this disturbing landscape) you gave Sherlock the chance to break the spell that had been consuming him and put an end to the nightmare, and you made it happen with exquisite timing. Kudos!
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