Overflow Post II
This post is for responding to prompts from prompt posts that are full, or continuing WIPs that were started on prompt posts that have since filled up or are close to full.
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He’s tied, bound to Sherlock, naked on a bed. The room is unfamiliar. The situation is very unfamiliar.
Ropes bind their wrists together, wrap around their forearms, and disappear under another wrapping just above their elbows. Another length of rope, woven into the bindings on their wrists, leads out and loops around the upper bedposts. The length is too taut for him to bring their hands together. Then it’s nothing but sheets and flesh until his ankles, wrapped tight but not immovable, attached to another length.
He twists to see. It’s impossible to move without jostling Sherlock, but the other man’s breathing is steady and he’s in no worse condition than John. John rolls them from their sides until he’s half on top of Sherlock, then turns his head to catch a glimpse of their feet.
They’re tied together there too, ankles wrapped individually and attached to lengths of rope that loop over tall bedposts before attaching to identical wrappings on the other’s foot. If he pulls his right leg back far enough the length will go taut and pull at Sherlock’s left ankle. If John moves his left leg Sherlock’s right is constricted. Still, the length is long enough that he can move. He could probably kneel over Sherlock without causing either of them discomfort.
Well, discomfort apart from the whole nude and bound together issue. Sherlock will probably be able to improve their situation when he wakes up.
John does his best to keep their bits from touching. It’s a stupid thing to be worried about, but he feels like it’s important to be able to answer in the negative when women ask if he’s ever touched his flatmate’s dick. One day it may make one of them stay, rather than storming off, or so he is eternally hopeful.
He huffs with something like amusement. They are naked on a bed. Something bad is going to happen. But they’ve been tied to chairs and had guns pointed at them and been locked in burning houses and been trapped in flooding sewers, so they have a pretty good record when it comes to avoiding the something bad that is ‘going to happen.’
He pulls his feet together. Because of their position, chests necessarily pressed together, hips only slightly touching, this pulls the rope enough to drag Sherlock’s leg toward the edge of the bed. John rubs the toes of one foot along the ropes binding his other ankle. He’s not practised in undoing knots without his hands; maybe he’ll discover a talent.
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John looks up in time to catch the shock in Sherlock’s face as he realises their condition. His initial momentum has rolled them back to their sides, so it’s far from comfortable when Sherlock rolls back to his back while shoving his arm forward to examine their bonds. John tries not to wince as the movement jerks his shoulder.
It’s a wasted effort. Sherlock’s too busy staring at his forearm as though he’s never seen rope before to bother attending to John.
“Not an option,” he responds.
“I’m naked. Why am I naked?” Sherlock looks at him as though he actually has an answer.
“Because someone undressed us,” is all he can give.
“Obviously,” Sherlock says, then jerks his legs together.
John doesn’t try to muffle his noise of protest as the rope pulls at him, jerking his own legs open and over Sherlock’s. He unthinkingly shifts his body farther across Sherlock’s and yes, that is definitely a penis touching his hip, so there’s really nothing for it, he starts to laugh. It’s the best reaction.
“Stop that!” Sherlock demands, tilting his hips away from John’s before testing the reach of their bonds and bringing one set of their wrapped arms up to his mouth.
John manages a moment of silence before the feeling of his friend’s lips against his skin as he tries to bite through the ropes sets him off again. It is funny, even if he doesn’t know why. And it tickles.
He considers mentioning that he had been trying to work on getting their ankles free, but no, no progress had been made on that.
“Do you have any idea where we are?” he asks once his giggles have worn off.
“London,” Sherlock says blankly, looking up from their wrists for a moment.
“Oh.”
If Sherlock can’t be more specific than that it’s ... well, it’s not good. Then again, he is a bit distracted.
With a particularly vicious jerk of his wrist as the rope slides out from between his teeth, Sherlock snaps, “You’re pulling it too tight. Come closer.”
“This is as close as we can -” he’s cut off by Sherlock pulling their bound arms up and to the side. John whines as the movement stretches his shoulder hard enough to move his whole body.
“We don’t have time for this. Climb over me.”
John takes a deep breath, rolls his shoulder, embraces the futility of attempting to maintain dignity around Sherlock, and moves to straddle him.
It’s not the most awkward moment of his life, but close enough to. He takes a small victory in the flash of discomfort as the movement of his ankles force Sherlock’s apart.
He tries to keep his hips as far away from the other man’s body as possible, but the position forces his weight onto their bound forearms, and while he can lean one side onto the bed, the other can’t just smash into Sherlock’s face. So he bites the bullet, moves farther up the bed until he’s pulled Sherlock’s legs obscenely wide, and sits on Sherlock’s stomach. He knows his weight has to be painful, the immediate exhalation and the crease that forms between Sherlock’s eyes only make him feel more guilty about it.
“Hurry up then,” he says, putting as much weight as he can on the arm that presses Sherlock’s to the bed and pushing the other one at Sherlock’s mouth.
He doesn’t know what else to do, so he watches Sherlock’s face as he works, a growing wetness seeping through the ropes. He doesn’t like the increasing look of discomfort in his friend’s eyes.
Then the arm pressed against the bed under his spasms and tries to flex. Sherlock’s fist uncurls and his fingers prod at John’s until he opens his fist too and lets Sherlock’s fingers slip between his own. It does lessen some of the pressure, but Jesus, they’re clasping hands and this is definitely not a position that he ever wants to be caught in. He lets out a quick chuckle, but stops as Sherlock’s lips slip off the rope and into a frown.
“We can never tell anyone about this.” John hopes Sherlock will find humour as relieving as he does.
Sherlock doesn’t say anything before digging his teeth into the ropes again, but his eyes convey the “Obviously,” well enough.
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“Starting without me?” The voice is chillingly familiar and, John can admit to himself, not entirely unexpected. “I’m hurt.”
“You,” Sherlock’s voice vibrates through him.
“Me. In the flesh.”
John can hear movement behind him, footsteps approaching. He twists to see over his shoulder.
It’s Moriarty, looking as capriciously composed as he’d seen him last.
“And you,” Moriarty’s voice is threaded with amusement as he walks to the side of the bed, “in the nude.”
John can see the man reaching for him, but that doesn’t prevent his jump as Moriarty makes contact, hand warm on his hip. It’s not simply a touch; it’s a caress, moving up his side before withdrawing.
“No,” Sherlock says clearly, and John seems to have lost track of the conversation.
“You didn’t stop when I said ‘no.’ You didn’t back off.”
“You can’t be serious,” Sherlock sounds genuinely betrayed, “You’re better than this. This is simple!”
“Wrong!” The sing-song tone accompanies a finger moving up John’s back, over to his shoulder to touch raised flesh.
John closes his eyes and breathes deep. This has gone badly. He’d take the bomb-jacket right about now. He may not be catching all of the conversation, but he’s not naive enough to miss the topic.
He moves away from the touch, pressing down against Sherlock, moving his wet wrist aside. He feels stupid for the obviously futile attempt at escape, but the reaction is instinctive.
Then the nails dig into his skin.
He yelps, muffling the end of the noise against Sherlock’s hairline.
“Stop!” This close he can feel Sherlock speak before he hears it.
“Mmm, no.” Moriarty removes his hand. “We’re just starting.”
Then he’s moving, passing out of John’s sight to stand at the foot of the bed.
The mattress dips, and John feels Sherlock stiffen. The rope tugs at him as Sherlock jerks his leg.
“You don’t want me to touch you?”
The rope jerks again, hard enough to pull John off balance.
There’s a huff from behind him, and then John feels hands moving on his legs, up his calves. He tightens his body, shifting back, a habit learned from too many childhood tickle-fights wherein concealing the back of his knees had been a priority.
He winces, it’s not Sherlock’s stomach he’s sitting on now. He shifts forward again. The gasp he makes when Moriarty’s fingers find their way into the backs of his knees could be mistaken for terror. Judging by the fact that Moriarty moves on, it probably is.
He looks to Sherlock’s face, sees the man glaring over his shoulder, and takes comfort in the fact that his expression is one of rage, not of fear. He hates being touched like this, but he can take it; they can get out of this.
The hands stop on his hips. The man behind him speaks, “Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, I’ve been thinking about what I could do to you.”
The mattress dips further. John can hear the sheets rustling as Sherlock tenses beneath him.
“There are so many things I want to do to you.” The hands drop from his hips as Moriarty presses up against his back, clothes heavy against John’s skin as Moriarty’s arms encircle him so he can run his hands over Sherlock’s sides. “I would enjoy every single one of them.”
John presses harder against Sherlock as Moriarty presses against him, crawls up over him, legs heavy on John’s own, leans over his shoulder, and says, “I would even make you enjoy some of them.”
Moriarty presses his jaw against John’s cheek. John doesn’t move this time. He keeps his gaze on Sherlock’s face, determined not to flinch from Moriarty again. Sherlock’s lip is curling, the skin around his eyes tight with the force of his glare.
Moriarty fits his hands between their bodies, weight heavy on John’s back and palms spread on Sherlock’s chest. “But I’m not going to do that. Not tonight.”
He pulls back, but John doesn’t feel comforted; Sherlock shows no signs of relief.
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“Let John go,” Sherlock’s voice is tight, “and I’ll let you do whatever you want to me.”
John wants to protest. Sherlock, for all his intelligence, regularly has spectacularly stupid ideas, but trying to get himself left alone like this with Moriarty may be the stupidest one yet. He can’t find his voice.
“I appreciate your willingness to prostitute yourself, but that’s not about to happen.”
Sherlock inhales, chest expanding enough that John can feel it pushing him back. “If you take this from me, I’ll never give it to you. Wouldn’t you prefer that?” His tone changes with the addition of a thread of interest that almost makes John’s wince at its obvious falseness. “You’ve been so interesting. Don’t disappoint me now.” Sherlock must catch the insincerity, because it’s gone when he adds, “please.”
“Who’s being simple now? I’m not taking anything you can give me.”
The pressure on his back returns and the hands slip between their bodies again, palms facing his own chest rather than Sherlock’s.
“I know you have him running after you like a slave, but he still has the free will to consent, doesn’t he?” Moriarty turns his face close, breath warm against John’s ear. “Or not?”
John can only blink and look down at Sherlock’s parted lips and wide eyes. Sherlock looks almost as shocked as John feels. John had been trying to prepare himself for what could - what probably would - happen, but he hadn’t expected to be Moriarty’s focus.
He tries to tell himself that this is better. That this means Moriarty will at least not... do anything to Sherlock. That he knows he’s able to deal with trauma, to push on, and it’s best like this because he’s not sure Sherlock is as skilled at coping as he is.
It’s not fair. John’s not the one who’s been taunting Moriarty. And for all he knows, Sherlock doesn’t even care about sex, maybe wouldn’t even be affected by it while he will be -
No. It’s fine. It’s better like this. He can convince himself of that; he needs to. Besides, Moriarty’s words implied that Sherlock wouldn’t need to consent to anything, wouldn’t be touched. John can embrace that. It means, at least, that they won’t be forced to touch, to hurt, each other. He can deal with anything else, he can.
“No!” Sherlock snarls from beneath him, trying to rise up, “This is between you and me. Leave him out of it.”
“Ooh,” Moriarty coos, lips brushing John’s ear, “You poor thing. He doesn’t think you’re a part of this.” Moriarty leans back. “He doesn’t appreciate you.” His tone is lyrical as he runs two fingers up John’s spine, “Don’t worry. I think you matter.”
John grits his teeth, slows his breathing, stares down at Sherlock and gives a short, light squeeze to their clasped hands. He can’t panic; that would do no one any good.
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John can feel Sherlock’s breath quicken under him.
“He keeps trotting after you despite you being,” Moriarty chuckles, “you. What inspires that sort of devotion?” He releases John’s head. “Which precise personality disorder?”
“Stop it.” There’s something delicate John’s never heard in Sherlock’s voice before. “Touch me instead. I’ll pretend to like it-”
“Shut up Sherlock!” John infuses his tone with military command.
“Oh you tell him!” Laughter’s laced through Moriarty’s words. “What makes you think I’d want you to pretend to like it?” The fingers are back now, probing at his scar. “Sometimes you don’t understand me at all.”
John may be about to be forcibly sodomised, but he doesn’t want to be cowed by it. “How disappointing for you.”
“It is.” Moriarty’s fingers don’t stop idly caressing John’s scar as he talks over his shoulder at Sherlock, “You could have prevented this. I want you to know that. Remember it.”
“What if I don’t pretend to like it? If I cry for you?”
“Shut up!” John repeats, clasping his other hand and shifting their forearms on the bed to take more of his weight.
“What if, what if, what if? What if you’d done a better job of hunting me down? What if you’d shot me when you had a chance? What if it hadn’t been his arse I saw spread when I entered the room? It doesn’t matter. What’s happened has happened, and this is going to happen.” Moriarty rolls his other hand over the curve of John’s arse. “You could have prevented this. You can’t.”
“Do you remember when we met?” Moriarty huffs, “The first time you noticed me,” his voice drops, “or didn’t.”
“In the lab, with the Clostridium botulinum.”
“Mmm, yes. You weren’t observant enough to notice. Johnny here said it was a pleasure. You called me gay and made my girlfriend run off in tears. Not nice. Not polite.”
“I can be polite!” Sherlock’s voice has a sincere current of desperation, but even without knowing him as well as he does, John would be able to identify the enhanced dramatics. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I can be polite, please.”
“Oh?”
“Sherlock, don’t bother.” John knows how this is going to end. He doesn’t need this as a precursor.
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“I know I can darling, I know,” Moriarty sighs, “and here I thought I would have to teach you manners.”
Sherlock is only making it worse - will only continue to make it worse. He’s trying to cope with what’s about to happen; he can’t think about what could happen to Sherlock instead. He doesn’t want to deal with that many horrible possibilities. He doesn’t want to think of Sherlock writhing and crying while attached to him. He doesn’t want to imagine that maybe Sherlock could take it better, would prefer to be fucked than to watch it happen to John. He has to believe that this happening to him is for the best if he wants to get through it. He can’t bear the other option, and he can not bear the possibility that he really is a weakness, that his pain could be used to hurt Sherlock more than his own.
John presses his knees inward as far as they’ll go. It’s not far, considering his position and restraints, and the weight of Moriarty on top of him, but it’s a pressure against Sherlock’s waist, another point of intentional contact, another place he can squeeze to say “Shut the hell up you mad bastard.”
Sherlock stills under him and breathes deep.
“But someone’s done a good job of that,” Moriarty is speaking to him now, “Was it you?”
Moriarty’s moving his hands over John’s arse, circling closer to the part of him that John wants Moriarty to touch least. “Wriggling your arse to keep my attention. That’s so nice of you. So kind,” Moriarty spits the word like an expletive, “But then not particularly surprising. You’ve already shown you’d give your life for him. What’s your dignity after that?”
“Stop it.” Sherlock’s voice is high. “If you let him go I won’t come after you.”
“Or I will,” he startles. “I will if you’re bored, if that’s what you want.” He lowers his voice, speaks as if trying to seduce, “I’ll come after you alone. I’ll -”
“Not polite. Blatant lies are not polite.” Moriarty pinches his flank and John’s body instinctually moves away, hips pressing down against Sherlock, legs spreading and unbalancing Moriarty.
“I’m not -”
“You are.”
“You had damn well better be.”
Sherlock looks up at him. “John, I’m sorry -”
“Don’t!” He doesn’t care how Sherlock’s apology ends, what exactly he’s sorry for. Whatever it is, it’s not enough, and it it’s everything then it includes things he shouldn’t be apologising for.
Moriarty giggles from behind him. “Don’t be angry darling. He’s doing his best.” Then Moriarty takes his hands away from John completely.
“Believe me darling, I really do hate getting my hands dirty, but this needs to happen, and it has to be personal. I would say sorry but,” there’s a short, hissing inhalation, “I’m really not.”
John can hear the rustle of clothing, the sound of fabric loud over his controlled breathing and Sherlock’s deep but uneven breathing.
Then there’s a hand at the base of his back, pressing him down even harder as Moriarty leans over them and dangles an empty latex glove in front of Sherlock’s face.
“You can suck on the index and pointer fingers. Get them wet.”
Sherlock doesn’t move.
“This is a limited time offer.” Moriarty jerks the glove away as John leans toward it. “Only you Sherlock. It won’t make it much easier, but will you deny him this much?”
John watches Sherlock’s tongue flick out to guide the latex into his mouth as Moriarty brings it closer again. Sherlock’s gaze flicks to his own, then away. John can see the humiliation and shame mixed in with the apology. He can’t really sympathise, considering what he knows he’s about to be put through.
Moriarty yanks the glove away fast enough that John can feel a spot of spittle land on his shoulder as the glove whips past. John keeps his attention focussed on Sherlock’s slick lips as he listens to Moriarty pull the glove on behind him.
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He turns his gaze to the sheets, but they’re a poor distraction from the feeling of the slick finger against his anus. Temporarily slick finger - he knows how quickly saliva dries.
He looks back to Sherlock, catching his gaze as the man speaks.
“I am going to kill you,” Sherlock tells Moriarty, and John does find something comforting in his voice and his eyes. “If you don’t kill us right now, I’m going to hunt you down and I am going to destroy you.”
“Yes,” Moriarty hisses, and John’s gritted teeth don’t stop the pained grunt that forces its way out of his throat as Moriarty thrusts a finger inside him.
They are as close as they possibly can be. He can feel the press of his best friend’s pubes as a psychopath digitally violates him.
It could be worse.
He breathes, chest not completely crushed against Sherlock, still able to support himself well enough on their arms that they can look at each other.
“It’s okay,” Sherlock tells him, tone completely changed, “I’ll make it okay, I’ll find a way.”
John understands what Moriarty meant about blatant lies. They really do make things worse.
“He won’t,” John hears from behind him.
“Don’t. Don’t.” He’s talking to either of them, he’s talking to both of them.
“He won’t get away with this.”
“You’re so tense.” Moriarty runs his hand over John’s back. “Relax, it’ll hurt less.”
“I - John, - he’s - you -” Sherlock starts and starts and starts.
John takes the weight off his arms, giving Sherlock enough warning to turn his face before fully collapsing on top of him.
“Oh, you are accommodating aren’t you? Good man.”
“Shut up!” he snarls.
“Rude.”
“Fuck you.”
“Rude,” Moriarty is almost laughing as he pulls his finger out.
Then there’s a second against him. They massage for a moment before Moriarty pushes them in.
John grits his teeth and relaxes the rest of his body willfully. He can do this. He knows the muscles, he can name them. He can relax them.
He can pretend to be anywhere else, to be doing anything else.
He can relax, can let his mind float away from his body, and just be somewhere, someone else until this is over.
He can feel Sherlock clasping his hands, can hear Sherlock start to whisper, “It’s okay, it’s okay.”
“It’s not,” he hears himself say as Moriarty’s fingers move inside him, “It’s really, really not.”
Sherlock falls silent and clasps at his hands steadily. The pressure is painful. It’s the most soothing thing he’s felt since he’s woken up here.
He wonders, as Moriarty pulls his fingers out of him, about the sanitary aspects of what’s about to happen. He knows how covered in bacteria the fingers of that glove are now, even if nothing’s visible. He hasn’t been cleaned, certainly. He would know. He hopes there’s nothing there - that there won’t be anything anywhere - because that - of all things, for some reason that - would be humiliating.
But there doesn’t seem to be a problem. He can hear Moriarty slipping the glove off and dropping it on the sheets. Then he can hear the lowering of flies and the crinkle of a packet and he tenses right up again.
“Don’t worry,” Moriarty says, “It’s slicked.”
There’s more movement behind him, and Moriarty’s hands on his hips, pulling him up. Moriarty leans over him again, fully dressed, jacket and shirt falling forward against John’s naked back. Even his legs are still covered; it makes John feel all the more naked.
“I’ll be gentle,” Moriarty says, and then John can feel it. He can feel the other man’s erection touching him.
He doesn’t know if he moans or - god forbid - whimpers, or if Sherlock can just see his face again now that Moriarty has pulled him up and back. Whatever he’s done, Sherlock responds, shushing him as though he were soothing a baby.
“John, John, look at me,” Sherlock says as the tip of Moriarty’s cock moves to press against his opening.
“He’s not going to get away with this,” Sherlock tells him when John meets his steady gaze, “I am going to hunt him down,” the pressure of his hands increases further, momentarily, “If - we are going to find him. Destroy him.”
“Yes,” Moriarty moans behind him, and pushes in.
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It’s horrifying. It’s painful on multiple levels, and humiliating, and emasculating, but it’s not dry and he’s tried to relax and he’s sure he can survive, so it doesn’t hurt like being shot.
It hurts in an entirely different way. And maybe the repercussions are going to be, he doesn’t know, he just doesn’t know. But on a physical, 1-10 pain scale, he has been through worse. He can deal with this.
His body is collapsing. His arse is being pushed inward. But that’s just physical sensation. He knows how this works. People do it all over the world, even if it should be wanted - less tense, more slicked. It’s nothing extraordinary. His body can deal with it. He can deal with it.
Moriarty pulls almost all the way out before pushing in again, deeper. He can deal with this. He can cope. He can deal with being rocked by a rapist’s thrusts over his best friend’s body - while his best friend looks up at him with wide, watchful eyes - because what other choice does he have.
He cannot deal. He can’t. He can’t cope with this. It’s nothing he ever wanted, nothing he expected. It’s nothing he’s prepared for. Because bad things have happened, bad things have happened to him, but they’ve been -
Sherlock is chanting his name again. John locks eyes with him again, seeing him rather than staring through him.
“Keep -” there’s a hesitation in his speech, as though now that he has John’s attention, Sherlock doesn’t know what to do with it. “Keep moving with it John. Don’t fight it. It’ll be over before you know.”
“It won’t.” Moriarty’s voice pours over his shoulder.
“He’s thinking,” Moriarty leans hard against his back as he speaks, continually moving inside him, “that if he were inside you,” Moriarty interrupts himself by placing the mockery of a tender kiss on John’s shoulder, above his scar, “it would be almost over.”
Moriarty pulls back again. John loses Sherlock’s gaze, watches Sherlock’s eyes flick over his shoulder to Moriarty.
“I don’t have that problem.”
Struggling won’t get him anywhere and might hurt Sherlock. So he doesn’t. There’s nothing he can say that won’t make this worse, so he lowers his head, stares at a bit of sheet off to the side, bites his lip, and tries to stay relaxed. He can suffer this, wait for it to be over. Sherlock is right, really, unless Moriarty has taken something it can’t go on for too long.
He counts the seconds in his head. Twenty-eight adds up to an eternity as Moriarty moves inside him and Sherlock wriggles under him, occasionally saying his name.
It’s at a particularly sharp “John!” from Sherlock that he looks back up at him.
He catches a quick flash of relief when he meets Sherlock’s eyes again.
“Name the muscles in the hand,” Sherlock commands, and John complies without thinking. It’s good. It’s helpful to focus on hands, to focus on the pressure on his hands, rather than on the movement behind him and the burning stretch and push and pull.
“Abductor digiti minimi,” he starts, and falls into a rhythm, whispering names like secrets, “flexor digiti minimi, palmaris brevis, opponens pollicis, adductor pollicis.”
It works. He doesn’t forget, but he relaxes. His body shifts to reduce strain.
And then he loses his train of thought as Moriarty starts pulling out and pushing back in harshly, quickly.
He loses his balance, his weaker leg sliding on the sheets as Moriarty pounds into him. He slips, and there’s a pained grunt from Sherlock as John crashes into him.
Moriarty slips out, but all he does before resheathing himself is push John’s other leg out from under him so his weight rests almost completely on Sherlock.
The position is more painful, and not just for him.
He is crushed nose to jaw against Sherlock. He can feel every one of Sherlock’s shallow breaths through his torso. He can feel both of their bodies panic against the pressing weight. From above him Moriarty presses down, intentionally, and John finds himself crushed into Sherlock’s sharp angles and surely crushing him.
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John breathes against his friend’s throat. Everything is sharp and clear and tense and painful. And he is going to kill Moriarty, he really is. He struggles against Moriarty’s weight, tries to push himself up so that he can at least breathe properly, so that Sherlock can breathe properly.
He can tell that he’s hurting Sherlock with his movement, but he needs to, he really does need to. He needs to breathe, he needs to gasp in air. He needs to move, to get away, just a little, just a bit. The pained grunts through gritted teeth don’t stop him. But then he tries pulling up not just his chest, but his full body. There’s a choked off gasp from beneath him, and it doesn’t just make him stop, it makes Moriarty stop.
Moriarty stops, and John can’t breathe. It’s not just from the pressure of him. It’s from anticipation, from fear.
Moriarty is listening to Sherlock. He’s paying attention to Sherlock. John doesn’t know what Moriarty intends to do next, but he can’t let it centre on Sherlock. He has already suffered too much to let Moriarty’s focus shift.
He shifts again, in part because the full stretch of Moriarty inside him is no better stationary than moving.
Moriarty laughs, the chuckle pounding through John, then shifts, moving his arm from John’s back to the bed. He pulls most of the way out and starts up again with swift, shallow thrusts that rock all three of them together.
John can feel the muscles along Sherlock’s body clench before Moriarty even starts speaking again.
“You sound exactly like I’d imagined.”
John’s gut clenches. He hadn’t thought he could feel more ill, but the thought of Moriarty imagining, fantasising about this makes him want to vomit.
He pushes himself up far enough to see Sherlock’s face. The bare hatred there is striking.
Sherlock’s eyes flick to his, and his face softens. He tightens his hands again.
John tries to shift again, pulling his body down along Sherlock’s because Moriarty’s thrusts keep pushing him ever so slightly up it.
He succeeds, but his movement draws another sound out of Sherlock, a choked off gasp.
Sherlock stares at him and then, face red, looks away.
John’s movement has made it so that Moriarty’s thrusts are just as short and swift as before, but deeper. It is, strangely, slightly less painful.
They will get through this, he thinks, focussing on the sensation of Sherlock’s hands clasped tightly on his own. Moriarty’s rhythm moves through him, unchanged, for what feels like forever, but with every thrust, he knows, it can’t be much longer.
Then he feels it.
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He can’t ignore it now.
Sherlock isn’t hard, but he isn’t flaccid either. He is growing as Moriarty’s rhythm moves their bodies together.
John doesn’t care. He doesn’t care. It’s stimulation, it’s natural. Maybe John would be having a similar reaction if his own discomfort weren’t so great. If his own distress weren’t so -
Sherlock catches his eye. John knows he knows John knows.
“It’s not -” Sherlock starts, but John just shakes his head at him once.
Maybe he shouldn’t begrudge it. Maybe this is part of Moriarty’s plan. Maybe this is Sherlock’s thing, the ropes and the helplessness and the humiliation. Maybe he can’t help it. Surely he can’t help it.
But still, the betrayal of it floods him.
“Please, John, look at me please,” Sherlock begs, voice tight, and John does because what good does resisting do? What good does any of it do?
“This isn’t - I don’t - I’m not getting off on this.” Sherlock’s voice is pleading. “I swear.”
There’s hard evidence to the contrary pressing against him.
“I’m sorry, but it’s not - you have to listen to me John -” He squeezes his hands tight again. “It’s the transport. It’s not me. It’s a physical reaction and I can’t control it and please -”
“Shut up!” John says, “Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up!” and his tantrum does do some good because Sherlock - miracle of miracles - shuts up.
“No, don’t.” Moriarty’s breath is hot against his back. “Tell us. Tell us you can’t control it. Tell us,” he slows on the slide in, “what you’re going to do to me the second you have the chance.”
Sherlock shuts his eyes, and swallows, and when he opens them again he ignores Moriarty to stare up at John.
“It will,” he hesitates for a brief moment, “decrease when the pressure does. It changes nothing. You are going to get through this. I promise. We will get through this and nothing needs to change -”
“But it will,” Moriarty interrupts him, “He’s felt it now.” John can hear the smile in Moriarty’s voice as he repeats the word with emphasis, “Now, and he’ll always remember it.” Moriarty presses another quick kiss to the skin surrounding his scar, and that’s just as violating as the rest of it. “The feeling of your cock,” he draws the word out, “pressing into him while he was being raped. Look at his face,” Moriarty commands, and John’s not sure who he’s talking to, but he clearly gains nothing from being contrary so he holds Sherlock’s gaze, “Remember this.”
There are tears, actual tears, in Sherlock’s eyes. They sort of do actually make John feel better about it. He can’t associate crying with willing arousal.
“I will.” Moriarty presses the side of his face against John’s back as he speaks. “Fondly.”
And then Moriarty’s thrusts grow erratic and he pushes deeper. His body goes stiff and heavy for several seconds before he lets out a long breath and pulls out.
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“Almost done,” he coos against the shell of John’s ear, “Now give us a kiss.”
John just wants it to be over with. So he doesn’t resist, he doesn’t give one last futile show of strength, he turns his head as far as he can toward Moriarty.
Moriarty leans forward, stubble brushing against his cheek, and then -
- and then John is brought back into himself as Sherlock rises up and snaps in front of his face. He can feel the air from the movement and hear Moriarty’s soft gasp as Sherlock and Moriarty’s breaths mingle, Sherlock straining forward and Moriarty pulling back.
“A bit late for shows of possessive aggression Sherlock,” Moriarty says as Sherlock collapses back against the bed, teeth still bared.
“You’re done. It’s over. Now stop,” Sherlock grits out.
John doesn’t protest the feeling of Moriarty pulling his limbs in, drawing their bodies even closer.
“It’s almost over. When it is I’ll toss you a knife and leave while you try to sort yourselves out. But Sherlock, if you’re going to be difficult, I’ll take that knife,” John thinks he can hear the twist of desire in Moriarty’s voice, “and I’ll penetrate your friend again.”
Sherlock snarls, opens his mouth, then clicks his teeth together as he shuts it.
“Smart boy,” Moriarty says, and leans forward again.
If Sherlock isn’t going to resist, then he isn’t going to resist. It’s so close to over, he just has to keep from resisting.
Moriarty’s lips meet his, and the angle is off, because he really can’t twist his head too far, but apparently it’s good enough because after several seconds Moriarty pulls back with what sounds like a contented little moan.
John looks back down to see Sherlock glaring up, over his shoulder and undoubtedly at Moriarty. He wonders if Sherlock watched the kiss. For whatever reason, he sort of hopes Sherlock had closed his eyes.
Moriarty chuckles again, says, “and one more for luck,” and pulls his body farther over John’s, pressing him down and leaning forward to press Sherlock’s unresponsive lips to his own.
John can feel the muscles along Sherlock’s body fully tensed. Sherlock doesn’t move until Moriarty pulls back and rolls off of them.
They squirm their way into a more comfortable position as Moriarty slides the condom off. John’s able to catch Moriarty slipping it in the glove as Moriarty picks it off the bed and turns it inside out before pocketing it.
The criminal looks remarkably unruffled as he tucks himself away.
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“Oh, Sherlock,” Moriarty laughs as he looks up at him, “Did you really think I was going to give you a knife, after that, while I was in the room? Don’t be an idiot,” he draws the word out.
John can feel Sherlock’s leg spasm before he responds, “You’re not going to leave us here.”
“No. I’d like to see if you could get away given enough time, but no.” John dreads whatever Moriarty’s grin indicates. “I’m going to call your policemen friends and let them find you like this.”
“Won’t that be funny?” Moriarty asks as Sherlock pulls at the ropes in some sort of tantrum. Sherlock’s movements pull on John, straining him and spreading him open until he lifts their bound wrists up and slams them back into the bed just to make Sherlock think about what he’s doing.
“Before I kill you,” Sherlock says as he stills, “I am going to make you regret this.”
Moriarty sighs into a smile, staring at them with dark eyes. “Oh, God, I hope so.”
He turns and walks back behind John, who can only hear him leave.
At the closing of the door John lets himself collapse.
His arse isn’t the only thing that’s on fire, and his pride isn’t the only thing that’s been irrevocably damaged.
He can hear Sherlock’s frantic repetition of his name, but beyond a muffled “It’s fine,” he can’t be bothered to reply.
Sherlock was right about one thing, at least. John’s no longer being poked by engorged flesh, so that’s nice. He can’t be bothered to move off the limp flesh, but he has no shame anymore, and if Sherlock does then that’s just too bad.
There is actually, despite everything, or possibly because of it, a calming effect from Sherlock’s worry.
John lets Sherlock’s concern wash over him. He doesn’t pay attention to the words - probably more pleas for forgiveness that he really can’t care about right now - but the tone soothes him. The familiarity of the voice soothes him.
They smell like panic, and sex, and faintly, terribly, like Moriarty, but he buries his nose against Sherlock’s neck and even if he perhaps shouldn’t be able to stand the man right now, the smell of him calms him.
He’s not fine. It’s not fine. But he got through it. He’s going to get through what’s to come. They’re going to get through it. Because there is going to be a they. Because he can’t deal with any other option. He can’t let Moriarty take that from him too. He can’t let Sherlock take it from him, or take it from himself.
They are going to deal with this, together, because that is what people in their position do. They are going to live with it, and they are going to continue as they were, even if only on the surface. They are going to be fine; John will not accept any other outcome. And they are, John would be willing to swear on anything, going to get Moriarty.
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