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 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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I really liked the line "because there is going to be a they"
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