“The knife,” Sherlock demands as Moriarty straightens his jacket.
“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.
Re: Bound (Warning: non-con) 12/12
“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.