His words brought it all into sharper focus. He could do this. He could do this if it meant they could get through it with minimal damage to Sherlock’s body. He tried not to dwell on what Jim would do to him. As a doctor, he could provide some kind of efficient preparation, at least he could avoid the... tearing… oh God, the images flooded his mind as he fought not to let Moriarty see a reaction. Clearly he failed.
“Or I suppose I could do it myself, since you seem less than enthusiastic. I think perhaps I might have a bit more fun than you, but I know you saw him first. Fair’s fair.”
John gave a sharp nod and tried to gesture to have him unbind his hands. Jim came towards him, placed a hand on his shoulder, and then made a signal to someone a short distance away from the pool. “Oh, no, Johnny. Not getting near you with a knife. Wouldn’t want to let you get quite that close to me again. I remember our last big hug. Don’t care to repeat it. “
One of his men, close to John’s age and roughly the same build, stepped into the pool area. As he took out a knife and headed to cut the rope binding John’s hands, Sherlock whispered “No.”
“Pardon?” said Jim, his eyes still on John.
“No,” stronger this time. “John, this is not your choice. It’s mine. Don’t.”
“Ah, a lover’s spat!”
“Sherlock, I could…”
“I said no!”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Johnny, you’ve been rejected. Maybe I’m just more his type? A better match?” He turned toward Sherlock. “I won’t reject you, sweetheart.”
Sherlock merely closed his eyes and took a deep breath in response.
I don’t think you will be needed,” he said to the man with the knife, “but can I borrow that for a minute?” He handed the knife to Jim, who made deep cuts in the fabric of Sherlock’s trousers along the inseam, and then his pants, slicing at his skin in the process. “Ooops, sorry!”
John, seeing the opportunity to gain a weapon, threw himself at Jim, who had anticipated the lunge and merely stepped to the side, holding a hand up and belting out “Wait!” as John fell to the floor.
That was it. Sherlock had bought him one moment when Jim was preoccupied, and he had blown the opportunity. He muttered under his breath “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m so, so sorry.”
“A chair for the doctor! Let’s make him more comfortable.” A hard plastic chair was brought in and placed farther back from Sherlock. Jim’s assistant dragged John to it, then retrieved the knife. John didn’t think it was possible for Jim’s smile to have gotten wider, but it had, as he crossed back to Sherlock.
“Be a good boy now, and get Daddy nice and wet. It’s for your own good.”
At first, John felt relieved that all he could see was the back of Sherlock’s head and Sherlock couldn’t see him at all, but he quickly realized he was at an ideal vantage point to see every expression on Jim’s face, and Jim used it to full advantage. It was quiet enough to hear the sound of a zipper, and Jim lowered his pants to mid thigh and looked right at John, who was glaring back in defiance. Jim ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and kissed the top of his head softly, almost tenderly, before grabbing a fistful of hair with one hand and clenching at Sherlock’s jaw with the other, screaming “Open!” and shoving his prick deep into his throat with as much force as he could muster. Jim’s exaggerated moan overrode Sherlock’s muffled gagging and stifled retch. “But I’m not even that hard yet, darling,” he said. “I do hope you can take more.”
John looked desperately around the room for anything that could possibly help, assuming he could even get to it if he found it. Anything Sherlock was willing him to do that he was far too slow to notice. He found nothing.