sherlockbbc_fic | Prompting Part XXXIV

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Prompting Part XXXIV

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A/N: This fill contains graphic non-con with a dash of mindfuckery. I really hope this isn't more intense than you wanted, OP. Not Brit-picked or beta-ed.

Sherlock blinks his eyes open muzzily, heaving in a gasping lungful of dry, conditioned air. No sharp chlorine tang. Not the pool, his mind supplies. His shoulders are sore. Bound. There's a warm weight pressed up against the entire length of his front, a round, bristly-soft shape tucked under his chin, blowing puffs of air into his suprasternal notch.

John, he thinks, his mind filling with a sense of urgency. He'd exchanged a brief look with John, pointed the gun at the vest, and then there'd been a whizzing hiss and a sudden pinch-prick in the side of his neck and swift engulfing black.

"Wakey, wakey," a high voice singsongs, and Sherlock finds himself being abruptly rolled over onto his back.

Moriarty's dark eyes bear down on him from above. "I'm surprised you're the first one to wake up," he says quietly, bringing his left hand up and stroking the knuckle of his curled index finger down the side of Sherlock's neck. "I did tell them to up your dosage. Seems you've built up quite a tolerance, though."

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "Why have you brought us here?" he asks, his voice cracking from disuse.

"Oh, I've just been dying to get to know you," Moriarty replies, mouth curling into a predatory smile. Leaning down, he presses his face into the crook of Sherlock's neck and whispers, "I tried to make it easy. I gave you my number."

Understanding coalesces inside Sherlock's brain. "You want to sexually assault me."

Moriarty laughs softly. "Oh, no, nothing so obvious. In fact, you might say I'm doing you a favour, Sherlock."

There's a quiet groan. Sherlock feels John wriggle beside him for a moment, then he goes stone-still, and the bed judders as he awkwardly levers himself up into a crouch with only his legs.

"Ah, Doctor Watson, so good of you to join us," Moriarty says, accent careening from Irish lilt to English bluster.

John's gaze goes hard. His posture shifts, coils like a spring, alert and ready. "Get away from him," he snarls.

Moriarty jumps back, eyes wide, mouth stretched into a perfect, melodramatic "o" of shock. A split-second later, his face melts into a threatening smile, and he reaches down to straighten his trim black suit jacket with a downward tug. "Brave Captain John Watson," he drawls thickly. "I don't think you're really in a position to try anything naughty. Besides, you wouldn't want to spoil the fun, would you? Daddy's brought you a pretty present."

A cold tendril of dread unfurls in Sherlock's gut. He flicks his gaze up to John. Confusion is engraved in the furrow between the man's brows, and Sherlock sucks in a quick, shallow breath and claws his fear to the back of his mind.

"Oh, yes, Sherlock's going to be such a lucky boy," Moriarty croons. He lunges forward, hauling Sherlock upright by the lapels of his suit jacket, then darts behind him and sets to work undoing the zip tie binding his wrists.

"John," Sherlock says evenly, holding John's gaze as he feels the pressure pulling his shoulders back release.

"Be good," Moriarty trills into Sherlock's ear from over his shoulder. Then he climbs onto the bed and shimmies up behind John, bending in to lick the shell of his ear, quick and lizardlike, as he reaches down to unbind his hands. "You're going to fuck Sherlock, Johnny-boy, and Daddy's going to watch," he says, pitching his voice low.

John squeezes his eyes shut. Fury etches itself into the lines of his face. "And if I refuse?"

Dark eyes pin Sherlock. "You'll leave me no choice but to play with him myself. And I'm never nice to my toys."

John swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly, and tries to jerk away from Moriarty. Moriarty reacts quickly, arms looping around John, pulling his struggling form back against his chest in a parody of an embrace.

"Or you could watch me break him," Moriarty threatens. "There are oh so many ways. That's the shame of it, really. You only get to do it once. And I was hoping to drag our little dance out a teensy bit longer first."

Sherlock watches John slacken in Moriarty's arms. With a gleeful smile twisting his lips, Moriarty releases John and draws back, pulling a small tube and a foil packet out of the pocket of his suit jacket and tossing them on the bed.

"You'll want those, love," he coos, blowing a kiss at Sherlock as he slithers off of the bed. Striding over to an armchair positioned a few feet back from the left side of the bed, he sits down in it like a king planting himself in a throne, hands gripping the ends of both armrests tightly and one leg lifting to rest on the thigh of the other.

Sherlock drags his gaze back to John. For a fraught moment, they just look at each other, and then John's jaw sets. Flicking his pale pink tongue across his lower lip, he lifts his left hand, curves it lightly around Sherlock's shoulder. Brow furrowed, eyebrows slanted upwards, he guides Sherlock back onto the mattress.

Leaning in close to Sherlock's ear, John shakily grits out, "I'll be as gentle as I can." He lingers there briefly, the fleshy tip of his nose pressed to Sherlock's cheek as he forces a few deep, steadying breaths in and out of his lungs. Then he shifts back, firms his lips into a pained grimace, and brings his hands down to work open Sherlock's belt.

"John," Sherlock rasps, blinking up at the ceiling as he hears the belt loop hit the mattress with a muted thud.

John squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head, and pinches the tab of Sherlock's zip. "I know."

No, Sherlock's mind screams suddenly. No, no, no, no. This is not how it was supposed to happen. He was supposed to offer himself to John freely, on his own terms and in his own time, and John was supposed to accept him gladly. Eyes burning with hunger. Not guilt. Never guilt. Sherlock could abide anything in John's eyes, anything at all, save the crushing guilt he knows will haunt John indelibly in the wake of having to take his friend against both of their wills. John is a doctor; he is a soldier. His calling in the universe is to heal, to protect, to preserve. Moriarty means to take everything they are to each other — everything they could be — and break it for his own amusement.

Sherlock has never treated his body as a temple, but now he can make it into an altar, offer his dignity as sacrifice. And John's heart, so gentle and so giving, is also strong. He has known war. Has seen friends suffer terrible injuries. He can endure witnessing the rape of his best friend. They can both survive this. They must.

"No," Sherlock tells John, gripping the man's wrists and pulling his hands away from the zip of his trousers.

John's eyes go round. He blinks repeatedly. "Sherlock?" he mouths, small and tremulous.

"No," Sherlock repeats firmly. "You are not going to do this. I will not allow it."

"Sherlock," John says again, and this time there's no mistaking the quiet, raw-edged desperation in his voice.

Sherlock holds John's gaze, giving his wrists a light squeeze as he draws a slow, deep breath. John, he thinks, inscribing the name into his mind as he lets his hands fall limply to his sides. For a moment, time seems to stop, and then he hears the clap of Moriarty's hands, sees his gloating face come into view above him.

"Well, Johnny, looks like tonight isn't your lucky night after all," Moriarty says. "Be a good boy and budge up for Daddy."

John refuses to move, jaw clenching and eyes glinting with fierce, seething rage. "I don't think so."

With an irritated sound, Moriarty takes a flick knife out of his pocket, pressing the point of the blade to John's throat. "I could call my boys in here, let them join in the fun, but I was rather hoping to keep this a private affair."

A thin rivulet of blood leaks down John's neck as the knife-point punctures his skin. "No," he says, undaunted.

"This is my final warning, Doctor," Moriarty hisses. "Sit down and don't cause trouble. I've even saved you a front-row seat."

John's gaze drops to Sherlock, but Sherlock just steels himself and orders, "Do it, John."

Pressing his lips together, John looks at Moriarty, who withdraws the knife. He clambers off of the bed and trudges over to sit in the chair.

Moriarty leers down at Sherlock as he retracts the blade of the knife and stashes it back in his pocket. "Off with your clothes, dear," he says, sweeping a hand along the line of Sherlock's prostrate form in a loose gesture.

Sherlock rises from the bed. He manages to keep his hands from trembling as he lifts them, undoes the button of his suit jacket with a stiff, mechanical movement and lets the garment fall to the floor.

"With feeling, love," Moriarty chides, drifting closer to Sherlock and tilting his hooded eyes up at him expectantly.

Sherlock tamps down a flare of anger and makes a show of slowly unbuttoning his white button-up shirt. Lips curving into a feral grin, Moriarty drinks in the clean, angular lines of his chest, flicks a thumb over one taut brown nipple. Letting the shirt slip fluidly off of his shoulders, Sherlock toes off his shoes and socks, then proceeds to unzip his fly.

Moriarty's smile widens wolfishly as Sherlock's trousers slide down his legs to join the rest of his clothing on the floor. "Don't be shy, darling," he says, casting a pointed look at Sherlock's pants. "I'm sure a medical man like Doctor Watson's seen plenty."

Sherlock hooks one finger around either side of the waistband of his pants, his face a hard, impassive mask. Cool air kisses his naked skin as he pulls the pants down his narrow hips and then steps out of them.

Fingers curl around the length of his cock, lifting it out of its nest of dark, wiry curls. Moriarty gives it a couple of quick, perfunctory tugs, then leans in close and tells him, "End of the bed. Hands and knees. Facing your dear John."

Sherlock walks over to the end of the bed and climbs up onto it on all fours. Pressing his left cheek against the mattress to shield his face from John's view, he sucks in a deep, steadying breath through his nostrils. This is nothing, he tells himself, as he hears Moriarty padding over, feels a single finger slither down the curve of his bent spine. He has shot poison into his veins, gone days without eating, rushed headlong into the thrill of a case, only to come out purpled with bruises. What is one more indignity visited upon his person, one more abuse of his flesh, if it serves a greater purpose?

Hands grasp his buttocks, pry them apart, and he can almost feel Moriarty's gaze run over the exposed skin of his cleft. The pad of Moriarty's left thumb begins skating back and forth across the dry pucker of his anus.

"What a luscious arse," Moriarty says softly. "Such a sweet little hole just begging Daddy to give it a nice hard fuck."

Sherlock hears John shuffle in the chair. "I will end you," he growls, low and furious. "I swear to God."

"Shut up, John," Sherlock commands in a rumbling snarl. "Shut up and keep still."

Moriarty chuckles, a dark, breathy sound. His thumbnail presses down into Sherlock's anus hard. Sherlock stifles a wince, and then he feels Moriarty's hand retreat, hears the metallic growl of a zip and the whisper of shifting cloth.

John, Sherlock thinks, as Moriarty's grip digs into his thin hips and pulls his arse back forcefully. He anchors himself to the single pure syllable as he uncouples his mind from his body, pushes down the fury, humiliation, and fear making his heart hammer hummingbird-fast until there's nothing in his head but grey buzzing fog.

There's a sudden, searing flash of agony as he's breached, and he clamps his jaw shut to keep from screaming. Moriarty plows in another inch, then another, and he clutches at the bedcovers, teeth gnashing. Pain bursts red behind his screwed-shut eyelids, and he forces himself to draw sharp, staccato breaths through his nose. He pictures John, imagines him easing into his body in a gentle, lube-slick slide with a look of guilt-stricken horror. I will bear this, he vows silently, as Moriarty nestles against him at last, the fabric of his trousers tickling the backs of his bare thighs.

Moriarty holds still, releasing his hold on Sherlock's left hip to palm across one smooth, round arse cheek. "Oh, Johnny, you should feel it," he drawls theatrically, thumbing around the stretched circumference of Sherlock's rim. "Clenching up all tight. Di-vine." There's a pause, and Sherlock knows Moriarty is locking eyes with John, baiting him. "Did you know it's his first time? First times are special, aren't they? Don't worry. I promise to make it memorable."

Clutching both of Sherlock's hips, Moriarty pulls out and rams back inside in a series of short, rough thrusts. "Oh, Sherlock," he croons with an exaggerated moan, working in and out a second time in another blur of raw friction.

On the third outward drag, Sherlock feels a sharp, tearing pain. A raw howl escapes him before he can contain it. His clawed hands tremble in the sheets, and he feels a hot, wet trickle roll down his inner thigh.

"Sherlock," he dimly hears John rasp, anguish now twined with the fury in his voice.

Moriarty begins fucking him in earnest, gripping his hips bruising-hard as he pumps into him with fast, brutal strokes. "Yes!" he crows, and this time it's not an affectation, but pure, triumphant glee. "Oh, that's more like it, darling."

Sherlock buries his face against the mattress, kisses his mouth to the sheets and to choke his tiny, broken whimpers. His cheeks, he realizes belatedly, are wet. His body is a quivering, throbbing wreck of pain, but his body is nothing. His suffering is nothing. Suffering is a temporary thing, but John, John is good, will always be good.

Fingers knot in Sherlock's curls, yank his head up and back, forcing his neck into a painful arch. "I said I'd burn the heart out of you, Sherlock Holmes," Moriarty murmurs, breath puffing raggedly against his ear.

Half a minute later, Moriarty's rhythm falters, and then he stiffens and cries out, flooding Sherlock with stinging heat. Finally, Sherlock thinks, as Moriarty's grip on his hair relaxes, and he slumps face-first into the mattress once more.

"Was it good for you, sweetheart?" Moriarty asks once he's gathered himself enough to speak. Slipping both palms down Sherlock's back, he molds them around the cheeks of his arse, giving them a quick, possessive squeeze.

Sherlock bites back a wince as Moriarty pulls out and tucks himself away with a quiet rustle. His knees give out a few seconds later, leaving him sprawled in an exhausted, boneless heap, feet on the floor and upper body on the bed. He feels raw and rent open and used, sharp, throbbing pangs knifing up his spine with every breath.

"Well, Doctor, if you'd be so kind as to give Sherlock a little exam," Moriarty says.

There's a moment of tense silence, and then John relents, shuffling over to kneel behind Sherlock. Sherlock can feel John's hands trembling as they gently part his cheeks, hears his soft, quavering, "Jesus."

"Probe inside of him," Moriarty goads, hovering over John's shoulder. "Only way to make a proper assessment."

Suddenly, there's a high, shocked yelp, followed by a loud thud. Sherlock pushes himself off of the bed, flops onto the floor to see John crouching over Moriarty's prone form, both hands wrapped tightly around his neck. Moriarty's hands are scrabbling, trying desperately to fend off John, his polished black shoes beating against the floor.

"John," Sherlock croaks, straining his arm as far as it will reach to prod at John's ankle. "John, stop. Stop."

John abruptly jerks back, and Moriarty rolls onto his side, spluttering and red-faced. Moriarty lies there gathering his breath for a moment, then pulls himself up onto his feet, straightening his rumpled suit with a sharp tug.

"Don't think of making any calls for ten minutes," Moriarty warns, a little roughly. "Ta, Sherlock. Until next time." Turning on his heel, he strides across the room, opening the heavy wooden door with a loud creak.

***

"There's nothing to discuss, John," Sherlock says, irritably fiddling with the intravenous needle taped to his left wrist.

"It's okay to talk about it, if you want," John assures him. "They have people you can talk to here."

Sherlock scoffs and lets his right hand fall to his chest. "Unnecessary."

"After what you've been through, Sherlock, I don't think anyone will think less of you if you need to talk to someone."

"Will discussing what happened alter the fact that it happened?" Sherlock snaps, pinning John with a glare.

John inhales a slow, stuttering breath, his hands flexing where they are resting in his lap. "I've seen men die. Friends. Strangers. I've seen a mother cradling her dead child. But if I could unsee one thing, Sherlock, just one thing..."

Sherlock feels a guilty twinge in his chest. "John," he says, striving to keep his tone gentle. "It's over now."

"Why didn't you let me do it? I could've spared you surgery. I could've spared you a battery of blood tests and drugs."

"My body will heal. You, on the other hand, never would've forgiven yourself, a prospect I found unacceptable."

"You were worried about how I'd feel?" John swallows and blinks repeatedly. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock, are you mad?"

"Don't you see?" Sherlock retorts. "Moriarty's ultimate goal was to permanently drive us apart. I'm sorry that I assign a higher value to your continued presence in my life than to avoiding temporary physical discomfort."

"You really are mad, aren't you?" John replies, offering Sherlock a small, fond smile.

Anon 1 here. .. this was fantastic! Glad you decided to do a fill too. I especially liked the bit about his body never being a temple and now becoming a sacrificial altar, and Jim finding a way to involve John through his medical assessment. Seeing inside Sherlock's head was powerful and in character. (John and Jim too)

Thanks so much! I'm glad we both decided to fill this, too. I think our fills complement each other.

Oh my GOD this is incredible. So so well written, especially Sherlock's worshipful view of John, and Moriarty's craziness.

Thank you! <3

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