sherlockbbc_fic | Prompting Part XXXIV

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Prompting Part XXXIV

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MEME LINKS
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Filled Prompts Posts: Parts 1-23 - Parts 24+ - Spoiler Free
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Links to previous prompting parts

OTHER LINKS AND AFFILIATES

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sherlockbbc: A community dedicated to the BBC adaptation of Sherlock Holmes.
Useful resources for Sherlock and LiveJournal.
Sherlock screencaps.

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Moriarty either doesn't hear or pretends not to, “ah, I guess that was the strong one, ne pas problem!” he smacks himself on the forehead, smiling.

“What the hell did you give him?” John wants to kick Moriarty in his smug little face when he’s answered with a cackle of sorts.

“Johnny boy, Johnny boy, all you need to know is that he’s happy and dazed, a lovely combination! A sleeping beauty that’s only half asleep. Yes! Much better than when he’s running his mouth like a tractor, can’t get a word in through all that clever gobbly gook.” Moriarty makes a mocking pout and that’s when John realizes that he hasn’t tried to scream his way out.

There’s a split second before Moriarty catches on and John opens his mouth, in this second, all John manages is one loud “help” and the rest is choked down by a sock in his mouth. It smells rather filthy and before he can attempt to spit it out, Moriarty pulls out a band of masking tape and smoothes it over his lips.

“That’s better, you had me worried for a second. Isn’t that better?” Moriarty tilts his head to one side, like a curious sociopathic child examining his handiwork.

“Hm, now where were we? Oh yes!” Moriarty moves to unbutton his jacket and John freezes for a moment. No. No. Not Sherlock. No.

Then he makes muddled soupy noises that sound ridiculous in his ears and Moriarty only gazes up for a moment, grinning, before taking off his jacket and starting at the cuffs on his undershirt. Movements are slow, as if teasing John, letting his eyes follow every button. His fingers work carefully to roll up his sleeves before he drops his hands to his belt, grasping at the strap tightly as he pulls his belt open.

John wants to shut his eyes, as he most undoubtedly would rather not see the pervert’s cock today, not ever really, but he doesn’t want to let him out of his sight and that means eyes open. Moriarty is holding a bottle of something in one hand as he unbuttons and unzips with the other, lowering his trousers and pulling out his cock. John can’t help but look down at it, all red and erect.

“Now John, it’s not polite to stare, or I’ll get performance anxiety,” Moriarty sneers. John thinks, I highly doubt that but listens keenly as Sherlock shifts again, muttering “what” and “happening.”

The bed dips again and John’s eyes snap open completely. He jerks his body about, wailing despite the gag. He wants- needs- Sherlock to be completely conscious, he needs the detective to fight back. His heartbeat is deafening in his ears, he swears his heart might burst as he watches Moriarty kneel above Sherlock, hands on Sherlock’s thighs. He whispers so both of them can hear, "let's make him feel better, John. Show him what he's been missing." He scrapes his fingernails down Sherlock’s legs, leaving angry pink markings and ripping a small cry from between Sherlock’s lips.

Then Moriarty savagely grabs at Sherlock’s hips, somehow managing to pull Sherlock to his knees. Sherlock sways slightly and John swallows as he watches his head loll and Moriarty yank the two closer.

Sherlock gasps quietly when Moriarty spread his arse. John’s view is obstructed, but he see’s Moriarty drop the bottle he was holding, placing one hand at the small of Sherlock’s back and the other disappearing out of view. Suddenly Sherlock cries out, his knees buckling. His head and upper body dip, but Moriarty’s muscles ripple as he holding his lower body up.

“Stop, don’t.” Sherlock manages, gasping, his eyes half open and unable to focus. His body is quaking above John, who can feel as Moriarty undoubtedly jams several fingers into Sherlock’s arse. Moriarty laughs “so deliciously tight, untouched! I’m delighted to be the first to break you in, dear Sherly Poo.”

John tries to make eye contact with Sherlock, whose eyes wildly land on him. There’s only fear in Sherlock’s eyes, confusion in the way his eyebrows knit together, revulsion in the gasps he lets out. If he could, he'd shoot Moriarty in the head and be done with this, kiss Sherlock on the forehead in new-found comfort. He's never seen Sherlock in such a way, in needing protection. But Moriarty giggles like a schoolgirl, throwing him back to reality, “how lovely, how touching really. I’ll cry.”

John growls into his gag, which Moriarty of course finds funny with one hand gripping Sherlock’s hip and the other twisting experimentally inside him.

Moriarty coos, “open up for me, sweetheart, let daddy Jim make it all better.” The words have both Sherlock and John protesting, Sherlock groaning like a man defeated. John knows that’s not the case, but that doesn’t stop the pit of his stomach churning with nausea and anger. His body quakes and once he sees Moriarty pick up the bottle again and rub the goo onto his cock, John starts to kick upward.

The moment he feels a metallic click vibrate in the room, he stops abruptly, he’s unsure if it’s his own heavy breathing or Sherlock’s, likely both. There’s desperation, primal hunger, in the way Moriarty is looking down at Sherlock, gun pressed against the detective’s back, digging right into the small dip.

“John” the tone of Sherlock’s voice is that of a trapped little boy, in over his head. His eyes are glossing over, a sight that John has never witnessed before. Disturbed, outraged and hopeless, John’s never heard the man sound so defeated. And he’s certain that he never wants to hear that tone again.

“Yes, John, I anticipated that you would protest. But you’re playing this game all wrong. This is about self-control, something you seem to lack. Would you prefer that I lose my own control and simply shoot Sherly-dear in the shoulder? There’s a chance I’ll miss and hit his head.” Moriarty lifts the gun to Sherlock’s head, dangling it in dark curls. Sherlock shudders involuntarily.

This is madness, John thinks, shaking his head quickly.

Moriarty beams, dropping the gun on the floor. For a split second, John hopes that the gun may go off and hit Moriarty in the head. Instead he has to listen to more freakishly perverted yammer- “good! It’s not very entertaining to fuck a corpse, honestly. A warm, responsive body is more of a wonder.”

Moriarty rubs his hands together, spreading some liquid and John watches in horror as he fumbles with his cock and, from the way John disdainfully watches Moriarty’s face twists in ecstasy, starts to breech Sherlock.

That’s when John hears a small whimper escape from the back of Sherlock’s throat, it becomes a whine, Sherlock’s muscles tensing against his body, his arms pulling at the headboard, his body moving away from the intrusion and closer to John.

Moriarty frowns and makes clicking sounds, “now, lovely, where are you going?” digging his fingernails into Sherlock’s hips and yanking him closer. Sherlock’s head bobs again, ashamed and disgusted and most definitely unwilling to make eye contact with John right now.

“Honey-poo, relax for me why don’t you? It’ll make it so much easier and much less painful for you. Don’t you want this to be good?”

Sherlock grinds his teeth and lets out a grunt, apparently a sufficient response as Moriarty sighs the moment he’s bottomed out, slotting his body over Sherlock's to leave repulsive kisses on his neck.

John looks down when he feels wetness on his chest, Sherlock screaming silently into it, and then he feels wetness on his leg from where Sherlock's cock is leaking precome. He doesn’t understand at first, but then the concept of him being hard for John and only John hits him like a bag of bricks. Maybe Sherlock feels safer with John here, at the same time, somehow ,there’s no possibility of that, Moriarty is mocking him for being a worthless joke. Can’t even save his best friend. Worthless. Useless.

Moriarty’s face is close to John’s, perfect spitting distance if there wasn’t a gag in the way. John simply glares.

Then Moriarty surprises him by ripping off the tape. It stings, probably leaving an unforgiving red mark, but that doesn’t concern him, he spits out the smelly sock and adjusts his jaw.

“I think I should see the two of you kiss,” Moriarty says delightfully, mouthing and sucking on Sherlock’s back several times, watching both men squirm.

John is ready to send a glob in Moriarty’s direction when he remembers the gun. In a bout of defeat, he simply asks “why?”

“Why? Because you two are just so precious together! And don’t think I can’t see you getting off on one another. Sherlock taking comfort in you, it’s so sweet I can feel my teeth rotting” Moriarty’s voice is high and childish as he smiles, showing most of said teeth.

“You’re hurting him!” John rebuttals, sounds stupid, like a little boy trying to protect his friend. Moriarty sneers “then it’s your job to heal him.”

As if in slow motion, Sherlock’s face is now inches from John’s, his cheeks wet with tears, John can taste the saltiness in the warm soft pressing of lips against his own. Sherlock sobs into the kiss, and John only wants to free his arms and pull his head closer. Under different circumstances, this would be passionate, amazing, surprising on Sherlock’s part. Only, he feels Sherlock’s body rubbing against him with the momentum of Moriarty’s thrusting. The madman starts moaning above them without reprieve.

The thrusts are slow and lazy. Gasps, heavy breathing, the slapping of skin, these sounds are the only sounds in the room. It gives John gooseflesh, and when Sherlock’s lips are gone, leaving his own lips tingling, Moriarty starts to ram into Sherlock with more urgency.

John can’t bear to feel Sherlock’s body limply rubbing against his own, the small whimpers and cries that Sherlock is muffling into his neck. He can hear things like “sorry, John” and “my fault” and he shakes his head angrily, “no, Sherlock, stop that, just listen to my voice, pretend it’s just me and you here.”

Moriarty gazes hungrily at them both, but doesn’t say a word as he leaves half-moon shapes on Sherlock’s back, digging in almost to the point of drawing blood as he spreads Sherlock’s cheeks and rips into him further.

There's the intensity of Sherlock’s heart is hammering in his chest, where John can feel every thump against his own. “Oh! Oh God” the sounds he makes are not that of pain, and John reels in confusion. Moriarty’s hand distantly wrapped around Sherlock’s cock, jerking him off, squeezing him tightly.

“No, please stop, I’m not supposed to feel this.” Sherlock’s body tightens suddenly, he recoils and Moriarty hushes him, “just let it all out, let it feel good, Sherlock.”

“Stop, stop, make it stop.” John’s heart begins to shatter. A few more relentless, animalistic sloppy thrusts and squeezes and Moriarty pauses as Sherlock gasps, warm liquid spreading on John’s leg. “I’m so sorry, John, I couldn’t control myself.” There’s snot and more tears leaking down Sherlock’s face as he bites his lip and then nuzzles into John’s neck. It’s beautiful. It’s frightening.

The revelation that John's balls are tightening against Sherlock's skin, that's he's about to come with Sherlock being raped above him, against him, it's all too much. John swallows his cry as he let's go, digging his fingernails into his palms, hoping that Sherlock isn't disturbed and that Moriarty doesn't notice.

It goes unnoticed, Moriarty keeps going like it’s a marathon, fucking into Sherlock’s tight heat loosened by orgasm, and then stopping, squeezing his eyes shut and John can sense that he’s coming into Sherlock, no condom, nothing. He can only hope that there are no venereal diseases to worry about, but this is wrong, Moriarty is claiming him and it’s wrong. This isn’t how it was supposed to be.

Sherlock winces when Moriarty retreats, slipping out of him, cock bobbing between his legs. For a moment it seems like the madman is examining his handiwork, John inhales sharply, waiting for all of this to end.

“I should leave the both of you like this, honestly. But I’m not a bad person,” Moriarty pouts, holding small knife-like object in his fingers.

He approaches the headboard, stares directly at John. The sharp object is slid into John’s slightly limp hand. John grabs it before it slips through his fingers, almost cutting himself. Moriarty suddenly grabs Sherlock by the hair and pulls him back. Sherlock’s face twists in pain and John watches in terror as Moriarty leans in to kiss him. He sees Moriarty bite and Sherlock shudder and groan in response. There’s more blood as Sherlock bites back and Moriarty slaps him, giggling, letting go of his head, letting it fall back on John’s chest with a thump.

“Feisty, feisty, little boy. Oh honeys, you two were so good today. A perfect ending to a perfect game. Another time then!”

And then Moriarty collects his things, the gun included, and vanishes from sight.

Sherlock is still breathing heavily on John’s chest, breaths come sporadically, he’s sobbing again. John has one hand free and begins to work on the other urgently. When his arms flop downward, he tries to get the blood rushing through them again before working on Sherlock’s, whose wrists are more red and raw than his own. "John, you were never supposed to me like this. Emotional. I never wanted you to see my like-"

"What in the Queen's name are you talking about?" it doesn't make sense to John, Sherlock's concerns are all in the wrong places.

He holds Sherlock’s hands carefully in his own, but Sherlock is still limp, his soft sobs and breathing being the only signs of life.

There’s a frantic search for a phone and John knows he should call Lestrade, call this whole mess in. He's stopped with a hand on his arm. “Wait.”

“No, Sherlock, you need medical attention, you might need to be… stitched up. No.” John looks at him angrily and Sherlock sags, nodding slightly.

---

It’s been four months and counting and no signs of Moriarty. Sherlock wakes up violently sometimes, screaming for John, who’s realized that they should sleep in the same bed. Lestrade tells them that Sherlock should see someone for the trauma, but John insists that he’s the only one who can help Sherlock.

"Everybody is pitifully unqualified to help him. They'll only make matters worse."

“But who’s going to help you, eh?” Lestrade retorts, and John knows this is true. He’s had terrible nightmares of his own. The incident has left him drenched in sweat in the middle of night, grabbing for Sherlock’s wrist, checking his breathing once, twice, three times to be safe.

Sometimes the nightmares become twisted, sadistic, sometimes John is the one raping Sherlock. He hears the cries and the protests, but his laugh, much like Moriarty’s, cold and crazed, prevents him from stopping. The screams of “no” and “please” and “stop” only seem to fuel him, like an animal in heat.

Other times Moriarty is good on his word, shoots Sherlock and continues raping his convulsing body as he bleeds to death on top of John.

But every time it feels like John isn’t in control of his own body. Every time, Sherlock is left bleeding, dying, weeping, and being torn apart while John watches helplessly.

“John? John!” he’s shook awake and of course, it’s Sherlock, staring at him with concern, his eyes heavy with sleep. “You were having another bad dream, what was it this time?”

“No, no, Sherlock, it was… no.”

Sherlock glares. “Tell me,” he squeezes John’s arm urgently. It’s 3 AM and all John wants is to go back to sleep and hope that the nightmare won’t try to consume him again. He knows Sherlock won’t bugger off though.

“Alright. I- this time- it was me. I was the one who- I- Christ- I’m sorry, so sorry Sherlock.” The tears and the heartache come simultaneously and Sherlock quickly embraces him, it makes no sense for Sherlock to be the one to console him. It should be the other way around. But something must've snapped, broken, cracked, completely inside of John and it can never be mended.

“Shh, John, I’m here.” John hugs him back, squeezing tightly until Sherlock laughs and tells him that “breathing is becoming a bother.”

John laughs as well, then his face falls again. The lights from the city night is blue, illuminating beautifully on Sherlock’s face, it reflects off of his eyes wistfully. “I could never forgive myself Sherlock, I let all of it happen. I wasn’t strong enough to break us out. To save you. I’m weak.”

“Shut up, you idiot.” Sherlock’s face darkens. “You couldn’t have done anything. This was Moriarty. He planned every single step, with no room for heroism. We were pawns in his game. His methods were a sick and twisted way of pushing the two of us together. I’m certain that this was Moriarty playing the matchmaker.”

“What the fuck? You seriously think him raping you was a ploy so you come crying into my arms?” now that John speaks, he begins to understand. All of it makes sense now and he’s been denying the idea all along, for four months to be exact. “No, no no no, this is all wrong, I can’t.”

“But it worked, didn’t it?” Sherlock smiles sadly, bracketing John’s head with his hands and leaning in for a kiss. He breaths into the kiss and John holds him tightly, letting this be the opportunity to lose control. Only, this time, it’s okay.

---
So, I hope that wasn't too terrible, and I hope the OC gets to see it eventually :)

Not op but I loved it. Well done.

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