Author: gwenweybourne PM
Jim Moriarty likes to play with his toys before he breaks them. Sherlock/Moriarty and some Johnlock. SLASH. Rated M for Moriarty: general insanity, manipulation, violence. Post-Hound, pre-Reichenbach.Rated: Fiction M - English - Drama/Hurt/Comfort - J. Moriarty & Sherlock H. - Chapters: 9 - Words: 23,536 - Reviews: 80 - Favs: 136 - Follows: 76 - Updated: 03-20-12 - Published: 02-08-12 - Status: Complete - id: 7818775
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A/N: This is one of the trickiest stories I've ever had to navigate. I hope I haven't offended anyone. Sexual assault is a very serious thing and I'm not trying to make light of it in any way or be disrespectful. Sherlock and Moriarty have an extremely complicated relationship, which is why I see this as dub-con as opposed to non-con, and Sherlock's reaction is not going to be entirely "normal." Ahh, anyway, I hope this is okay. Reviews are much appreciated because I am flailing a bit here.
Upon arriving at Baker Street, Sherlock was manhandled out of the car. "Mind the coat, please!" he huffed as the cuffs and blindfold were removed and he was unceremoniously shoved onto the sidewalk before the vehicle took off down the street, tires squealing.
Sherlock let out a small sigh and straightened his clothes before opening the door. The sense of urgency came upon him immediately. John. He needed to find John.
"John!" he called as he flew up the stairs, two at a time as usual.
But then he felt a very unusual pain in his arse that slowed his steps and he clung to the banister for a moment, taking a breath, then continuing up at a more measured pace.
"John! Answer me! Are you there!" The lack of response sent a rush of adrenaline through Sherlock's body. If Moriarty had reneged and refused to release John, there would be hell to pay.
The adrenaline was swamped by a tidal wave of relief-induced endorphins when he saw John sitting in his chair. God, he wasn't used to feeling this much. It had been an exhausting day for that and Sherlock was feeling quite overstimulated and needed to retreat into himself for a while to recover, but not yet. First, John.
The doctor had his head in his hands, seemingly oblivious to Sherlock's presence. Sherlock observed a bottle of disinfectant, a tube of antibiotic cream, and gauze bandages and it appeared that John had begun to tend to his chafed and bleeding wrists, but had become distraught or distracted in the process.
"John," Sherlock said quietly, crossing the room swiftly and kneeling before his friend. He touched his knee gently and John's eyes flew open, his body jerking into awareness.
"John, are you all right?" Sherlock got a first look at John's swelling black eye and then reached up to examine him further, but John grabbed the lapels of his coat and pulled Sherlock in close.
"I didn't know if they were bringing you back or not," John's eyes flashed and his voice was low and fierce. "Whether he was just going to keep you or kill you or god knows what … Didn't know if I should call Lestrade or, god forbid, Mycroft. I've been going out of my mind, Sherlock."
"It's all right, John. I'm here. I'm all right."
John looked at him incredulously. "Sherlock! You are not all right. You were sexually assaulted by a madman. And he made me … he made me …"
"I am sorry you had to hear all that," said Sherlock softly, reaching up to gently pry John's fingers off his coat, his long fingers cradling John's hands so he could inspect his wrists. "Deeply sorry. Part of Moriarty's game."
John attempted to extricate his hands, but Sherlock kept a gentle but firm hold on him. He picked up the cotton and began to carefully swab at the angry, broken, delicate skin on John's wrists. He'd never really gotten to touch John like this before. It was very interesting. Already, his brain was processing and cross-referencing these sensations with the experiences he had absorbed earlier in the day while trapped in the bedroom with Moriarty.
John hissed at the sting of the disinfectant. "Sherlock, stop. We need to get you to the hospital."
"Physician, heal thyself," Sherlock murmured, keeping a hold on John and continuing to tend to his wounds. "We don't want infection to set in, yes? And I don't want to go to the hospital."
John's voice was firm. "Sherlock, you were raped. You need to be examined. You need to have a blood test immediately. This is not negotiable."
"John, you heard what went on in that bedroom. Surely you understand it wasn't as black-and-white as all that," Sherlock said softly, keeping his eyes on John's hands. Now he was applying a thin layer of the antibiotic cream around the circumference of John's wrists, his fingertips dragging tenderly over the damaged flesh. He could read John's time in Afghanistan from the pad of his thumb and the third knuckle on his left hand.
"You're not telling me that you consented. Because I know you didn't."
"True. But I surrendered. Moriarty could have brutalized me. He could have done anything to me and I would have let him …"
"Because of me," said John miserably.
Sherlock looked up sharply. "Yes, of course. You're upset about that."
"Of course I am!" John exclaimed. "You went through all that because I wasn't able to fight off his goons."
Sherlock unwrapped the roll of bandage. "John, if Moriarty decides he wants you, he will take you and there really isn't anything to be done about it. And if our positions were reversed, would you not do what I did in order to keep me alive?"
"Of course," John said, indignant. "How can you even ask me —"
"I'm not trying to test your principles," said Sherlock. "Merely stating fact. So you can stop self-flagellating over the fact that you were unable to stop a chain of events entirely out of your control. Just as I was unable to stop. As I was saying, though Moriarty could have used pain to get me to surrender, but that wasn't the game. He used pleasure instead. He wanted to set my body and my brain at war and in the end it was easier to let my body win."
"So you enjoyed it," John murmured, holding still now and allowing Sherlock to bandage his wrists.
Sherlock shrugged. "On a base, primal level, yes. You heard me. The sounds I was making. You know he brought me to orgasm. Intensely so. I'd never experienced anything like that before."
"I thought you weren't interested in that sort of thing."
"I wasn't," said Sherlock. "But I may have to reconsider my stance on sexual activity. Though I would prefer a different partner in the future." He carefully fastened the bandages. "People are going to think you tried to slit your wrists as a result of living with me. Anderson will have a field day."
"A different partner?" John repeated, ignoring Sherlock's quip entirely.
Sherlock looked up at John. "You helped, you know."
"I don't understand."
Sherlock's eye flicked away for a moment and then returned to John's. "I … thought of you while it was happening."
"Sherlock …" John whispered.
"He had me on my front and I couldn't see his face. Pretending it was you made it easier. Hurt less. Felt good, even. I think eventually he realized that and turned me over so I had to look at his face."
John swallowed hard.
"It's true what he said — Moriarty — isn't it? About you … and me …"
John took a shaky breath. "Sherlock, I …"
"I wish it could have been you, as well. For my first time. But there's nothing that can be done about that. But please, John. Don't make me go to the hospital. I will agree to a blood test, but I've had quite enough of being poked and prodded and touched today. I just want to take a shower and be alone for a while. I have an overwhelming amount of data to process. And you probably want to think about the things I've just said." Sherlock looked at John imploringly.
John nodded, dazed. "All right, Sherlock, all right. If that's how you want it. But I don't care what that insane tosser told you about how 'clean' he is — you are coming to the clinic tomorrow and I am testing you for everything. Doctor's orders."
Sherlock nodded with a ghost of a smile. "Yes, doctor." He stood up and shrugged out of his coat before heading toward the bathroom. He could feel Moriarty all over him. Remembering every place he'd been licked by the madman's clever tongue. "And put some ice on that shiner," he called out. "You're far too asymmetrical right now. Throws the eye off."
In the bathroom, Sherlock quickly stripped off his clothes. He looked down and was astonished to find he was still wearing Jim's silk tie around his neck. His breath caught and he quickly loosened it and tugged it off before tossing it in the corner with the rest of his clothes. How on earth had he failed to notice he was still wearing it?
He was unsure of what he was feeling at the moment. Logically, he should feel violated and repelled, but there was nothing logical about what had happened to him with Moriarty … Jim. There was a bit of that. His body felt sticky and when his clothes came off he was aware of the smell of sweat and semen and he could feel the residue of both on his skin, not to mention dried lubricant and saliva. That made his stomach turn a little and he was glad to get under the spray and wash the physical remnants away. Much to John's chagrin. But the thought of going to the hospital to let nurses take pictures of his bruises and extract semen from his rectum — horrifying. And for what purpose? Pressing rape charges? Jim knew Sherlock better than that. That wasn't part of the game. No, this little diversion was for Jim's own amusement and to temporarily confuse Sherlock while he prepared the next part of his plan.
He worked shampoo through his hair, still thinking. John would likely expect Sherlock to be traumatized by the experience, but Sherlock already knew he wasn't. He was merely curious about what had occurred and needed time to process it. Jim had touched him like a lover, not an attacker. Sherlock concurred that it was infinitely more satisfying to procure submission through pleasure rather than pain. It was easy to inflict pain on the unwilling. Much more challenging to bring them pleasure. Definitely not boring.
He rinsed the soap off his skin and the shampoo from his hair and turned the shower off. His mouth tasted like Jim and cigarettes. He brushed his teeth, which helped a little, but the flavour lingered. He retreated to his bedroom and shut the door, dropping his towel on the floor and sliding his naked body in between the sheets. He lay on his back, fingers steepled under his chin in his usual pose for deep thought, but he ended up falling deeply asleep almost immediately. He didn't even stir when John tapped quietly on the door and stepped inside to check on him. John stood over Sherlock for several minutes, as if standing guard, before silently retreating and closing the door before returning to his own room.
It had been nearly two weeks since the incident with Moriarty. Sherlock awoke suddenly in the middle of the night. His dreams had been vivid and erotic and he was hard. This had been happening with increasing frequency. When he was able to immerse himself in a case, it was easier to ignore, but Sherlock was sleeping now to attempt to recharge after staying away for the past forty-eight hours on a case, which he'd just solved. But his dreams left him aching and aroused and he cursed Jim silently. What have you done to me?
Sherlock and John had not spoken of what had been discussed when Sherlock had knelt at John's feet and tenderly bandaged his wrists. Sherlock had made a couple of halting attempts, but had been quickly shut down by John, who insisted it was too soon and Sherlock needed to recover. He persisted in the idea that Sherlock was emotionally traumatized. He even suggest Sherlock go see his therapist, Ella.
Sherlock wasn't certain if John legitimately felt this way or if perhaps he was having difficulty confronting his own feelings. At any rate, Sherlock was tired of waiting to find out. He sat up and swung his long legs over the side of the bed. He opened a drawer and thumbed through the neatly folded boxer shorts. The black silk? They looked flattering against his pale skin, but the thought of the soft silk brushing against his erection was too much to bear. He settled for soft, purple cotton ones instead. Approaching John entirely naked would probably terrify him, but Sherlock wanted his intentions to be known immediately.
He quietly opened John's bedroom door. John was curled up on his side, breathing deeply, clad in his customary worn long-sleeved cotton T-shirt and pyjama bottoms. Sherlock put a knee up on the bed and touched John's shoulder gently. "John," he whispered. "John … wake up …"
John awoke, started, and he flailed for a few disoriented moments before coming to his senses. "Sherlock? What the bloody hell are you doing? Go back to bed!" He blinked, his eyes focusing, and seeing that Sherlock was nearly naked save for a pair of shorts clinging to his slender hips. "Sherlock … what you —"
His question was interrupted by the gentle press of Sherlock's lips against his own. John flinched and attempted to move away, but Sherlock was insistent, his soft, full lips moving against John's until the doctor succumbed with a quiet moan, parting his lips and allowing Sherlock to lick inside.
"Sherlock …" he whispered helplessly between kisses.
"Please, John," Sherlock whispered back. "Please, I need it … I need you …" He pressed his body up against John's and even through the blankets the doctor could feel Sherlock's hardness. I know you need me seemed to be the unspoken addition.