Title: Flood With Light

Author: finangler

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Sherlock/John; Jim Moriarty

Disclaimer: Sherlock, as presented by Messrs. Gatiss and Moffatt, belongs to them. This work is meant purely for entertainment purposes, and not for profit or offense.

Warnings: Dub-con.

Notes: Not Brit-picked. Also, many thanks to my BFFBeta sprl1199 Without her, this fic wouldn't be what it is.

Summary: John and Jim have a little chat while they wait for Sherlock to arrive.

You can't study the darkness by flooding it with light.
-Edward Abbey

"Well go ahead, Johnny," the high-pitched, lilting voice chided, "Can't have you wasting away."

John *hated* being called "Johnny". It was a reminder of his childhood, of Harry, taunting him.

Ickle Johnny, always the favorite!

But Moriarty was a master at provocation; the moment he saw John flinch at the diminutive, he'd latched onto it like a parasite, repeating it often and deliberately, dark eyes dancing as John's own shuttered.

The china set was impeccable and expensive. As was everything in the posh building John had been bustled into, struggling and cursing. Moriarty (Jim! The bastard!) himself was impossibly tailored: black suit immaculate and gleaming, nails perfectly groomed, and hair impeccably combed.

Not ALL an act, then.

Everything in the room was perfect. From the tastefully decorated bedroom furniture, to the ostentatious bed. All of it was rich and opulent and decadent.

It made John sick.

They were seated, facing each other, tea and biscuits spread haphazardly on a table no doubt worth three times John's yearly pension.

"I have to say," Jim spoke into the silence between them, eyes casually wandering the room, as if he was already bored with the subject before he'd even started it. "When I heard that Sherlock had taken up with somebody, I was a little disappointed when I finally got a look at you. You are a little pedestrian, my dear." He punctuated the sentence with a little giggle. John was reminded of the old woman, blind and terrified whispering into the phone…(his voice was so…soft). "Soft" was not a word John would have used to describe it; piercing and shrill were.

"But, then again, people do get so irrationally attached to their pets." Jim smiled and munched loudly on a biscuit. John desperately wanted to punch him square in the face. Which, of course, meant he couldn't. His fingers clenched tightly into his trouser legs, eyes not able to leave the gleam of light reflecting in his own tea cup, the brew long gone cold.

Outside the heavy, wooden locked door, John could hear the shifting of weight of one of Moriarty's…minions? If a man couldn't have an arch-enemy, then surely an arch-enemy couldn't have minions? John already knew there would be no escape that way. His head was still aching from the last attempt.

John's twitch of anger must not have been sufficient to amuse Moriarty, for he continued on in the capricious drawl that John had grown to hate. And fear.

"Johnny, you are being painfully dull right now. I didn't make these arrangements just so you could sit across from me and stare at nothing. I can't imagine this keeping Sherlock distracted for too long. But then, I guess you have other ways to…amuse him." He drew out the word 'amuse', as if John wouldn't be able to get the unsubtle double meaning otherwise.

"We'll have to ask him. When he finally shows up." John remained silent, and he liked to think it was mostly out of defiance, but it tasted far much more like resignation. "Which won't be for several more hours yet."


"So. Come on, Johnny. Out with it. Astound me! Show me what he keeps you around for. Amusing anecdotes? Sparkling wit? Intellectual intercourse? None of that? No? Hm. Pity." Jim casually picked up his cup and saucer again, sighing into it, highly aggrieved, while John stared out the window (on the third story, too high to jump) and watched the night get darker.

"Well," Jim said, slurping his tea noisily before setting it back down again on the table, his foot tapping restlessly against the leg of the table. It was a tell, and a fairly egregious one at that, but John couldn't muster the energy to try to interpret it. "I'm sure you have other qualities." 'Though I can't imagine what they might be,' was the silent rider.

"I feel sorry for Sherlock sometimes," Jim sighed faux-wistfully, staring off into the distance again. To hear Jim pity Sherlock, use his first name like old mates, talk about him like he knew him, made John's blood boil. Rage beating impotently behind his eyes, he couldn't hold back any longer.

"For being stuck with me, you mean?" It was dry and if words could have a taste, these would be bitterest gall.

"It talks! But, no. Well," he amended with a snort, finally having a subject to warm to, "Not entirely. I mean, lord knows I hate even having to have you here, but it takes all kinds, I guess. No, I mean, I feel sorry for Sherlock. For being bored. For having to deal with the same endless, mindless prattle day after day, in and out. To realize that you're miles above everybody else, and to know that it will never get any better." Jim truly was staring off into the distance now, miles away from John. His eyes had turned a frighteningly dark shade. As suddenly as his fugue had started, his eyes snapped back to again, fixing John with an amused gaze.

"That's why I had to do all this, you see. As much for him as for me. We weren't meant to be idle, Johnny. He and I, we were meant to make this world burn. We were made for each other." The gaze had actually turned kind and pitying, but it burned much more painfully than any of the casual violence John had suffered thus far. Hurt more than being grabbed from behind and a sack pulled over his head. More than fierce grips on his wrists and arms.

("Elegant," Sherlock said, grey eyes alight and sparkling, fingers frenetically tapping against each other in a rhythm only Sherlock could know, might not even be *aware* he knew.)

"I hope you understand that, I really do, Johnny. It might make this whole arrangement so much easier."

John could only scoff, harsh and disbelieving as he shook his head. He already knew that no response of his would be compelling, would be even necessary for Moriarty. His shoulders seemed in a permanent sag, defeat settling in as familiar and enveloping as his favorite jumper.

"You can't give him what he wants. What he needs. That's why this had to happen."

"Yes," John replied, bitterness spurring him forward, not the paralytic that Sherlock had always assumed. "Yes, I'd say he's gotten exactly what he needs from you, already."

Jim's face turned ugly. There was no other word to describe it, and John gleefully didn't even try to, content to just enjoy the sudden downturn of thin lips and narrowing of eyelids. It was a minor victory, after all, and one he would no doubt end up paying for in the end. For all his nattering about mental stimulation and intellectual fulfillment, Jim was still a lustful child. He saw and, when he wanted, he wanted. He wanted Sherlock in every way, no half-measures. And it was in this way that John would always hold precedence over Moriarty. It was enough to energize John, even if only briefly.

And then he remembered where he was. And what would happen tonight. And the feeling of victory turned hollow.

John half-expected Jim to throw a fit, to throw things and break china and maybe even take a fist to John's face. John wouldn't even have minded that last one too much, if only so Sherlock could see the mark that it would leave behind. Could see what his "arch-enemy" had wrought, would wreak on everything Sherlock valued. Maybe this could be the action that would wake. Sherlock. Up.

But this was a silly fantasy and in the end John was relieved when Jim marshaled his hateful, vitriolic glare into seeming nonchalance. But his foot had stopped tapping as his body had gone preternaturally still, and his body was held much less casually than before. Points for me, then.

"Yes, well, it's getting late," Jim pouted. "Fascinating as this conversation has been," Jim stood as the sarcasm dripped from the words. "I must be off. But, don't look so sad. It's already dark. You'll see Sherlock soon. I recommend getting some sleep. You have an important role to play in all this, you know."

He reached out and pinched John's cheek in a gross mockery of a mother, just hard enough to sting. But the indignity of the action stung much longer than the actual physical pain of it did. Longer than it took for the heavy door to swing shut behind Moriarty's well-dressed silhouette, and for the echoes of his footsteps to stop echoing in the cavernously empty room.

John ended up taking Moriarty's advice, stretching out on the bed and, despite deep, suffocating unhappiness surrounding him more thoroughly than the bed sheets, managed to fall off into a light doze. He had first filled his mind with memories of Sarah, Harry, Clara, his mum, Mrs. Hudson. People he loved and who would never see him again. Without even a goodbye or words of explanation.

When he slept, he dreamt. John was not the kind to have deeply meaningful or symbolic dreams. Mostly, they were a mish-mash of half-forgotten people and places, rotating back and forth without narrative or reason.

It was no different this time.

Tonight, he dreamt he was back in Afghanistan. There was no gunfire, no screams for his attention, for relief, for mothers. He was simply sitting in the sand, not even able to feel any discomfort from the heat, what with it being a dream and all. But, he did fancy that he felt the wind on his face, fierce and wild.

He knew, even while dreaming, that he would never feel it again.

It must have been past midnight when he woke up again. There weren't any clocks in the room, a whimsy of Moriarty's, which was a torture for John. No doubt it therefore gave Jim endless amusement.

It took John only a moment to figure out what had woken him. Long, dexterous fingers were slowly easing down his trousers, while the other hand pushed up the hem of his shirt to the middle of his back. Humid air hit the small of his back. It was expected, but it made John shiver nonetheless. Soft lips whispered lightly against his skin, burning it afire.

The cold night air pulled the skin on John's legs taut as his trousers were completely removed, tossed carelessly aside. It didn't affect John's cock at all, nestled face-down into the body-warm sheets as he was, already half hard. Sherlock had clearly been taking liberties.

"So, what did he have you do today?" John asked. Plot some foolproof way to smuggle artifacts? Organize a painfully complex bank robbery? Kill somebody? John physically cringed away from the last idea, though it was no doubt entirely possible. Probable, even.

Either the question or his reaction caused Sherlock to stop his attentions to John's skin. The silence was thick and weighted and for a moment John thought he wouldn't answer at all. Might have preferred it if he hadn't, in fact.

"I don't think we should talk about that, John," Sherlock's voice rumbled into the dark and against John's skin. It was said with regret, but no apology as Sherlock dipped his tongue into the beginning of the crease of his buttocks, causing John to hiss. And to spread his legs a bit more.

Sherlock breathed lightly, blowing gusts of air on John's skin. John could only shiver, because what else could he do?

John didn't know what Moriarty had said to convince Sherlock. Maybe he hadn't even needed to say anything at all. All John knew was that, one moment, they had been celebrating the rescue of a fourth victim and, conversely, dreading the appearance of a fifth, and the next moment, John had been grabbed from a perfectly crowded street corner, quick as you please.

That night felt like weeks ago. For all John knew, was weeks ago. Sherlock had at first made some half-hearted excuses, part explanation, part defense, Jim smirking in the background all the while.

"It's the only way, John," Sherlock had said coolly, as if John was the one acting completely out of order.

Liar! John had almost shouted, for Sherlock didn't abide by "only" ways. But still, John knew that, if not for Sherlock's decision, there would have been a fifth victim-some hapless bastard at the wrong place at the wrong time. John could only wonder who it would have been had Sherlock chosen differently, and be grateful that at least somebody's life had been preserved in all of this.

Bony, frozen fingers pressing at his lips distracted John from idle speculation, and he was strangely grateful for the interruption. John opened his lips obligingly, because that's what John was. Obliging. They slipped into his mouth and pressed on his tongue, demanding suction if he didn't want to start drooling on himself. His lips closed around them, sucking lightly as his tongue ran across the sensitive pads. No doubt, had their positions been reversed, Sherlock would have been able to deduce John's daily movements from the residue on his skin. As it was, Sherlock's simply tasted salty, with a touch of iron.

Sherlock moaned softly at the touch, and bit lightly behind John's ear. He was already rutting lightly against John, his cock already out of his pants and leaving moist trails along the back of John's thighs. In another moment, he had pulled his fingers out of his mouth and John had to rub his face in the pillow to wipe off the stray spit.

"You're smarter than he is, y'know," John whispered lightly over his shoulder towards a presence he could feel, but couldn't see. John hoped it was true.

A distracted, sonorous "Hm?" was his only reply as Sherlock shuffled further down the hatefully large bed. John hadn't the chance to repeat himself before Sherlock pushed a finger slowly into John. It was without preamble, but not without care. John gasped at it lightly, but it was no longer as foreign a sensation as it once was. The finger was eventually joined by another, and Sherlock went to work stretching him out unhurriedly. What would he have to hurry for, anyway? Bitter, bitter thoughts, and John couldn't stop them, just as he couldn't stop his body responding to it, couldn't stop remembering Chinese takeaway and Bond marathons and cheap, comfy scarves. And he couldn't stop hating himself for thinking of those things, either, until he was so overwhelmed, that the only thing he could do was do nothing.

As Sherlock's fingers worked into him, unerringly finding his prostate, John's gasps were becoming high-pitched and almost sob-like.

"You could outsmart him. Find a way to get us out of this." Us.

"Possibly," Sherlock said. He didn't sound convinced of the idea, which led John to believe that he had only said it simply to mouth it against John's perineum. Even mincing around as a second in command, Sherlock didn't doubt his ability to outthink anyone. A dexterous tongue probed along John's perineum, nipping ever so lightly down towards John's balls. John's fingers clenched into the coverlet, red-knuckled and tense, his sweaty palms slick against the silk.

"You could let me go," he practically whimpered out. Sherlock stopped moving and John turned his head. The room was still dark, and all that could be seen was Sherlock's curly silhouette looming over him, illuminated by the street lamps outside.

"No," Sherlock breathed, miserable sincerity finally tingeing his words. "I really don't think I can." And it was true. Sherlock couldn't let John go, just as he couldn't pass up what Moriarty offered-relief from boredom, from idleness, from the world. John could never give him that. He had seen what the consequences of Moriarty's idea of "fun" could be. Had seen roommates, fiances, brothers, weeping at their losses. John could never, in a million years, come up with anything so cruelly clever.

Sherlock knew, intellectually, that they existed, those poor people. But, they were separate from Sherlock, operated on a crudely obscure level, wholly separate from the one he and Moriarty lived on. He needed to be distracted from them, lest their tinny, persistent noise overwhelm him. But then, in the night, after seeing what he'd wrought, in his weaker moments, he also needed to be distracted from himself.

It was as if Sherlock had split himself into two halves to be held secure by two disparate people. And having done so, he was now incapable of giving either up.

Moriarty was right, John thought, as Sherlock finally entered into him and rode him to completion.

He did have a role to play.