Not my characters. Warnings for non-con and swearing.
Before Sherlock had time to make his move, John received a gunshot to the leg. John's brief gasp and Sherlock's slight widening of the eyes were as significant as the screams of other men.
"I suggest you slowwwwly put the gun on the floor, love," Moriarty said in that sugared brogue of his. "Both of you have to die, but I can always make you watch your pet be cut into little agonized pieces first. Up to you."
"Focus on stopping the bleeding," Sherlock whispered to his friend, doing what he was told. The laser sights traveled with him, never leaving his body, and still more appeared when he straightened to his full height again.
"You're without anything to bargain with now. Goodnight." Moriarty turned to leave.
This earned him a glance and a raised eyebrow. "What could you possibly offer me?"
"If I die here, now, you'll be bored again. Such tedium, all those tiny minds, no one to play chess against."
"It's a risk I'm prepared to take. I can't lose everything I've worked for."
Sherlock tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry. "I'll go with you."
Moriarty's upper lip quirked. "Oh?"
"I surrender. Completely. I'll go with you. Do as you like. Just let him go."
"You idiot, you don't have to do this..."
"Do shut up, John, I'm trying to be noble and it's difficult as it is without you whining about it."
With a giggle, Moriarty snapped his fingers. A tall, sturdy man with a rifle in one hand and a knapsack over his shoulder appeared from out of Sherlock's line of sight. He put an arm around Sherlock, who flinched on instinct. The tall man chuckled against his ear. "Don't be flattering yourself, lad, it's to keep you bashing that brilliant head of yours on the poolside."
Then a needle prick, and John's yells amounted to naught.
Ball gag in mouth. Silk sheets, goose down pillows. Lambskin cuffs around wrists cinched two centimeters tighter than is considered safe by members of the BDSM community; circulation soon to be impaired. Synthetic rope (nylon) holding legs open at thirty-five degree angle. Faint odor of peppermint oil (bizarre, significance unknown as yet).
No sensation of clothes against skin. Not entirely unexpected. But still more than a bit not good. Damn.
Sherlock opened his eyes. He was face up on a bed, pinned and spread, and he wouldn't give anyone who could possibly be watching the amusement of pointless struggle. Moriarty and his thugs would never be so foolish as to give him any possibility of escape. The cuffs had chains wrapped around them, padlocked, and the level of give he had between the two sets of bonds was far too awkward for useful maneuvering.
Disconcertingly, the room was softly lit by a candlelabra on a table several feet away, and in a corner there was a vase full of white roses.
A door, again out of Sherlock's line of sight, squeaked faintly as it opened. Moriarty swanned into view in a different Westwood suit, with a red rose in his lapel. "Just think, sexy, if you had simply called me, we could have avoided all this intermediate bother."
Sherlock sighed. While the way things were heading were not a pleasant prospect by any degree, it seemed so eminently predictable.
Moriarty tsked and cupped Sherlock's chin in his hand. "Don't be so pessimistic, my dear; Daddy's got plenty of plans."
Kneeling to fetch items from the nightstand, Moriarty chattered idly about how he had somewhat hoped things might turn out this way, but was sufficiently unsure that having Sherlock here, his, and always his even if the darling detective hadn't quite internalized it yet - that this was Christmas, truly. "And you won't have to worry about anyone interrupting us, because I explained to Johnny-boy how much my people are watching and listening to everything he does and how he'll feel if we have to send an unpleasant little film featuring his sister, you know, if he helps the police in any way."
Tying a black silk blindfold over Sherlock's suddenly enraged eyes, Moriarty giggled. "Ohh, you don't like it when I talk about him, do you? Hit a nerve there. Half Scotland Yard thinks you two are fucking, but I know for a fact that you haven't been. He's been chasing every bit of skirt that flits on by, and you lie there on the couch in that blue dressing gown, with your nicotine patches and your frustration with life, not even having a wank to relieve some of the tension. You're like one gorgeous coiled spring. Perhaps it's time to do something about it. No need to thank me."
"Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, no need to be so worried. You're beautiful like this, so lily-white and smooth. New-fallen snow, if I was going to be poetic. Hush now, breathing when and as you like is a privilege and not a right."
The sound of clothes hitting the floor.
"Don't take it personally that I'm not returning the favor of a show; Moran does get jealous after a certain point and it's harder than you would think to find an excellent sniper with few to no moral compunctions who is also smashing in bed."
Moran, Sherlock surmised, was the man who had drugged him. And apparently had some sort of attachment to Moriarty, though Sherlock was not so naive to think it was necessarily romantic. He willed himself to remain pliant and relaxed under unwelcome touch, a sort of passive defiance that also practically kept him from further provoking his captor.
It wasn't easy, though, oh God it wasn't. The strange obsession Moriarty had with nipping various parts of his skin was clearly meant to elicit reaction. As were the deep fingernail gouges Moriarty gleefully dug into Sherlock's chest, which he later kissed as if in apology.
After a long lick that went from Sherlock's navel to the hollow of his breastbone, Moriarty said, "You seem impatient. Enough foreplay? Ready for the main portion?"
At least there was one thing Moriarty didn't know, though. One thing Sherlock could hold onto to spare his dignity.
Or at least he thought so, until Moriarty coupled the first breach of slicked fingers with the whisper, "Never thought your first time would be like this, darling, I'm sure."