Stop Crying Your Heart Out

By AnonyMouseHatesCaptcha

Rated: Adult - Explicit
Beta: Light_Frost (at Livejournal)
Pairings/Characters: Moriarty/Sherlock
A/N: Based on a kinkmeme prompt, the link is in my profile.

Warnings: Rape, violence, both explicit. You've been warned.

Summary: Moriarty's offer was simple – Sherlock was to go through with his plan and disappear. In return, his friends will stay safe. And then, Sherlock will come to him. First in a series.

The man did not show any resistance when a dark bag was pulled over his head and his hands were bound tightly before him. He did not resist when he was hauled into the back of a van and driven away. He did not fight his captors or question them. Firstly, they would never reply, and he knew who they were working for. Secondly, he had agreed to be taken; the safety of those closest to him depended on it.

Even with their precautions, he had no trouble identifying the route they took. He wouldn't bother if he could help it, but that sort of awareness was second nature to him. It wasn't important. He wouldn't try to escape, and no one would come to get him. They were too busy planning his funeral.

It was with insulting ease the way his world collapsed around him. His self-proclaimed nemesis drove him into hiding, threatening Sherlock with the very people who worked so hard to show him that he could be better, certainly better than the man who was responsible for his current predicament.

He'd been given a choice: die for his friends or watch them die for him. It was all very tragic and maddeningly effective. It was also very predictable, and Sherlock was prepared for it. Or, at least, he thought he was prepared, until Moriarty revealed he knew all about Sherlock's magic trick, and how, with the help of Dr. Molly Hooper, he planned to leap from a six-story building to his supposed death. It was then that Moriarty disclosed the existence of the fourth assassin, and wouldn't you agree Miss Hooper would make a lovely corpse, Sherlock?

Sherlock shut his eyes tightly under the dark bag when he remembered those words, and how Molly's face had looked after the fall, when he assured her that he would be back someday, when Moriarty's web was gone and his name cleared. He asked her if she minded keeping an eye on John while he was gone, had even said please.

He was grabbed not half an hour later.

Moriarty had one last offer to make to Sherlock. He looked so emotional when Sherlock declared them to be the same. Not his usual mad glee or hysterical fury, but genuine, raw emotion. His eyes shone with unshed tears as he shook Sherlock's hand. It was the most frightening thing Sherlock had ever seen.

"You're me," Moriarty said, a little breathlessly. "You're mine."

Moriarty's offer was simple—Sherlock was to go through with the plan and disappear. In return, his friends will stay safe. And then, Sherlock will come to him, away from the influence of his friends and their boring distractions. The angels didn't deserve someone like Sherlock, Moriarty had said to him. He will show Sherlock his true potential; they were the same, the two of them, like peas in a pod. Together they will be magnificent.

"I owe you a fall, Sherlock Holmes. One way or another, I owe you," Moriarty said with a little smile, as he left the rooftop the way he came.

Sherlock Holmes made his last phone call, and jumped.


Night had fallen by the time the vehicle came to a stop besides an innocent-looking cottage, somewhere in the countryside. There was a quaint little village not very far from it, but none of the residents ever paid much attention to the things that happen in that house. But even if they did, tonight there was no one around to be curious, no witnesses to see a man being dragged out of a vehicle, shackled and blinded like in some dramatic Hollywood feature. It was raining heavily that night. The young man and the two burly men who were practically carrying him were thoroughly drenched by the short walk from the road to the cottage.

The door slammed shut behind them, and the man was led down the stairs, barely managing not to slip on the worn concrete steps. The sublevel chamber was sparse, containing only a metal chair bolted to the floor in the middle of the room, a vacant table, and a single locked cupboard. It was cool and damp; a constant water drip could be heard from somewhere in the room.

Sherlock was pushed to the chair unceremoniously; his hands were unbounded and then tied to the chair's arm rests. His shoes were removed, and his legs were tied to the chair legs. He tested the strength of his restraints—they did not budge. He immediately received a punch to his stomach for his minor disobedience. Restraints in place, his captors seemed to be satisfied with him for the time being. They left him there, wheezing, dress shirt sticking to his skin and the bag over his head blocking everything from sight.

The prisoner sighed in resignation. The door slammed behind his two captors as he listened to their retreating footsteps. Eventually the drip-drip sound of the water was all he could hear.

He was shivering from the cold for what seemed like hours, when suddenly furious screams could be heard from the floor above. Something was thrown against the wall and shattered. Whatever was being said couldn't be made out clearly from the cellar, but Sherlock had no doubts over who was making the commotion.

Moments later, the door was slammed open again and a new set of approaching footsteps could be heard hurriedly coming down the stairs.

"I am awfully sorry for this misunderstanding, my dear," Jim murmured as he knelt before Sherlock and worked to release his restraints. "You must understand; good help is so hard to come by these days."

The bag came off last, and Sherlock closed his eyes quickly to ward off the suddenly blinding light; he did not expect the room to be so bright. Jim stood close, and carelessly tossed the bag to the floor. Smiling, he ran his hand through Sherlock's dark curls, attempting to straighten the messy locks. He was rewarded with a sharp jerk of his prisoner's head. When Sherlock's eyes had adjusted to the light well enough to see him, Jim drew back, allowing the shivering man, now free from his restraints, to rise from his seat.

"Look at you, you're shivering. Let's get you out of these wet clothes. We don't want you to catch a cold," Jim said. "Come." He turned and climbed up the stairs, whistling a cheery tune.

Sherlock stood rooted at the spot, staring at the space the other man had just left. Gingerly, he made to follow him. He didn't know what the consulting criminal had in mind, but he hoped it did not involve coming back to visit what was clearly a torture chamber.


The cottage was warm and homely. The furniture was tasteful, lightly worn although obviously expensive. The fireplace was lit, flames cackling softly. There were framed photographs on the wall, and he wondered if they belonged to the people who owned this house before, or if it was just another part of Moriarty's setup. The windows were hidden behind dark, heavy drapes, but Sherlock could still hear the drizzle outside. Somehow, it gave him a small comfort. There was no sign of the henchmen. It wasn't what Sherlock was expecting, but he had learned already not to try and anticipate Moriarty's actions. The man was notoriously unpredictable.

The man in question was waiting for Sherlock at the bottom of another staircase, which he gestured for Sherlock to climb, following closely behind him as he did. A hand came to rest at his waist, and he tugged it off when it started sliding lower, much to the amused chuckling from the man behind him.

The stairway led to a lavish bedroom. He stopped just inside the door, and turned to his captor. "What is this, Jim?"

"Too much? I don't want to spoil you." Jim pushed at Sherlock's shoulders, backing him closer to the bed. "I couldn't resist. I have no self control when it comes to you, my dear," he crooned. "You are my guest, Sherlock. I want you to be comfortable here." His hands slid from Sherlock's shoulders to his chest, and Sherlock grabbed Jim's wrists when his hands started tugging at the buttons of his dress shirt.

"I am not comfortable." He glared at the shorter man.

"Pity. We'll have to work on that." Jim smiled up at him, his face not unkind. "You gave yourself to me, sweetheart. Never forget that. It was for the best, Sherlock, truly it was. You may not see it this way now, but you will soon enough. I promise you."

Jim freed his hands from Sherlock's grip, and stepped back. He wasn't smiling anymore. "But if you need an incentive right now…" He slipped his phone out of his pocket, fingers dancing on the keyboard. "Who will it be? Shame about Mrs. Hudson; such a sweet old lady. Poor John will be simply devastated…"

"Wait. Wait."

Jim stopped texting, and raised his gaze to meet Sherlock's. "I want everything you have, Sherlock. Everything you are. Your body, your mind. You'remine. If anything happens to me…If you do anything that displeases me..." Jim's smile was ugly. "I won't have to kill them right away. I'll bring them to you. In. Pieces."

"Do we have an understanding?" he hissed.

Sherlock nodded, eyes cast downward.

"I didn't quite catch that," Jim said cheerfully.


"Excellent. Now, don't keep Daddy waiting," he said, and Sherlock couldn't help but shudder. "Strip."

He kept his hands steady as he unbuttoned his shirt, deliberately not looking at the man before him. He could practically feel Moriarty's heated gaze on him as his fingers worked the buttons, top to bottom. He inhaled deeply when the last button gave away, and he started to peel off the wet fabric that still clung to his skin. An enraged cry startled him into stopping.

Moriarty was at him in seconds, flattening his palm on the purplish bruise on Sherlock's abdomen. Sherlock winced as the hand pushed violently at the bruise. "What is that?" he screamed in Sherlock's face.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Make a deduction."

The shorter man's breath was labored, left eye twitching erratically. The hand on Sherlock's stomach pushed again, painfully, before Jim dropped it to his side. Sherlock hadn't dared to move with the other man in such close proximity, although he wished to do so desperately.

Moriarty seemed to be deep in thought, and they stayed that way for a few moments until the shorter man exhaled with one last shuddering breath. He smiled up at Sherlock as his rage over whatever it was that had angered him abated.

"We'll have to take care of that later," Jim said, beaming up at Sherlock. "He'll pay for hurting you, Sherlock. I promise." Jim raised a hand to caress Sherlock's cheek; their faces were only a few centimeters apart.

"Kiss me," he ordered.

Sherlock stiffened, his mouth dry; he attempted to swallow, before closing his eyes and reluctantly leaning down to close the distance between them. His hands were fisted, held at the sides of his body awkwardly and he could feel his fingernails involuntarily digging into the skin of his palms. He brushed his dry lips against the other man's. He could feel Jim's smile.

His shirt was slipped over his shoulders and down his arms, and it fell to the hardwood with a wet splat. His skin was still damp from the rain, and he shivered as it came into contact with the air. Jim was pulling on his arms then, wrapping them around his own body so he could bring them closer together. A hand groped his behind and a tongue prodded insistently between his lips. Sherlock could not stop the sound that broke out of him when Moriarty flattened his body fully against him, erection pushing at Sherlock's hip. He broke free of the other man's embrace, arms outstretched in front of him to ward off any further advances.

"This is insane," he panted. "I can't do this."

"Oh, Sherlock," Jim sighed and reached for his inner jacket pocket "I was hoping it wouldn't have to come to this."

Before Sherlock realized what had happened, he was sprayed in the face with an unknown substance. He felt himself hit the floor before everything went dark.


When he came to he was laying on his stomach on the king-sized bed, arms stretched behind his back and tied with some sort of belt. He could feel where it looped around his arms and pressed uncomfortably to his skin.

"Oh, God," he moaned.

"No, just me," the other man supplied; his voice high-pitched and cheerful as he knelt beside Sherlock, the bed dipping with his added weight. Sherlock flinched when a hand came to rest between his shoulder blades. Jim's palms were soft and smooth. He rarely worked with his hands. He moved to straddle Sherlock's thighs, and Sherlock realized with a jolt that the other man had undressed. Sherlock himself was dressed only in his pants; his trousers were taken off when he was unconscious.

His captor began to pull down the pants, and Sherlock struggled and buckled in a mad attempt to push the other man off. Moriarty had a fistful of his hair in one hand; the other working insistently on stripping Sherlock bare. He felt a sharp slap at his backside but didn't cease his struggles.

"No, no," he gasped out.

He was hauled around roughly to lie on his back, and was immediately slapped harshly across the face. A hand squeezed at his throat. Sherlock knew his eyes were wild and frightened but found he did not much care about maintaining his calm exterior, not in his current condition. He could feel blood dripping from his split lip.

"That is enough. Let's not forget what, my dear, is at stake here," Moriarty growled, and crushed his mouth against Sherlock's, lapping up the blood and leaving behind sloppy, open mouthed kisses.

"You have so much to lose, my love," he murmured as he drew back slightly, mouthing the words against Sherlock's lips. He started planting wet kisses on Sherlock's face, his face flushed and hot against him.

"Look at you," Moriarty whispered breathlessly in his ear. He moved to kiss under Sherlock's jaw, sucking gently on the skin there; his hand twisted painfully in Sherlock's hair. "I've dreamed of this for so long, Sherlock."

Sherlock gasped. He was lying painfully on his bound arms, and could not claw at the vice-like hand gripping his throat. He was beginning to see dark spots in his vision when Moriarty released him, and Sherlock coughed, trembling. His eyes were wet, and Jim brushed his thumb at the corner of Sherlock's eye, catching the wetness there.

"Can you feel how hard I am?" Moriarty moaned. Sherlock suppressed a whimper when the man raked his fingernails against his side. He froze when Jim shuffled backwards, his face level with Sherlock's groin. Sherlock was ashamed to realize that he was half hard, and this time he could not suppress the whimper when Jim grasped his cock in hand.

"Very nice," the man murmured. "Just for me? Awww, honey, you shouldn't have."

Sherlock's eyes squeezed shut when Moriarty took him in his mouth. His tears were running free now. He was crying for the second time in less than 24 hours. Pathetic, it must be a new record. He concentrated on staying absolutely still as the man worked him, tried to distance himself from the sensations. He knew that this was a body's natural reaction to stimuli, yet he couldn't help but feel disgusted at his body's betrayal. He came with a shudder, toes twisting in an unconscious display of shame.

Jim slithered up his body until his face was level with Sherlock's. Jim kissed him languidly, and Sherlock could taste himself on the other's tongue.

"Mmmm," the man moaned. And then, "My turn."

Sherlock's blood turned to ice in his veins.

He was flipped back to lie on his belly, didn't struggle. The pull on his upper arms from the bounds was unbearable, and he could barely feel his hands. His body felt sluggish, useless. What was more frightening was that he couldn't think straight.He racked his brain, trying to come up with a solution, any way that would get him out of this, any way to convince the madman on top of him that whatever this was, it wasn't worth it. He couldn't think of anything. The white noise in his head was deafening. He suspected he might be in shock.

A knee came to rest on the small of his back. He grunted, face planted against a soft pillow, and he turned his head sideways, breathing through his mouth, the sound loud in his ears. His nose was clogged and his face wet.

"There, there," the man above him crooned, "you're doing so well, my love." He petted Sherlock's hair, fingers massaging his scalp. The hand tightened in his hair suddenly, pulling, and Sherlock winced.

The hold on his hair relaxed, and he heard the man's long exhale. The pressure on his lower back eased. Sherlock could hear Jim moving about in the room, but his respite only lasted a few precious moments. A knee nudged between his thighs and he moaned in distress, felt the other man kneeling between his spread legs. Moriarty kneaded his backside with both hands, groaning in approval. A pillow was pushed between his belly and the mattress.

"I'm honoured, you know," Jim said, his voice rough and deeper than usual. "To be the first to have you." Sherlock's breath hitched. "I am the first, aren't I? And the last."

A lubricated finger prodded against him before slipping inside, quickly followed by another. His insides twisted uncomfortably with the invasion. He tried to pull away but found he couldn't bring himself to move. A third finger was shoved in roughly, and he whimpered.

"Shhhh, relax," the man above him supplied, as his fingers massaged and lubricated his hole.

The hand pulled back, the sound echoing wetly in the room. Jim shifted, and Sherlock could hear a wrapper being torn. A half choked scream escaped from his mouth when the man pushed into him with one rough move. He was shaking uncontrollably now.

"Sorry," Moriarty intoned. He stayed absolutely still, fully sheathed inside the other man as Sherlock shook beneath him. A few seconds later he started to move, grunting with each of his thrusts. A hand settled once again in Sherlock's hair and he was maneuvered to his knees. The hand lowered to grip the back of Sherlock's neck, and his face was pushed against the mattress while he struggled for breath.

"I'm going to have to think up a new nickname for you," Moriarty laughed before he leaned down to bite at whatever piece of Sherlock he could reach, drawing up blood as he did. His movements turned wilder, frantic. Fingernails dug and scratched at Sherlock's pale flesh.

This can't be happening,Sherlock thought to himself, madly. Maybe he had died and gone to hell. He tried to laugh, but it came out more of a sob.

Jim came with a shudder and a yell.


Jim collapsed on top of him. "Fuck me," he gasped out, and kissed the back of Sherlock's neck.

"Your arms must be killing you," Jim said after some time, "let's make you more comfortable, okay?" He unhooked the belt binding Sherlock's forearms together. There were reddened, angry marked where the belt cut into Sherlock's flesh, and Jim rubbed at the skin there, trying to bring back some of the lost circulation.

He gripped Sherlock by his shoulders to twist him around, and then pulled him up by his upper arms—like a rag doll—into a sitting position, rubbing the stretched muscles under his palms. He slipped his hands lower to circle Sherlock's waist. He pushed him backwards until Sherlock's back was supported by the headboard. Sherlock was trembling, eyes downcast; resolutely not looking at the other man.

Moriarty leaned forward slowly, his eyes closed, intending to place a kiss on Sherlock's bruised lips. He missed when Sherlock turned his face away, landing on a wet cheek instead. Jim laughed soundlessly; Sherlock could feel the rumble of it in his bones. "Now is not the time to start feeling shy, my love."

"Stop calling me that." Sherlock was taken aback by the hoarseness of his own voice. "Just…stop. Please."

His chin was lifted, and he closed his eyes, refusing to meet the other man's stare. Another hand wiped at the wetness on his cheeks.

"It's all right," Jim said, softly. "It's over now. You did great." A kiss was planted on his mouth; he didn't bother to dodge that one. "Let's get you cleaned up. That'll feel good. Come on."

Sherlock's legs felt like jelly, and he had to partially lean on the other man when he was pulled to his feet. Jim placed one of Sherlock's arms over his shoulder, and placed his own hand on Sherlock's waist, supporting him as they walked. He led them to the adjacent bathroom in small, measured steps, mumbling reassurances all the way.

Sherlock was dazed. He hurt all over, sore in ways he didn't want to think about. He felt like he was sleepwalking. Before he knew it, he was standing under a hot spray of water, the warmth countering his shivers for the moment. The other man was still talking, but Sherlock couldn't quite make out his words. Moriarty stood pressed behind him, holding Sherlock in the loose circle of his arms.

Sherlock dropped his head, chin pressed to his chest, and noted the blood going down the shower drain.

They stayed in the shower until their skin began to prune. Jim had washed Sherlock's hair, fingers massaging his scalp as he rinsed out the shampoo and conditioner. It was the same brand Sherlock used at home; he didn't want to know how Jim knew that. He soaped and cleaned his skin, placed small, quick kisses on his bruises. He held each of Sherlock's hands in his own and hugged him close, pulling him into his embrace and rubbing his face between Sherlock's shoulder blades.

He wrapped Sherlock in a bathrobe and steered him back into the bedroom, pushed him gently to sit on the bed. He towel-dried Sherlock's hair, and combed it, working out the tangles gradually. When he was done, he pulled the bathrobe away, inspecting every centimeter of Sherlock's flesh intently.

"B-R-B," Jim sang ludicrously, and left the room, only to return shortly with a bottle of TCP and a packet of cigarettes in hand. He sat down on the bed next to Sherlock and dabbed at his cuts and bruises with the antiseptic, taking extra care of the bite marks. He hummed as he worked. Sherlock hadn't acknowledged him once.

Once he was satisfied, he dressed them both in clean cotton pajamas. Jim pulled out a cigarette and a lighter from the box. He waved the cigarette in front of Sherlock's face. "Just this once," he offered.

Sherlock ignored him. Eyes fixed elsewhere.

"Come on," Jim intoned, drawing out the last syllable. "You know you want to."

He sighed when Sherlock made no move to accept his offer, but didn't press on.

Tossing the packet away, Jim beckoned for Sherlock to lie back on the bed. He smiled and shook his head when Sherlock hesitated.

"Lie back. It's all right," Jim said, hand flat on Sherlock's chest, and pushed him down. He brought the covers from where they'd been kicked onto the floor and placed them over Sherlock, tucking them around the motionless man.

"Sleep," he ordered, and kissed Sherlock's forehead. "Sweet dreams, my dear."

Sherlock watched as Jim tuned off the light and shut the door behind him when he left the room. He sighed, and turned to lie on his side, bringing his knees close to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. He thought bitterly of his bed in Baker Street.

Sherlock did not know when he'd fallen asleep, but he woke up some time later when a weight settled behind his back. Jim drew him back into his arms, spooning him from behind.

"Hush," he whispered in Sherlock's ear. "It's just me." The man placed a kiss at his nape, and Sherlock shivered. It was some time before sleep took him again, although he wondered how.


The next morning he awoke to find himself alone. For a moment, he wondered what he was doing in this strange bedroom before his brain woke up fully and he remembered. He swallowed. He needed to wash his mouth. He stood up on shaking legs, wincing as he did from the dull pain. He had no idea how long he'd slept.

Sherlock brushed his teeth in the adjacent bathroom, and gave himself a once over in the mirror. He was a mess. His lips were swollen and he could see several bruises forming on his skin. He could just make out the formation of teeth marks etched into his neck. The skin under his eyes was puffy and his eyes were red-rimmed. He looked as if he hadn't slept at all. He rubbed at his eyes with his knuckles, and brushed his teeth again.

He wasn't alone in the house; he could hear movements coming from downstairs and he debated whether he should come down or not. He decided to go down, preferring to do so under his own volition rather than waiting to be fetched.

He gripped at the railing as he took the stairs, listening closely for any movements. His bare feet were cold on the steps. He jumped when Moriarty appeared, crossing his line of vision and disappearing into the next room. He was on his mobile, screaming at the person on the other line for wasting his time with trifles.

He appeared again at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at Sherlock with a frown. "You're awake." He stated the obvious, and shoved his mobile into the pocket of his red dressing gown. His face softened.

"Tea?" he asked.

He didn't wait for Sherlock's reply and wandered away. Sherlock watched him go with a bemused expression.

He walked into the main sitting room. It looked much the same way by day as it did by night, the heavy drapes allowing almost no sunlight to pass through. The fireplace had been extinguished during the night, and Sherlock was startled as he examined the photographs on the mantelpiece, which weren't there the previous night (or maybe he just didn't notice. Stupid.)

They were all his.

Rather, they were pictures from his family home; he recognized images of himself as a schoolboy, staring unsmiling at the camera. His parents' wedding photo was there, as well as photographs from various family vacations they took when he was young. His mother's smiling face looked back at him from the faded pictures.

He turned to examine the other photographs hanging from the walls. He hadn't given much thought to those last night, but he realized he recognized the small boy featured prominently in all of them, grinning brightly at the camera.

"Two sugars?" Sherlock jumped, startled by Jim's sudden appearance.

He accepted the teacup, but did not move to drink it. Jim smiled at him crookedly. "It's really just tea. Cross my heart." He gave Sherlock a once over. "You can sit down if you like."

Still watching the other man, Sherlock sat down on the leather sofa; he took a small sip from his tea and winced as the hot liquid burned his bruised lip. He set it aside on the coffee table before him, and brought his knees to his chest.

The front door was suddenly flung open. A man was dragged inside, kicking and screaming behind his gag. Sherlock stared at the display dispassionately.

"Put it right over here, boys!" Moriarty gestured animatedly toward the cellar. The man's mad grunts disappeared behind the heavy door. Rolling his eyes, he told Sherlock, "Amateurs. Finish your tea; you'd want to get ready."

"For what?"

"Our next case," Jim said cheerfully. "We're going to have so much fun!"

Sherlock regarded the other man for a long time. "You're completely mad," he said, emotionlessly.

The man's answer was a face-splitting grin. Then, "Drink your tea."

"What," Sherlock continued, voice dangerously flat, "precisely,is the point to all of this?" He gestured at the framed photographs on the mantelpiece. "What am I doing here? Besides warming your bed? You don't honestly expect me to help you—" He drew a sharp breath,"—what, take over the world?" he said mockingly.

Moriarty was on him in seconds, and Sherlock gasped, arms raised defensively in front of him.

"Don't," he croaked. Moriarty's face was centimeters away from his own and his eyes were wild, teeth bared. He felt the other man's hot breath on his face. They stayed this way for several tense moments before Moriarty released his grip and backed away. Sherlock hugged his knees close to his chest.

"Oh, all right," Jim said, rubbing his hand over his face in exasperation. "I know what will make you feel better." He walked out of sight, shouting so Sherlock could still hear. "I was saving this for a special occasion…"

He emerged, grinning widely, holding a bright rectangle package in his arms. A huge red bow was sitting at its top. "I guess you could call this our anniversary." He kissed Sherlock's cheek, and set the package at his feet. "Happy anniversary! Open it!"

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously. He lowered his feet back to the floor. Gingerly, he pulled at the bright red bow, and ripped the cheerful wrappings off. Numbly, he stared at the leather case that had been revealed. He took a deep breath and opened it.

It was a brand-new violin. Sherlock placed his face in his palms and laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

A/N: The sequel "The Light That Shines Behind Your Eyes" has now been posted.