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John knows he is coming even before he steps through the door. He has stayed here long enough to know the signs, yet he stays still in the expensive chair (‘The same color as his old chair’ his mind whispers), sipping tea and reading the new book he found on the bookshelf yesterday (every time he finishes a book, a new one appears, somehow always his favorite kind.)
He hears the sound of doorknob being turned, then the creaking sound of door being opened, follows by a sickening sweet voice. “Oh~ Johnny Boy, I’m home~.” Jim Moriarty sing-songs and John forces himself to look up.
(He knows the consequences of disobedience, never directed at him though, always other people. Innocent people. Jim knows his weakness, too caring for people he doesn’t even know. Complete strangers.
The first time it happened, he cried when the sick bastard turned on the news to an explosion at a secondary school. Their bodies, children’s bodies were disfigured so badly that their families didn’t even recognize them.)
Immediately, John’s blue eyes meet his captor’s black, dark, empty ones.
A wide grin with a hint of madness stretches on his face. The dark hair man tilts his head slightly to one side, eyes boring into John’s.
It is absolutely horrifying.
Lazily, the consulting criminal slumps down on the chair opposite from him, eyes never leaving the ex-army doctor. After a while, he opens his mouth and words dripping from him like poison. “Have you been a good boy while Daddy was away?” He purrs in his fake soft voice, the one that may sound nice and kind and good but John knows it only purpose is to lure you in with false safety, catching you off guard so he can mess with your mind.
John closes his eyes for a moment and tries to calm himself down. He can feel his heart racing in his chest. Living with a psychopath means you have to be careful every single second because you will never know what they are thinking or feeling. He opens his eyes to a manic grin that cause him to shiver. Defeated, John nods slowly.
“Use your words, dear,” Moriarty furrows his eyebrows in disapproval and annoyance, meaning his patience is running out.
John tries his best to cover the grimaces at the pet name but one look on the other man’s face shows that he notices. “Hurry up, dear,” he stresses, causing the doctor to grimace again. “Daddy doesn’t have all day.”
John grits his teeth, no matter how many times this happens, he still feels so wrong, so dirty, and he feels like he is betraying his best friend, his lover, his detective for not being stronger than this, for giving in to this monster that has hurt so many people and continues to do so. But he knows why he has to do this. And that’s what makes it worse.
(“You don’t want me to hurt your precious detective, do you? Because if you want, I can send somebody to his flat now and put a bullet in his pretty little head. How does that sound?”)
“Yes.” The doctor manages to spit out, though he tries to keep the disgust and hatred out of his tone as minimum as possible, which is not much.
Moriarty clicks his tongue loudly in disappointment. “You forget something, Johnny Boy?” He smiles widely, stretches his legs out and crosses his ankles in a relaxing posture.
John closes his eyes again. He can feel the blood rushing to his face in shame, anger and agony, hands gripping the book so tight that his knuckles turn white. The doctor takes a deep breath through his nose.
“Yes,” A pause, “...Daddy.”
He can hear a dark chuckle from the dark haired man, but John couldn’t care less. He feels so violated, even when he has said it so many times before.
“Good boy,” Moriarty coos, sending another wave of anger coursing through John’s body.
John has to restrain himself from just standing up and punching the bastard in the face. John can easily imagine the satisfied crack and the way blood would spill out from his mouth and nose. But in the end, he just sits there, glaring at the dark hair man, eyes burning with fury and revolt, though the other man doesn’t seem to care.
Sitting up and settling back in his chair, Moriarty lazily pats his thighs and smiles up at John through his eyelashes. “Daddy has a long day baby, why don’t you come here and comfort me? Hmm?”
The doctor stays frozen in his spot, not moving a muscle; only his glare seems to be more intense than before.
The consulting criminal’s eyes harden and a hint of warning sparkles dangerously. “Would you rather I seek comfort somewhere else? And unlike with you, dearie, I prefer them screaming in pain.” His face quickly slips back to his casual mask and he smirks. “I know you can do this baby, it’s not like it is the first time.” Moriarty encouragement only makes John’s stomach churn uncomfortably. The bastard must think this is amusing, and from the look of it, he probably does.
After a few moments of glaring, eventually, John stands up, crossing the coffee table and standing in front of the dark hair man. Slowly, very slowly, he lowers himself on Moriarty’s thighs, all the while still glaring murderously at him, and sits on the edge of them. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a pair of arms loops around his waist and pulls him flush against the body in front of him; his knees on either side of the dark hair man’s hips. Caught by surprise, his arms automatically wrap around his captor’s neck for balance.
“Eager, are we?” Moriarty smirks deviously. “Now be a good boy and give Daddy a kiss.” He mockingly licks his lips and John pulls his arms away in disgust, hating himself for giving this monster any sort of pleasure.
Immediately, arms tighten around him again; Jim’s eyes flash something dark and dangerous, making John stop in his tracks, hands half way unhooking themselves so now they are just lying on the other man’s shoulders.
Moriarty shrugs, casts his eyes down and when he speaks, his voice is low and soft, “I thought our training was going soooo well.” He looks up and fakes a small sigh. “I guess my punishments for you were too easy, then.”
John’s blood runs cold. No, no no no no. He can’t let any more people die because of him. Images of burning children and bleeding women and drowning men flash in his mind, guilt and fear washes over him. Before he knows it, he has already surged forward, lips and teeth thrashing against the dark haired man’s. It is a rough kiss at first, but Moriarty pulls away seconds later only to kiss him again, chaste and soft, hands playing with the hem of his jumper (again, very expensive), roaming up and down his lower back. One hand sneaks beneath the soft fabric, feeling the skin there, drawing circles with his thumb slowly and almost tenderly; the other hand moves down to his hips and then, to his horror, cups his left arsecheek, gripping and squeezing slightly. And oh God, he wishes that this psychopath would just be violent toward him, but this? This is just so intimate and for just a moment, he imagines himself back in 221B Baker Street with Sherlock, lazily snogging after a case. But it is so wrong; the fingers aren’t long enough, the body is not warm enough, not tall or lean enough. Everything screams wrong to him, but for his own sanity’s sake, he closes his eyes tight and tries to zone out again, behind his eyelids he imagines grey loving eyes and soft bow lips and wild curly hair.
A hard spank on his bottom brings him back to reality with a gasp, “I want you to stay with me, Johnny.” Then a hand places itself on the back of his neck and pulls his head down to the crook of the younger man’s neck. He feels fingers playing with his hair, scraping his scalp so gently it makes him sick to the stomach. “Sherlock has been such a naughty boy lately, darling.”
From where he is, John feels Moriarty’s head give a small shake of disapproval. Instantly, John freezes. “Do you think I should punish him?” He purrs, hands still caressing John’s bottom.
John let the words sink in. No, not Sherlock. He had, and still was willingly sacrificing everything for the man he loved; he is not going to let this horrible monster hurt Sherlock.
“No, please no,” he whispers desperately and it comes out more like a whimper. Moriarty doesn’t look convinced, just amused and slightly annoyed, so he pushes a little more. “Please…” He hesitates a bit, but obligingly doing this to protect his best friend. “…Daddy.” He removes his head from the other’s neck and looks up, eyes widened a bit to look innocent (Moriarty once told him he looks pretty when he does that, and he plans to use every dirty tricks he got to achieve his goal), fluttering his eyelashes even when his inner thoughts are practically screaming at him to fight, to not surrender. He is a soldier for God’s sake, but he knows, from experience, fighting does not always mean violence. Sometimes you have to fight fire with fire.
With that thought in mind, he swallows his pride and continues his act as best as he can. “Why bother with him when you have me?” He tries to murmur seductively, hands massaging at the nape of Moriarty’s neck, trying hard to shift the attention back to him.
The consulting criminal’s lips curl up into a predatory grin, though his darkened eyes and strained voice betray him. “You care an awfully lot for him, don’t you? Honestly John, I’m jealous.”
And holy shit, John realises with a jolt, the other man actually is jealous, and he has just said the wrong thing.
“Maybe I should bomb that place your little detective loves to go to so much, you know, his little lab? A small punishment for taking your attention away from me?” He hums thoughtfully. “What do you think? Should I do it?”
Lab? St. Bart’s hospital? Oh god.
Unconsciously, names start to running through his mind: Molly, Sarah, all of his colleagues and fuck, what if Sherlock is there when the bomb goes off? And Greg Lestrade, and Sally Donovan, and even Anderson? What if they were there to collect samples and evidence, or if they were simply just there at the wrong time? He can’t let that happen. If they die, he will never be able to live with himself.
So in the end, the doctor gives in. “What do you want me to do then?” mutters John, his voice shaking and lips quivering. His façade falls fast.
Moriarty doesn’t say anything, instead pushing him off his lap and continues to push him by the shoulder down until John is sitting on the floor between the younger man’s legs.
His blood runs cold. It’s obvious what his captor wants, he knows it, but it doesn’t make it any easier. But didn’t he say he would protect Sherlock at all costs? Didn’t he promise himself not to let anybody else get harmed because of him? Is he going to back off like a coward, hoping for people to come rescue him and not doing a damn thing? No, he is going to do this, not for himself, but for the people he cares about the most. Not looking up at the hungry gaze of Moriarty, he nods.
With shaking hand, he starts to unzip Moriarty’s trousers and pulls them down slightly. Taking a deep breath, John puts his hands in the other’s black silk pants. He can do this, the blond man reminds himself, for Sherlock, he repeats in his head. For Sherlock.
He leans forward.
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Sherlock slaps the photo furiously down on the table, head spinning and face red with anger. This is one of those few times when he couldn’t think, though. Hundreds of thoughts run through his mind but nothing actually proceeds the way it should, nothing makes sense.
He feels shame, anger and guilt bubble up inside of him. Is this what it feel like when those idiotic people at the Yard care about the victims? But no, he told himself, this is no victim. This is John, his flatmate, his blogger, his friend, his love.
Unlike the other victims, and John surely is not one, he will do everything to get John back, alive and unharmed. And if he is somehow, not, Sherlock is ready to make sure the bastards who did these things to his John will suffer ten times worse. And as for Moriarty, Sherlock will make that monster beg for his death when the detective is done with him.
Sherlock takes a deep breath and puts his emotions in check. Reluctantly, he picks up the photos again and studies them, trying to find clues to where John is held captive, all the while his stomach is churning.
In the photos, big blue eyes look back at him, full of terror, pain and tears, and like a knife, they stab deep into his heart.