My God, how good is Game of Shadows? Great to be back in the Sherlock Holmes fandom :)

In response to this prompt on the shkinkmeme: Reichenbach AU, wherein Holmes and Moriarty actually physically have a real go at the fight they were gearing up for (as in they actually get into the fists-flying, injury-aggravating, hauling-Holmes-up fight, instead of just.. astral projecting it or something). What neither of them foresaw/initially planned on was Moriarty getting all hot under the collar from once again having bright, brilliant Holmes (who did just ruin his master plan, after all) suffering under his hands. So then Moriarty takes what he wants.

Check Mate.

At last. The final chapter. And it had all come down to this very moment.

Holmes stood, facing his greatest foe, their chess game all but forgotten as each man summed up the others strengths and weaknesses. Holmes' heart was hammering against his chest. This was it. This was what it had all come down to. Two incredible minds, locked in battle, to the end. So much at stake. For Moriarty, he was fighting to keep his fortune, his power and for him, that was everything. For Holmes, Moriarty had once again threatened the life of his most dearest friend in the world. And Holmes knew, with certain clarity, that any threat made against John Watson by Moriarty would be seen through, if not by the evil man himself, then by Moran, or another of Moriarty's many allies.

Holmes was fighting for all he held dear. He was fighting to save Watson, and his new bride. He would not, could not, let either of them down. He had to prevail, there was no alternative. Because even to imagine the alternative was sending shivers down his spine.

And Moriarty noticed this, and smiled coldly.

A shooting pain from his shoulder remained Holmes of just how precarious his situation was. He had already been tortured by this man, brutally. And although he had planned for it to happen, it still horrified him to remember how it had felt. The pain, the panic, the helplessness. To be at the mercy of another man, especially this man, was not an experience he planned on repeating. And that was why it was imperative he chose his next move well.

Success was the only option.

And he knew Moriarty was thinking the same thing. He wanted revenge, cold and simple. He wanted to make Holmes pay, not only for the money he had lost, but also for the game he had been defeated in. As far as Moriarty was concerned, he had lost the battle, but he did not intend to lose the war.

They eye balled each other, Holmes' trusty pipe to his lips, drawing the smoke up and into his lungs, planning his first move. But Moriarty took the moment from him.

The larger man grabbed for Holmes, knocking the smaller man back, making him lose the hold on his beloved pipe, and then grabbing viciously for his injured shoulder. Holmes was ready though, having anticipated the attack, and he retaliated with a punch of his own, striking his enemy on the jaw, gaining him a cry, which he find himself revelling in as he watched Moriarty stumbling back.

This was his chance.

For Watson. He had to take it.

Holmes, with a shout, sprung forward and attacked Moriarty ferociously. He no longer cared about repercussions for him, or what might happen to him should one of Moriarty's gang witness what was occurring. He had to keep Watson and Mary safe, they were all that mattered. He hit out again at his enemy but this time, Moriarty was ready and parried the blow easily. They grappled for some time, both men throwing punches and each gaining the upper hand over the other before a well aimed kick or fist would bring the other back on equal terms once more. They threw each other around the small enclosed space, until Holmes, by the grace of whatever God was looking down on him, found himself placed on top of the other man, and, lost in the adrenalin pumping through his veins, and the knowledge that victory hear would all but ensure Watson's safety, he began to beat on his rival, wanting to kill him. He rained down blow after blow on that hated and just as he could feel Moriarty beginning to still and could almost taste his certain victory, Moriarty suddenly came back to life. It seemed he had planned and picked his moment perfectly. Of course he had. Holmes would have done the same.

Timing it to perfection, he suddenly grabbed one of Holmes' wrists in his strong grasp and squeezed. As Holmes was suddenly concerned with freeing his captured hand, he forgot to defend his injured shoulder, allowing his enemy to take full benefit, and Moriarty surged up, forcing his other hand down hard on Sherlock's wound.

The howl of pain that was torn from Holmes filled the small area, and Moriarty clamped a hand over the other man's mouth, grimaced, and stole a concerned look towards the exit.

No one appeared. No one had heard.

And now, Moriarty had the upper hand.

Keeping his hand pressed down on Sherlock's shoulder, Moriarty kept pushing until the other man was laying on the ground beneath him, eyes tightly closed and teeth gritted. He pinned him there, staring down at him. Holmes could tell, through his agonised haze, that Moriarty was debating what his next move would be. As Holmes gazed back, he was troubled to see something unexpected in Moriarty's cold eyes.

Lust.

And yearning.

Moriarty's breathing had changed too, it was now coming out in short, wheezy gasps. And it didn't take a man of Sherlock's intelligence to figure out why.

Moriarty was aroused.

Sherlock moaned, struggling again, trying to dislodge the man on top of him, but Moriarty clung on. He was not about to give up his position easily. He knew he had Holmes exactly where he wanted him.

Holmes' blood ran cold when he felt the other man's hands moving underneath his shirt, softly caressing his chest. Sherlock writhed, trying to escape those touches, but he knew it was useless. He was held fast. And then, he let out a low sob as the hands went lower.

Just to prove how in control he was, Moriarty slammed his fist down onto Holmes' shoulder.

Pain exploded around Sherlock, and the world seemed to grow darker for him. He couldn't focus on anything but the torture. It hurt so much more than even it had when the hook itself had skewered him. And as he lay there, gasping, Moriarty took full advantage, rubbing at Holmes' groin, and smiling coldly. He then lifted the smaller man right of the ground, and then stumbled forward against the hard brick wall, groaning loudly as he felt Holmes unwillingly rub against him in a certain way. Once he had Holmes pinned against the wall, exactly how he wanted him, he then proceeded to touch Holmes up and down his chest, enjoying the small whimpers this caused.

Those cruel, abusive hands, the hands Holmes was still now desperate to get away from, fumbled around Holmes' trousers, trying desperately to relieve him of the unwanted garments. Finally, Moriarty had achieved his aim and Holmes found himself exposed, the icy cold air freezing on his bare skin. The other man, panting and gasping, then set to work on his own clothes, freeing the catch and pulling them down. He then grabbed for Holmes once more, holding him so tightly, Holmes was certain he would leave marks.

Then, and this whole situation was moving so fast, in fact so fast that even Holmes' ever sharp mind was having problems keeping up. He looked up to see that Moriarty was spitting on three fingers, taking them lower, and his stomach churned. Suddenly, those same fingers were sliding underneath Holmes, at last finding the tight circle of muscle, pushing them through and dropping the smaller man on to them, allowing gravity to take over, forcing Holmes take the intruding fingers inside of him without choice.

Holmes' shocked cry reverberated around the small area, echoing off the walls. Moriarty scowled and reached up, gripping hold of Holmes hair and forcing his head back against the wall. This was to much for Holmes, as if he wasn't already in enough pain thanks to Moriarty's continued attack on his injured shoulder, now he had this new horror to contend with too.

"Stop," he moaned. He didn't want to plead, or beg. He hadn't before, when that damned Meat hook had been plunged into his shoulder. Moriarty would be very disappointed if Holmes' pleas were what he longed to hear.

Holmes would not give him the satisfaction.

But Moriarty was paying very little attention to Holmes' reactions. He merely thrusted his fingers in further, and deeper, preparing his enemy for what he was about to do next.

"Are you ready, Holmes?" Moriarty breathed. His voice was husky with desire.

No. Holmes wanted to yell. Watson, where are you? Help me. Save me.

The fingers slowly found their way out of his warmth, leaving a gaping hole, and a small trail of blood there. The uncaring, freezing night air rushed in, and turned Holmes' insides into an icy burn.

"Wait!" Holmes tried. "Don't do this." He struggled then, and thrashed against his foe, only succeeding in increasing Moriarty's excitement ever further as he rubbed against the other man's arousal.

"What is wrong?" Moriarty whispered. He was clearly amused by his adversary's distress. "Does this not excite you, my friend? For it does me."

"Don't do this to me." Holmes could only manage in reply.

"Are you scared, Holmes?" Moriarty purred. "Do you regret your actions, now? Do you finally appreciate how foolish you were to set your powers against mine?" He leaned in closer. "Tell me, where has it got you? Where has it got your loved ones?"

Irene. Her face was before his eyes. No. Holmes didn't want to see her. He pushed her once more to the back of his mind. Where should would stay forever. The woman. Safe, and unharmed.

Moriarty waited for his reaction but when he got none, he continued on. "And what of your friends, Holmes? Or should that be "friend?" Where is your brave knight now? Where is your precious doctor?"

Holmes actually whimpered.

Moriarty laughed. It was music to his ears, hearing Holmes suffer.

That suffering was just beginning.

Holmes threw back his head and screamed in agony as the bigger, thicker and longer intrusion was forced inside. Moriarty again clamped his sweaty hand over Holmes' mouth, silencing his cries.

Releasing Holmes' weight, and once more letting gravity do it's work, the evil man then threw back his head back in ecstasy, as Holmes slid down, hard and fast, right onto his pulsing cock.

Holmes had to say it. He couldn't stand it. This was far worst than the hook. This was true torture. And he wanted it over.

This was about so much more than pain. This was to shame and humiliate him.

This was to take away his very innocence. To taint his very soul.

"Please," he whimpered, barely audible thanks to the hand covering his mouth, which was quickly withdrawn.

"Say it again," Moriarty hissed, and thrusted again ever harder.

Holmes sobbed. "Please, stop this!"

There it was. The exact word Moriarty had been waiting for and he growled in satisfaction.

Holmes couldn't bear it. The burn from being stretched too far, too quickly left the stricken detective feeling as if he was being ripped apart.

Soon, Moriarty was picking up a rhythm, jerking Holmes up with his hips, and then letting him crash back down, going as deep as humanely possible, and at the same time, practically tearing Holmes open.

Each downward slide was complete agony for Holmes. Every time the man impaled him, it took his breath away. His voice felt raw and strained, and he couldn't cry out, or call for help. Whenever he tried, it merely came out in soft groan.

Even if he could shout for help, he wondered if he'd want to be found, in the position he was trapped in. Did he want Watson to see him like this? Could he handle what the sight would do to his dear friend? No, he couldn't. Better to stay quiet, and suffer alone. At least that way, he was the only one suffering.

He closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift away, finding himself somewhere where he could hide, where he could be safe with Watson. In his minds eye, it was Watson holding him but in a loving and tender way, not causing him pain and degradation. He was somewhere he didn't have to face the facts that his body was being used in the cruelest and most humiliating manner by his greatest enemy. It seemed to Holmes to last for an eternity, though he had lost all true sense of time. His senses were all failing him, as was his keen mind. He was glad of this. Block it out, pretend it wasn't happening. Finally, Holmes found himself being dragged back from his dream-like state by some heavy and extra painful thrusts, deeper than ever, and then a sudden warm rush that flooded his insides, staining him to his very core. At last, it was over, and Holmes found himself falling, having finally been released by the other man and he dropped, like a stone, onto the cold, hard, balcony floor.

After a moment's pause, as he tried to digest what had just happened to him, Holmes looked up and stared at the man now towering above him.

Moriarty was smirking.

"Do you know what this makes you, Holmes? Do you realise what you have become?" He reached down, grabbed Sherlock by his lapel, and hurled him up to hiss in his ear. "You are a whore. This is the last act of the great Sherlock Holmes! And don't you worry, I will see to it that everyone is aware of what occurred between us on this night. The night that you met your doom, dear Holmes." And then he threw Sherlock across the balcony, until he crashed into the small wall, the sound of the falls crashing down just below him.

Moriarty stalked over to him, delighting in how Holmes recoiled away. Pulling him up again, he was nose to nose with his defeated equal then, revelling in his small whimpers of distress. "And, I give you my word, I will see to it that John Watson not only learns of this encounter in great detail, but I will personally ensure that he gets to experience the same pleasures himself. Over and over again." He chuckled coldly. "He, and his new bride."

Holmes eyed him, knowing for certain that every word was the truth.

He would not let it happen. He could still protect Watson. Despite the pain he was in. He could push his suffering to one side, and do what he must. With his last breath, he would protect the man he loved...

Holmes lunged forward, actually still managing to surprise his foe, as Moriarty believed him beaten. A fatal error.

Grasping hold of Moriarty, he went to pull them both backwards, forcing the pair of them over the small wall, the only defence from a fall which would mean certain death to both men. Holmes could sense Moriarty's shock, that Holmes had the strength for one final flourish, and his obvious panic as he, unbalanced, fought vainly against Holmes' hold. Just as Holmes prepared for one last surge of energy, he heard a noise, looked up quickly, and then froze.

Watson was emerging from the entrance. Pure shock and disbelief etched on his face as he took in the horrifying scene before him.

Time seemed to stand still.

Holmes wanted to say so much. He wanted to tell him that this was for him, and that he would be safe now.

He wanted to tell him he was proud of him, proud to be his friend.

He wanted to tell him that he loved him.

But the seconds were ticking by and he had no time left. It had run out.

Holmes closed his eyes, a feeling of inexplicable calm washing over him, and he took a deep breath.

And then, with the imprint of Watson's face burnt onto his brain for the rest of eternity, Sherlock Holmes flung himself and Moriarty backwards, throwing him and his enemy, and rapist, over the wall and into the hellish chasm below.

~FIN~