Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or the characters, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Arthur Conan Doyle do respectively.
Story: Inspired by I Want to be Someone, but I Don't Know How by Phantomreviewer on Livejournal, I set out to attempt my own dirty fic based on the end scene in The Great Game. Contains spoilers for The Great Game, sort of. Rated M for sex and voyeurism-ish. Sherlock/John ish.
The swimming pool. The water reflected by the lights onto the surrounding walls would have been beautiful any other day, but tonight they seem sinister to Sherlock, a symbol of Moriarty's presence, hidden but watching.
He takes a step, then another, then stops.
John.
Wearing a giant parka?
Sherlock's mouth falls open to say something, his confusion rising as John steps forward. He's kitted out with explosives. And as Sherlock's face snaps up to read John's expression he sees a deep fear hidden beneath an emotionless mask.
Moriarty.
Sherlock's hand begins to shake by his side as John speaks. "Evening, Sherlock. I bet you weren't expecting to see me," he continues, when Sherlock doesn't respond. "No, don't move," he adds quickly, as Sherlock steps forward. His movement dies as a red laser flickers up and down John's torso.
"John...? I don't understand," Sherlock says faintly.
"Don't understand? What could the great Sherlock Holmes possibly not understand?" John's smile is mocking, but it isn't real, as if his face is being manipulated by invisible strings, like a puppet.
"Moriarty," Sherlock says aloud as he realises.
"Bravo, Sherlock," John replies, and he begins to clap. It is this gesture that makes it clear his every word and action is under Moriarty's command.
John moves unexpectedly and Sherlock's head twists to follow him. "What are you doing?"
"Ah, ah, ah!" Moriarty's voice can finally be heard to resound through the swimming pool from a speaker, and Sherlock can picture him wagging a finger mockingly. "Just sit back and enjoy the show, darling! Consider it my masterpiece."
Sherlock hears a click from behind him, and catches a glimpse of silver. Handcuffs. John is restraining him with handcuffs. Making him even more defenceless than he already is.
Sherlock feels the burning anger rising in him and as John walks back around to stand in front of him, the red laser beam dancing mockingly up and down his body, he calls out.
"Why don't you come out and face me, Moriarty? An intellectual test?"
"My dear Sherlock," John speaks again suddenly with Moriarty's words, unnerving Sherlock. "I've already beaten you. Can't you see that? I've got the thing most..." John's face twists unhappily to place emphasis on the word – "precious, to you, all decked up and ready to blow to kingdom...come."
In the silence that lingers next, John's eyes meet Sherlock's, full of apology. They anger Sherlock. This is his fault, not John's. His own idiocy frustrates him. But he can't let it show. He must not let Moriarty see.
"What do you want?" The words are a whisper on his lips. A surrender.
He can feel Moriarty's satisfaction in the air all around him and John. "You're going to put on a little show for me, Sherlock," he says through the speakers. "You see, earlier, I had a little talk with John Watson, and he happened to tell me how much he likes you. Wants to fuck you." The words are an uncomfortable blow to Sherlock. He can't bring himself to meet John's eye and try to see if it's a bluff. He shifts uncomfortably against the handcuffs as Moriarty goes on.
"And see, I thought that what with him risking his life for you all the time, he deserved a little reward."
Sherlock finally dares to meet John's eye and sees panic there which no doubt reflects his own expression. He sees John swallow, then murmur in a low defeated tone – "Suck my cock, Sherlock."
Anger rages through Sherlock. "Leave him out of this!" he shouts up to wherever Moriarty is sitting, watching.
"Ah, but Sherlock," he responds over the tannoy once more. "He seems to be the easiest way to get to you. To beat you. I'll let you take that parka off, as a compromise."
Hearing his heartbeat pass the silence, Sherlock realises with a mundane panic that he has to do as Moriarty says. He's trapped, cornered, like a rabbit being hunted with a rifle. He turns, so that John can release him from the handcuffs, which fall to the floor with an unpleasant sound, then spins back to push the parka off John and throw it as far away as is physically possible.
They eye each other fearfully, the task at hand looming.
"Why don't you start with a kiss?" Moriarty's sly suggestion rings out painfully loud into the room. The blare of the speakers makes his announcement seem uncomfortably public, even though Sherlock is sure Moriarty is alone.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Sherlock chokes out, his pale hand finally free to rise up to John's cheek as he leans in and presses his lips against John's.
"Come on, boys, like you mean it!" Moriarty cries out impatiently as Sherlock pulls back awkwardly. "You're supposed to be making him hard, Sherlock!"
Annoyed and helpless, Sherlock leans in again to resume the kiss. It is awkward, clumsy, but in spite of this invisible arch enemy commanding them, Sherlock hears John gasp a few minutes later and feels a hardness pressing against his leg.
"Sorry," John murmurs, his eyes downcast and shame burning his cheeks as Sherlock awkwardly gets to his knees, cursing Moriarty over and over.
"I told you he wanted you, didn't I?" Moriarty smirks, invading the room. "Sherlock Holmes, the man who can deduce anything, cannot deduce when his own partner is attracted to him?"
Sherlock closes his eyes a moment, determined to block out Moriarty's mocking, then opens them, confronted with a fly to unzip. John twists his body around a little, obviously aiming to retrieve a shred of privacy, as Sherlock pushes his jeans down a little, then his navy blue boxers to pull out his hard cock. He feels his own arousal mingling inside him with fear and rage.
He has never done this before, and is grateful that John closes his eyes and turns his head away slightly, as he lowers his mouth to begin sucking awkwardly. It takes longer than he expected, no doubt John's embarrassment and shame preventing him from reaching a climax, so Sherlock begins to apply more pressure, sliding his tongue along the length, his eyes automatically closing in shame as he imagines Moriarty watching from above.
Finally John begins to emit soft, breathless gasps. His legs are shaking uncontrollably now, so Sherlock supports them with an arm, allowing John to arch so that his cock goes right to the back of Sherlock's throat. He pulls back just before Sherlock gags and with a shiver, comes into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock allows him to rest against his head as he turns to spit the liquid to the floor, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He realises that despite everything, he too is now hard, and climbs shakily to his feet.
"Sorry, sorry," John mutters, trying to do up his fly, but his hands are shaking too. Sherlock goes to help him.
"Moriarty's probably masturbating as we speak," Sherlock says quickly, his mouth twisting with bitterness as he spoke. "Let's get out of here."
Surely enough, as they quickly survey the swimming pool, they saw that the red laser had fallen to a fixed point on the floor, as if to indicate that Moriarty was no longer controlling it. Stumbling out the nearest door into the cold night, John's hand went to his phone.
"We need to call the police."
"No point," Sherlock says abruptly, cutting John off from unsteadily trying to turn his mobile on.
"What? Sherlock – "
"By the time they get here, Moriarty will be long gone. Trust me." Suddenly conscious of an aftertaste, Sherlock's hand automatically moves to wipe his mouth again. Noticing, John's eyes lower, filling with tears.
"This is my fault."
"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock snaps instantly. "It was my stupidity that put you in that god awful situation!"
"I shouldn't have told him, though," John replies. "I should have known that he would use my feelings against you! I didn't think," he finishes, defeated.
"I, I thought he made that up," Sherlock flounders.
John shakes his head slowly. Then, incredibly he is managing a smile despite all that has happened.
"I'm sorry." Sherlock pulls John into a tight embrace, afraid suddenly that he'll be snatched away again into the darkness of the night.
"At least...at least I got to kiss you," John murmurs into Sherlock's chest.
Sherlock pushes him back, to meet his gaze. "And I you." Slowly, he leans in once more, to deliver a real kiss this time, not a forced meeting of lips, but a gentle touch.
"Let's get out of here," John said, and Sherlock didn't even have to nod in agreement as they began to walk from the scene, shaken, but together.