Watson had learned to tolerate many things. Toleration was the key to survival when living with Sherlock. If he got mad every time he opened the fridge and found grey body parts next to his favorite lasagna or an eyeball staring back up at him, well, he would just go mad. His time spent as a soldier had also helped him to develop a high tolerance level for he had seen it all in war or rather he thought that he had seen it all and nothing could faze him but when he opened the door to his room that one Saturday evening he realized that no matter what he did or who he was Sherlock would always be able to surprise him in a really bad way. He burst out of his room and stumbled into the sitting room, tripping on the rug outside the door on the way in.
"SHERLOCK! THERE IS A JIM MORIARTY ON MY BED!"
Sherlock didn't even bother to look up from his microscope. He simply adjusted a knob on the side of the machine and continued his still reflections. "Excellent observation, John," he said in a low voice that was often mistaken for a growl. He lifted his eye away from the glass to focus his attention on the tiny knob which, apparently, was much more interesting to him than the villain on his bed according to his expression, "and here I am having to observe horse hair fibers beneath a microscope," he looked up at John with a rather blank expression that John somehow found mocking, "I really don't know how you do it." John shook his head and gestured wildly in the direction of his room. Sherlock raised his eyebrows ever so slightly.
"There…is…a..naked…Jimmoriarty…tied….tomybed posts. Sherlock," John managed between gasps. He bent down and placed his hands on his knees "what is he doing on my bed?"
"I'm being puniiiiiiished!" The sound of Moriarty's sing song voice wafted down the stairs, making John cringe. He knew that he'd never be able to get the image of Moriarty lying naked belly down on his bed with his wrist tied together and a dirty gag lying limp around his neck. Oh, how his eyes had sparkled with sudden pleasure when John had opened the door. Sherlock slammed his hand on the desk and looked up.
"Shut up," he yelled, making John jump and utter a curse that should have never, ever been uttered by a living man. Satisfied by the following silence, Sherlock resumed his exploration of the microscope, seemingly oblivious to John's utter confusion. "He's being punished," he said simply. John stared at him, eyes wide.
"P-punished? On my bed?! Sherlock…you…I…shouldn't you call…uhm…you know what? Here's what I'm going to do." John ran over to the coat rack and grabbed his favorite faux-leather jacket and a warm hat. "I am going to…go outside. Hm. And when I come back…Jim Moriarty will not be on my bed and I will pretend that this whole thing never happened." With that he slammed the door to the small flat. Sherlock looked up from his microscope and sighed. He began ticking off the seconds under his breath.
"Five…four…three…two-" and just like that John burst through the door and shook an angry finger at Sherlock.
"AND MY SHEETS BETTER BE CLEAN!"
Boom. The door slammed behind him.
"Oh, Sherlylocks. Is the little bear gone? You might want to taste this porridge while it's still warm."
Sherlock slowly turned the lights off of his microscope and pushed himself away from his desk, his mind curiously blank. Anyone else in his position would have been at least remotely excited about what he was planning to do to the Consulting Criminal but it was highly unlikely that anyone one else could have ever gotten themselves into this situation.
"Your porridge is getting cold, Sherlock. Don't worry, though, it will still taste the same. All…messy and sweet."
One, two, three, four. Sherlock climbed the stairs at a leisurely pace, his hands behind his back. He might not have heard Jim's racy comment; so composed was his posture. He stopped in front of the door to pick up his riding crop.
"Sherlock!" Moriarty squealed when the man opened the door. He tried to wriggle into an upright position but the cords at his ankles didn't allow for much freedom. He knew that squiggling and squirming would only get him nowhere. He also knew that squiggling and squirming against the white sheets made him look rather sexy. "Where's Johnny-boy?" he asked, watching as Sherlock slowly slipped the scarf from his neck. It, along with Sherlock's trench coat and button up shirt, fluttered to the ground and lay forgotten there for the rest of the night. Sherlock stepped into the dark room and shut the door behind him. "My, my, you're sexy," Moriarty hissed. Sherlock ignored him and moved closer to the bed, his eyes two passionless bullets that bore holes into Moriarty's flesh. "You know, they say three's a crowd but I wouldn't have minded the extra company," the bound man said, adding emphasis to every single letter in the words 'extra company.'
"What happened to your gag?"
"You know, they also say 'the more the merrier. Makes you kinda wonder who 'they' are, doesn't it?'" Sherlock hit him across the face with the riding crop, not too hard but hard enough to serve as a warning. Moriarty looked away and flexed his jaw. His cheek stung and his eyes began to water.
"Call him back, Sherlock," he said, secretly hoping that Sherlock would hit him again, "I'm sure he'll come running. After all, he is your little pet."
"Running?" Jim watched in disappointment as Sherlock leaned the riding crop against Watson's treasured bureau. Sherlock began to run his hands through Moriarty's hair, his finger combing out the fine tresses that Moriarty had worked so hard to maintain. The criminal let his head fall back. He was quite enjoying Sherlock's unloving administrations when suddenly Sherlock yanked his head back and pressed his lips against the man's ear. "John's not like that," he said, speaking quickly, "you, on the other hand. Oh, you…" he chuckled softly. Moriarty could feel his bare chest reverberate against his bare shoulders. Sherlock pulled him back farther, eyeing the jutting, sweaty Adam's apple with pleasure. However, Moriarty's Adam's apple wasn't the only thing that was jutting and sweaty at the moment, "you will run. Isn't that what a child does when they fear punishment from daddy? They run. Oh, I'm sure if I take off these binds you will run far, far away." Sherlock let go of his hair and let his head fall forward onto the plush pillows. Moriarty lay still for a moment, gasping in a sudden euphoria, before craning his neck to stare mockingly at Sherlock over his shoulder.
"No I won't," he said, poking his bottom lip out. Sherlock scoffed. He picked up the discarded riding crop and laid it close to Moriarty's body: another warning. And then, much to the criminal's surprise and delight, Sherlock bent down and began to run his tongue over the taught sinews of his necks. Moriarty sighed – 'oh,' – and closed his eyes again. "You see, Sherlock," he said as Sherlock began using his teeth instead of his tongue. He cried out soundlessly as Sherlock ceased to nibble and began to bite, leaving angry red marks in the form of a signature. "You see, I've been a bad, bad boy lately. You haven't even seen all that I've done - sss, ow, Sherlock! – just wait until you find out about the Anderson murders. I think I deserve a little punishment."
"The Anderson brothers died two years ago, you just found look-alikes and placed their bodies in a catacomb. Now shut up and moan."
Before Moriarty could respond Sherlock had picked up the dirty rag that had been used for a gag and tied it tightly around Moriarty's eyes. Ooh, suspense, Moriarty thought to himself as his hands were yanked behind his back. He felt Sherlock straddle him. The cool fabric of the riding crop slid slowly down his sweaty back. Sherlock was right; he was all but capable of making a daring escape but really now, with all of this attention why the hell would he?
He exhaled in delight when he felt Sherlock's bulge press against his thigh. "Fuck me, Sherlock," he said whispered, "fuck me harder than you've ever fucked with me in your life."