"The Little Game"
John sat in his armchair, staring into a scene miles away and days past. The apartment lay quiet and still-yet tense, like an animal lightly dozing but prepared to spring at a moment's notice. He'd not felt like talking since That Night, and he didn't know if Sherlock's silence could also be attributed to it, or if it was just another one of his quiet spells. So damn hard to read, Sherlock. Yet he himself could read anyone, cover to cover, at a glance. It wasn't fair. None of it was fair. Life was so goddamned unfair.
"Catch you... later."
Moriarty's mad, singsong voice echoes back just before the doors close to with a gunmetal clunk. "No, you won't."
Sherlock holds his shooting stance for just a moment longer, then he places the gun on the floor as he closes the distance between himself and John in a few long strides. "All right?" Sherlock demands as he rips the heavy parka off of John. "Are you all right?
John had told Sherlock then that he was fine. And that had been mostly true. Then, at least. His heart had been hammering at an unhealthy rate, the sensation of its pounding bringing back memories of Afghanistan. His breath refused to fill his anxiety-tightened chest. His legs refused to hold him. But he had been all right.
Sherlock had flung the bomb-laden parka as far down the pool room as he could, and John had wondered at the time if it might have been a better idea to fling it into the pool. Some vague memory from early in his army days told him that a person who was underwater was not safe from explosives—didn't it actually inflict greater damage, rendering the internal organs to soup? But if the bomb had been underwater and they had been out of the pool, that might have been safe. He hadn't known for sure, though. Still didn't know. As an army doctor, he'd dealt with the victims of explosives, not the bombs themselves.
But it hadn't mattered. The bomb had been thrown and hadn't detonated. They had both been all right enough even to joke about ripping clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. John had even begun to look forward to getting back home, to sitting in his chair with a cup of tea and processing the events of the day.
Those thoughts had vanished like a faint scent on a puff of wind when the red dots had begun dancing on his chest again, when Moriarty re-entered the room.
John ran his left hand over his face, as if that simple gesture would rub away the memories. His right hand rested atop the head of his cane. He didn't need the cane for walking, and as much as he had hated it, there was something comforting in its sturdy presence. Staring through the window at the darkening London sky, he listlessly rocked the cane back and forth so that it leaned into his index finger, then his thumb, and back and forth in a sluggish staccato. From another room in the apartment wafted the strains of sad violin music.
"Sorry, boys!" Moriarty croons merrily as he strides back into the room. "I'm soooo changeable. It is a weakness with me. But to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness. You can't be allowed to continue." His smile seems almost regretful. "You just can't. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."
That mad voice chills John. The man is a psychopath, pure and simple. A brilliant one. A dangerous one. There's no negotiating with a man like that.
Sherlock turns to face Moriarty, his gun in his hand again. "Probably my answer has crossed yours." He looks to John, his eyes asking permission.
John holds his gaze … and nods.
There had been a boy on John's table in Afghanistan. American. Eighteen years old. He'd been pale and shocky, but his injuries proved minor—a smattering of shrapnel that missed vital points. However, it hadn't been the injuries that had caused the boy's pallor. What he had witnessed haunted him then and, John had no doubt, haunted him even now. Somewhere in America there was a young man watching his day creep toward night and steeling himself for the nightmares that would come. That boy's mate had thrown himself atop a grenade in order to save the others. John's patient knew and would always know that the only reason he was alive was that someone else had surrendered his life in an instant.
John would never equate that sacrifice with what he and Sherlock had been prepared to do, but perhaps it wasn't too far off. They'd been prepared to die in order to rid the world of Moriarty.
Oh, but what a laugh Moriarty had had.
"Such a brave gesture. So very... grand. One can't expect anything less from Sherlock Holmes, can one?" He gestures... a signal?
A report echoes sharply in the tiled pool room. John flinches, and it takes a moment to realize he isn't dead, isn't even hit. A quick glance up at Sherlock tells him that his companion is equally surprised. John follows Sherlock's gaze. The bomb-laden coat has been hit with a bullet, but it did not detonate when the sniper shot it.
The delight on Moriarty's face chills John. "You didn't expect there to be a real bomb every time, did you?" Moriarty titters. "That would make me predictable, wouldn't it? We can't have that. So that brings us back to this equation: your one gun, against my many snipers."
"I only need one shot."
Moriarty smiles. "I'm sure. And my snipers would need only one as well. I would be dead. You would be dead. And then? Well, your poor little pet would be here all alone with my ... associates. They have orders in case something should happen to me." He shoves his hands into his pockets. "How could you live with yourself? Oh, I'm sorry... diewith yourself, knowing that your actions have guaranteed John here a most unpleasant existence?"
Sherlock's blue-green eyes study John. John shakes his head. Don't worry about me. Just kill him.
Sherlock is many things, but he is not a telepath. With a decisive move, he points the gun to the ceiling. "What do you want?"
"For starters, you could teach your gun there how to swim." Moriarty nods toward the pool.
"No, Sherlock, don-"
But it is too late. Sherlock has already tossed the gun into the water. It sinks, resting somewhere on the bottom with the thumb-drive that Moriarty threw in earlier.
"Oh good!" Moriarty exclaims in his psychotic singsong voice. He claps his hands together. "Now it's time to play! This could be very fun." His dark gaze lingers on the two men. "I heard what John said earlier. 'People will talk.' Let's give them something to talk about, shall we?"
Sherlock's eyes narrow. "What?"
"His clothes. Rip the rest of them off."
Sherlock breathes a disbelieving laugh.
"Need an aphrodisiac?" Moriarty gestures again.
"JESUS CHRIST!" John shouts, pressing himself against the wall after a bullet tears apart some tiles near his shoes and sends fragments of ceramic flying.
"That could have gone anywhere with the ricochet!" Sherlock shouts, his face a mask of fury. "It could have hit you!"
Moriarty shrugs. "Worth the risk. The next one will go into John's leg. And then his other leg. That little limp he had, that charming little limp, will return... and this time it won't be psychosomatic. And it won't be the fault of that stupid little war in Afghanistan. It will be the fault of Sherlock Holmes."
John finds the strength to scramble to his feet. "You're a sick bastard, you know that, right?"
Moriarty chuckles. "Maybe I am sick. Maybe I should... see a doctor. I should see allof a doctor." His gaze returns to Sherlock. "Get on with it, then."
In disbelief, John looks toward Sherlock, who is looking at him in return... a hint of apology in his expression. "Sherlock?"
"I'm sorry, John." With that, he reaches up and begins undoing the buttons of John's shirt.
"Wh... what are you doing? Sherlock?"
"A little dignity is not worth dying for, John," Sherlock whispers.
"I said 'rip,' Sherlock. Let's see a little gusto."
Sherlock's eyes close, gathering his wits. He opens them to look into John's eyes. Again, there is a question there.
John thinks about the months of agony his wound had given him. Can he really face that again? Can he make his friend feel responsible for that? With a sigh, he nods his assent.
Sherlock's long fingers clench tightly at John's shirt and rip. Buttons ping off the tile floor, and goosebumps form on John's chest. Sherlock steps closer and shrugs the shirt down John's arms. He turns toward Moriarty and flings John's shirt to the floor. "There."
"Oh, there's more." James Moriarty's eyes twinkle darkly. "Come on, boys. Don't be shy."
John watches Sherlock's face, watches his adam's apple bob as he swallows, watches the reluctance. When the blue-green eyes turn his way again, John lowers his gaze. His knees tremble. "It's okay, Sherlock," he whispers.
Sherlock's reply comes as a low breath of air. "Are you sure?"
John looks up at him and nods.
With a sigh, Sherlock's long fingers begin fumbling with John's belt. Soon the trousers pool around John's ankles, and though his knees are shaking, John manages to step out of his shoes and trousers. The scars on his right leg stand out in purple in the fluorescent light of the pool room.
"Mmm. Judging by the tented state of his boxers, I'd say the doctor is enjoying this."
"Shut up!" Sherlock snaps. The self-control that is usually in his manner is long gone.
Whether unconsciously or no, the detective has positioned himself slightly between John and Moriarty, and John finds himself huddling unnaturally close to Sherlock as if for protection. And as a shield. Moriarty is right: John is growing hard. As a doctor, he knows the body reacted to fear and stress in different ways... and if the fearful situation involved sexual overtones, so much the easier to become aroused. He'd known patients-both male and female-who had grown aroused while being raped; in most cases, that seemed to shame the victims the most. It was widely believed that male rape was greatly underreported, not only due to the stigma of "weakness" associated with being a victim, but also because of the physical reaction that many male victims displayed; according to the ones who had come forward, they felt that authorities would believe that they had "enjoyed" it, and therefore it wasn't rape. John had explained again and again that the body's physical reaction in no way signified that what was happening to them had been okay.
But here he is in a similar situation, and he indeed feels shame at his body's betrayal. Amazing how the brain's cognitive abilities flee in the face of high emotion. He is attracted to Sherlock. He accepted that fact long ago. But he has also accepted that nothing would ever come of it; as Sherlock explained once, the detective was married to his work. John has fantasized a time or two, but this? This is not how he expected any intimacy with Sherlock. Not like this. Not at gun point under the mocking eyes of a madman.
Moriarty holds his hands up in mock surrender. "I apologize if I offended you, dear Sherlock. I didn't realize you were so protective of your little pet." His gaze travels over John's mostly exposed body. "Socks and boxers, please."
Face closed, Sherlock kneels down and gently touches one of John's ankles. Placing his hand on Sherlock's shoulders for balance, John lifts that foot to allow him to remove the sock. They do the same with the other foot. Sherlock rises to his full height and, holding John's gaze and looking nowhere else, he reaches for the band of John's boxers and works the garment down over his hips. Those too pool at John's feet.
Moriarty's fingertips come together in rhythmic motions. "Simply lovely. Look at the two of you gazing into each other's eyes. Look at him, Sherlock. He wants to be kissed."
Tears sting John's eyes at the humiliation. Seeming to take a moment to steel himself, Sherlock leans forward and presses his lips briefly to John's. He steps back then and turns to Moriarty. "Haven't you had enough?"
"That's no way to kiss someone, Sherlock. Surely you can do better than that. I can see by the tented state of your trousers that you are indeed enjoying this."
John can't help but steal a glance downward. Sure enough, an erection is bulging at Sherlock's trousers. Could he...? No. It is the situation, not actual lust for John himself.
"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock demands of Moriarty.
"Don't keep me waiting, Sherlock, or John will be minus a leg or two." His black gaze flicks downward. "Or three." He titters.
John and Sherlock both look down to see a trio of laser sights quivering on John's leg. Suddenly Sherlock's large hands are on either side of John's face, tilting the doctor's face upward. The kiss this time is long and deep and... is that a hint of tongue? John hums in surprise.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock says softly.
"No, no. It's okay. Really." John offers his friend a shaky smile.
"Really?" Sherlock waits for John to nod again, then gives an uncertain smile in return.
"On your knees, doctor. It's time for your oral exam."
Sherlock frowns, but he is clearly in no position to refuse. Nor is John. Wincing slightly at his stiff leg, John kneels down. He looks to Moriarty for instruction.
"You know what to do."
John looks up, wetting his lips. With trembling hands, he begins unbuttoning Sherlock's trousers. After a little shifting, Sherlock's erect penis emerges. John hesitates, staring at the organ. It has a long and commanding presence, like Sherlock himself.
"Go on now," Moriarty eggs. His voice has begun to take on the headiness usually heard only in a bedroom. "Don't keep him waiting."
John licks his lips again, casts a quick glance once more up at Sherlock-who is gazing down at him, his cheeks faintly flushed-then takes his cock in his hand and guides it into his mouth. Sherlock shifts and tenses, making a small sound, and his fingertips brush John's shoulders.
John works slowly and carefully. He is tense and worries about scraping teeth. He'll have to relax if he doesn't want to hurt his friend. After drawing a breath and releasing it, his shoulders relax and his jaw loosens. He takes Sherlock deeper and more assuredly. Above him, Sherlock moans in a rich baritone; his fingers find John's hair and tighten there.
"Very nice. Very nice. Now, Sherlock. Take him."
Sherlock looks at him. "What?"
"Take. Him. And don't disrobe. That coat of yours is striking. I bet many of your admirers have fantasies about that coat." Moriarty smiles wolfishly.
Slowly, Sherlock kneels down until he is once again more or less eye-level with John. "John... Are you sure?"
John nods. "Yes. I am." He lays back as Sherlock leans over him. Anxiety and a lack of lubrication make his entrance extremely painful. John squeezes his eyes tight and tries to breathe through the pain. Sherlock hesitates when a whimper escaped John. After a few moments, John forces himself to relax further and, eyes closed tightly, nods for his friend to continue. At last Sherlock is fully seated. Both are panting and trembling.
"Sherlock," John says in a trembling whisper, "pretend he isn't here."
Sherlock looks down at him in surprise.
"This doesn't have to belong to him alone."
There had been a pause in the music—probably Sherlock was composing again and had jotted down a few notes—but it started up again, mournful and longing. John continued to stare out the window. He should go for a walk, go… anywhere… just to try to distract himself from memories of That Night. He'd played his hand. As brilliant as Sherlock was, he was utterly out of his element when it came to emotions, as surprisingly ignorant on matters of the heart as he was about the basic workings of the solar system. John had been perfectly content playing the field, trying to find a date who would spark in him the same emotions that Sherlock had done from day one. But no one had that same spark. Still, he'd been prepared to keep trying.
Why, of all times, had John chosen then to express his affection for Sherlock? Was it the stress of the moment? Had he needed tenderness in whatever form to counteract some of the terror they were experiencing? Perhaps. And he might have lost the best friend he'd ever had because of it. There seemed a rift between them, now. A gulf of silence that neither could breach.
With a trembling hand, John reaches behind Sherlock's neck and pulls him into a kiss. The detective resists, countless calculations going on behind his incredible eyes, then he succumbs and meets John's lips with his own. His rhythm gains pace and depth. Sherlock presses his face against John's neck, his breath hot and ragged against his skin.
When the metal clank of the door sounds again, the detective's eyes snap open. He raises his head and looks around in surprise. "He's gone," he says, and withdraws, leaving John feeling raw and empty.
John curls on his side, pain and emptiness co-mingling. A familiar warmth drapes over him: Sherlock's coat.
Everything after that was a blur. The interview with Lestrade. The ride home. John doesn't even remember climbing the stairs to his bed that night. For him, the flow of time bridged That Night with here and now as he sat staring out the window. Nothing between. Nothing before. And the after didn't hold much promise of anything either.
A voice spoke his name.
For a moment, John didn't react. It was as if his name had not been spoken at all. His reflexes had been dulled and slowed as if bound in layers of cotton.
The voice again.
John blinked and looked up at last. Standing beside him was Sherlock, his skin coldly luminescent in the light from the gray sky outside. John could only stare in surprise. When had the music stopped? "Sherlock…"
"John, I…" The detective fought for words. "…I hurt you. And I'm sorry."
Shaking his head, John ran a hand over his face. "No, it was Moriarty. Not you."
Sherlock knelt down, folding his height into a compact space in front of John. He placed a hand on John's knee. "I would do anything… anything… not to have had that be our first time. It shouldn't have been like that."
"No, Sherlock. It-wait... 'First time'?"
The hand not on John's knee came up to cup his face.