A/N:

So, I was rewatching season 2 of BBC Sherlock when this prompt popped into my head: "I want fic where sherly keeps mori hostage, so he can't tell the killers to murder all his friends. And in return, he submits to Moriarty's every whim." Which is why it's slightly dubcon. But, if anyone wants me to continue this - and get to the parts where Sherlock realizes he actually enjoys it - then let me know. Sorry, this is un-beta'd; feel free to point out any mistakes.

He turned around for just a second, and Sherlock had a chloroform cloth pressed to Moriarty's mouth.

The rest was easy enough after that.

Sometimes the most brutish solutions are the best, Sherlock decides. Or perhaps he must resort to Neanderthal behaviour in order to surprise Moriarty's wit. Moriarty taught Sherlock that not everything needs to be clever; he's absolutely right.

XXXX

Jim awakes to the sound of violin music, non-threatening and beautiful. He's heard it before, he realizes, when he visited a certain consulting detective. It seems Sherlock finally decided to stop trying to make everything so complicated.

"Is this the solution you found to our problem?" Jim asks, flexing his fingers against the rope binding his hands behind the chair. He's starting to lose feeling in them. "To bring me to your flat, keep me hostage, and force me to give you the keyword to call off my snipers?"

Sherlock stops playing for a moment, glances over at Jim, and then continues to play Bach where he had stopped on their previous visit. "No."

"No?" Moriarty asks, voice rising along with his eyebrows. "Then what? Torture me with your rendition of dead composers? Wait for my arms to lose circulation then cut them off? Perhaps hope that John finds me so he can get his hands dirty instead? I know how violent the kind doctor can become when your safety is involved."

Sherlock gives a tight smile, turning toward Jim to continue playing the piece. He pauses to say, "None of those things, Moriarty."

"Oh, please, Sherlock. Now that you've knocked me out and tied me up, I think you can call me Jim." He grins, rotating his ankles where they're each tied to one leg of the wooden chair. Sherlock was efficient, he'll give him that.

"Oh! Do you have a bomb under the chair that will blow up unless I call off my men? Goody!" he exclaims, clapping his hands awkwardly behind the chair.

Sherlock finishes playing before finally sitting on the living room table, across from where Jim is bound. He puts the violin down next to his feet. "I know you don't respond to threats or anything even remotely aggressive. I think I've found a suitable solution for you. For us both." He steeples his hands under his chin, focused solely on Jim.

"Well? Are you going to spit it out or should I let time run out and gleefully stand by while everyone you love is murdered?"

"Time limit, of course," Sherlock says under his breath.

He sits up straighter, not blinking even once. "I offer myself to you, to do whatever you please-" At that, Sherlock swallows, fingers tightening. "-in exchange for their safety. Just so long as you don't kill any of us."

"Wouldn't that require me to be untied?" Moriarty asks, quirking an eye. "I mean, unless you think bondage is one of my fetishes – which it isn't, but I could consider it if we switched roles." He waggles his eyebrows, grinning.

"I will release you, yes, if, and only if, you agree to the terms," Sherlock explains, eyes darting to the front door. John might be home soon; they should find somewhere else to have this conversation. Besides, depending on what Jim wants to do to Sherlock, they can't stay here anyway.

"If I have absolute control over you, and that includes who you speak to and when, how you dress, what you eat, where you go, and every other aspect of your free will, then yes. We have a deal, darling." Jim smiles darkly, tongue darting out briefly to wet his lips.

"You expect me to essentially hand my life over to you? How could I know that my friends are safe if you never allow me to see them?"

Jim laughs, shaking his head. "No, silly. I don't expect you to accept. I expect you to brood all prettily like you're beginning to, beat yourself up over having to choose between your wellbeing and everyone else's, and letting them all die in the end. And still ending up with me because you'll have no one else left to go to. Who else besides me and them can stand your company, Sherlock? I mean, who likes you as much as we do?"

Sherlock stands, fixing his vest nervously. He plops back down on the table after circling around it. "I thought you wanted to burn me?"

"But this – this is so much better. Having my own genius as a pet? What more could I ask for? It's even better than having an ordinary person like John serving me and keeping me entertained. I'd much rather have someone around who can keep up with me."

Sherlock's smile is sarcastic, spiteful. Jim relishes it.

He doesn't want to give up on his friends just yet, but he doesn't want to submit to Jim either. He closes his eyes for a moment, contemplating the very worst Jim could do to him. It's pretty terrifying, if he's honest, but not nearly as upsetting as the thought of his extended family being taken away. At least if he were under Jim's command there would be a chance he could see them. There's a chance that Jim isn't going to be as controlling as he sounds.

But there's also a chance that Jim would just command Sherlock to kill his own friends instead…

"I will only agree if you do not order me or anyone else - that includes people who don't work for you, strangers, children, anyone - to kill my friends. If any harm should come to them, Mycroft will be the first to know. I will make sure he takes you apart personally."

"Ooh, that sounds like fun, but I think I'll pass." Jim chuckles, biting his bottom lip. "Trust me, Sherlock. That's all you can do, anyway. That's all we both can do. Besides, when did I ever bend the rules of the games we played?"

Sherlock knows better than to trust Jim, but for some reason he's willing to try. This is why he looked down on sentiment for so long; it brings nothing but pain in the end. "Fine. If I untie you, will you attack me?"

"Really? When have I ever hit you?" he tilts his head to the side, feigning innocence. "Or touched you for that matter? Though, I've really wanted to, if I'm being honest." He winks, wiggling his hips in his chair.

"I'm going to regret this for the rest of my life, aren't I?" Sherlock grumbles, already moving behind Jim to loosen the knots.

"Depends. Do you like my company? Do you like the idea of me naked? Do you like your friends alive and breathing?" Jim turns his head, looking up at Sherlock with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Well?"

Sherlock chooses not to respond, concentrating instead on undoing the ropes. When he's done, Jim slowly wraps his fingers around Sherlock's wrist. "My place or yours?"

"John is going to return soon. He will obviously try to save me from you if he finds you here," Sherlock states dryly, trying to pull his wrist away.

Jim tightens his grip. "Then mine? You can keep living here if you want, but you'll have to come up with convincing lies to tell John. Or you can tell him the truth, and he can deal with the reality of his best friend now belonging to a consulting criminal."

"I'll go collect some things," Sherlock forces out through clenched teeth, rolling his eyes.

He rushes into his bedroom, worrying that Jim will have built a bomb by the time he returns. Instead, he finds Jim exactly where he left him: in the chair, twiddling his thumbs, and wiping out the creases in his expensive suit.

Jim stands, going to the door ahead of Sherlock. Sherlock clears his throat, squeezing around the handle of his bag. "Did I forget something?" Jim asks, taking a gun out of his pocket. "Is the safety off or something?"

Sherlock tries very hard not to flinch. He can't help but take a step back, though.

Jim looks down at the gun, then up at Sherlock. "Don't be silly, Sherly, this was going to be for me. Anyways, I should call off those snipers, shouldn't I? Deal's a deal."

"Yes, that would be gracious of you." Sherlock swallows, tensing when Jim puts the gun down on the coffee table.

The call takes all of a minute. The code word is Sherlock. (What is it with people using his name as passcodes?)

"Okay, sweetheart, we're off now. I'll lead the way." He reaches for Sherlock's hand, and Sherlock takes Jim's, albeit not after making the most appalled look he can muster. "Now, now. You're going to have to go through worse than this. Oh, and text John to say you'll be gone for the evening."

"It might be hard with one hand," Sherlock grits out, cutting his eyes at Jim.

There's a car waiting for them when they reach the front entrance. Jim steps inside first, and refuses to let go of Sherlock's hand. "Maybe I can type it for you, then."

Sherlock rolls his eyes again, but feels nails dig into his palm a bit. "So?" Jim asks, expression looking stormy all of a sudden. It's best not to make Jim mad; Sherlock has heard the threats he made to Irene first hand.

"I'll manage," Sherlock answers, leaning away when Jim slides closer in the back seat.

"You'll have to do better than that," Jim tells him, pressing his thigh to Sherlock's. "The only thing I despise more than people who don't have any imagination is people who don't hold up their end of a bargain."

He shifts closer, trailing his hand up Sherlock's thigh, whispering in his ear, "You should keep that in mind if you want your friends to stay alive."