Well this took a good bit longer to get out than I expected, and I thank you for your patience! This'll be the last chapter beta'd / grammar dalek'd by Vivi Vivacious for awhile, so send any hatemail you have for subsequent chapters to her bitch-ass. I'll let you know when it's safe to stop.

Just as an FYI, I kind of went "Feast of Crows" on this chapter up and split it into two. I'll try not to GRRM it up and actually put forward the rest of the material forward sometime this century (Yeah. Still bitter.)

Standard 'I own nothing except my filth' disclaimer goes here.

Warnings: Voyeurism, light BDSM overtones, more angst than I originally intended. Oh. And gay sex. Let's please not forget the gay sex. The story pretty much wouldn't exist without it.

All Apologies, Pt 5

One problem with possessing a great intellect is the sheer number of thoughts that a well organized brain can juggle at once. For example, Sherlock mused to himself, it's perfectly possible for someone of his caliber of intelligence to split his attention evenly between three different lines of thought.

Thought process one: Voyeuristic arousal. John. Jim. John and Jim. Not or. And.

From the moment that he felt his own spine tingle as Jim had slid his hands down John's shirt, Sherlock noted that there were definite upsides to being an observer. There was something quite captivating in watching his two partners explore each other's forms. The stimulus of observing Moriarty and his doctor together was quite close to overloading Sherlock's sensory system. The detective's keen mind had devoted itself to memorizing every detail of each man's body; the feel, the taste, the smell of them both archived in what he liked to think of as the "dungeon" of his mind palace. Each piece of data he had collected was carefully applied to the scene unfolding before him.

He knew the exact pressure of each of Jim's touches, the way the tips of those willowy fingers would feel pressed up against John's pectorals. And he was intimately aware of what those fingers would be feeling; the subtle tension of John's skin, the light dusting of straw blond hair spread across compact muscle. Sherlock's brain fed him all the information at once; all the nerves his his body singing a sympathetic symphony of arousal for each touch, both given and received. Heated blood coursed through his body, rushing downward towards his groin at a breakneck speed.

This led directly to thought process two. Sexual Frustration. Easily enough solved by obeying his carnal urges and working himself with his own skillful fingers while observing John dip Jim down into a rather dominating kiss. The sensation did wonders for him; the way he felt when he rubbed a thumb across the head of his cock dulled all other thoughts ricocheting around in his brain.

God. Voyeurism agreed with him, as evidenced by the generous amount of precum leaking from his dick. He tightened his grip on the downward strokes, increasing pressure as he neared the base. Every two or three upward strokes were complemented by a rather enthusiastic thumbing of his head. The feeling was divine. His cock throbbed with building satisfaction while he watched a stunned Jim tense in John's arms. The sight of their lips pressed together and John skillfully fucking the criminal's mouth with his tongue was the perfect distraction from all other thoughts.

Or rather, it was the perfect distraction until John had stopped his display with the dark haired criminal and tied his hands to the back of the chair. Now, the line of sexual frustration seemed to be a problem with no immediate solution. His cock throbbed angrily; now neglected, its carnal demands had mounted to a nearly unbearable level of frustration. The phantom sensations his mind created using data collected from his observations of Jim and John writhing against each other were nearly as intense as real fingers on his body.

With self-pleasuring denied to him, it allowed Sherlock's unsated appetite roared through his mind like a forest fire, consuming nearly everything in its path. The torment of observation without sexual release was exquisite. His own mind worked against him; memorized touches inflicting delicious sensations on his flesh. In return, his body made sure that his brain was fully aware that the sensations were memories, accenting the overwhelming physical ache in his woefully ignored cock.

Each tiny shift in his position caused the fabric of his pyjamas to drag across the oversensitive skin of his erection, sending jolts of electricity coursing through his abdomen. Fingers of lightning traced up the underside of his cock; the mental manifestation of Jim's touches on John coupled with the confining sensation of his pyjamas made him ache with arousal in ways he had never previously experienced.

And that was good, because that overwhelming wave of information nearly distracted him from thought process number three. Three didn't have a descriptive phrase yet, because thought process three was something new. Something he hadn't felt before, something that he would need to analyze before naming.

In addition to the phantom sensations and very real sexual tension, something else lingered in both his flesh and spirit. Words spiraled in and out of his mind, inserting themselves into other unrelated threads of thought. This created a complicated tapestry of emotion that he was entirely unfamiliar with. Words like 'mine', 'off', 'alone', and 'need' danced in and out of other unrelated thought processes. It was quite distracting.

The disturbance was partially physical; he could feel the cold tendrils of it weaving through his rib cage and tangling around his heart. A heart which he observed was beating much faster than usual, and not solely from arousal. He could at least recognize the pain as psychosomatic as it appeared to increase any time Jim and John became more than teasingly intimate. The feelings had quieted some when both men turned their attentions to him, but now that he was bound and left to merely observe the alien sensation had returned with a vengeance.

Once his hands were bound and Jim dropped to his knees in front of his doctor, line three inserted itself into his mental process quite boldly. An almost queasy feeling spread through him as Jim playfully nudged the zipper on John's jeans with his nose before mouthing around the outline of his cock. But John's responding groan sent fiery threads of ecstasy curling through his abdomen. The uneasiness directly conflicted with the obvious arousal that Sherlock was also feeling; the contradictory sensations meeting in his mind like colliding trains.

In a moment of desperation, he decided to check his binds. The detective became momentarily distracted as his cock twitched angrily when Jim's fingers trailed down the zip of John's jeans, tugging the denim down around his hips. One pale hand caressed the outline of the doctor's rather impressive bulge before the other tugged his pants down just enough to free his erection. The pulsing sensation between his legs grew, and Sherlock focused on recapturing his train of thought. Binds. Ah yes. Those. The good doctor had tied him securely, but the silk tie holding him was certainly escapable. Still, it would require a good bit of moving about, and he surely wouldn't go unnoticed. Or would I?

Yet despite his disquiet, Sherlock could not seem to tear his aquamarine eyes away from the scene in front of him. He was absolutely riveted; each second that Jim worked his fine boned face against John's zip sent a jolt crashing through him that made his cock jump and every muscle in his body ache with want. But no matter the distraction, that dark something in the back of his mind kept whispering terrible, indistinct things that made his stomach roil. This was what he wanted, wasn't it? His body certainly seemed to think so, the erection he sported was without a doubt one of the most impressive he'd had in his relatively short time of being sexually active. Not, mind you, that he hadn't been trying to make up for lost time. One can fit quite a bit of shagging into a year and a half.

The criminal's head lowered, and John made a low growl that Sherlock immediately recognized as the "the tip of my dick just hit the back of Sherlock's throat" growl. Except his mouth wasn't wrapped around John's flesh. That was Jim's lips, Jim's throat. That made it Jim's groan. Funny, that. It shouldn't have been so disconcerting that they would both merit the same noise. But is it so wrong to want John's reactions to be different? To want him to be satisfied with Jim, but not as satisfied as he is with me?

Another cacophonous symphony of unfamiliar feelings crashed through him once again, and rather than release himself from his chair he focused on sorting out the different threads of emotion that created thoughtline three. If he could simply identify what the cause was he could logic his way through the thought process. And that would subsequently cause the pangs to stop wracking through him, and that damnable voice in his head to become quiet. It was easier planned than executed though; the way Jim's normally impeccable dark hair became disarrayed as John raked one hand through it was quite the distraction.

So were the brief flashes of white skin between the bottom of Jim's hairline and the collar of his jacket. The outline of midnight-dark hair against the deep blue of John's denim. The tantalizing glimpses Sherlock occasionally got of John's abdominal muscles and hipbone, outlined by dark fabric where his jeans had been pulled down some and his cardigan had ridden up. Jim brought one hand up to rest on John's firm thigh, and a line of fire shot from where Sherlock's breath caught in the tightness of his throat all the way down to his cock. The sensation caused his balls to tighten as his hips jutted outward in a helpless bucking motion, thrusting his cock helplessly into empty air.

Well, that just dragged him back to line one. Arousal was currently demanding his attention, distracting him from analyzing thought process three any further. At least for the moment. It wasn't surprising. After all, the noises Jim made! Breathy inhales through his nose each time he brought his lips back to John's tip. The soft sucking sounds as he moved his mouth along the doctor's thick length. And those throaty grunts he gave as John's crown nudged the back of his throat were downright pornographic. John was being nearly as obscene with his low growls of encouragement and lusty moans as his fingers curled affectionately in Jim's hair.

"Mmph. God, Sherlock. I don't know how you ever manage get anything done. His throat is so... fucking... narrow.." John's words coursed through the detective's senses like a flash flood, momentarily washing away anything but the oppressive sensation of unvarnished, carnal want. For a moment all Sherlock could focus on was the memory of Jim's throat tightening around him, the perfect image of that dark haired head bobbing rhythmically between his thighs. But as he watched the criminal skillfully working John, he saw those pale shoulders round slightly. Sherlock knew if he could see Jim's face, the very corners of lips would be tightened, giving away the slightest hint of a smug smile. Pleased with himself for pleasing John. As if John was some sort of experiment, and this was the desired result. Bastard. But is that any different that what I've done?

That thought caused the shock wave of anomalous feelings to crash through him again, and his heart felt as if it had been hit by lightning. The sensation dissipated as quickly as it had struck him, and when it passed he felt oddly hollow. An aching emptiness plunged through Sherlock's torso, finally condensing and settling in an icy ball in the pit of his stomach. But what was it? It hurt in a most unfamiliar way, but the detective strongly suspected that if he wasn't being driven to distraction by the nearly overwhelming eroticism of the display Jim and John were putting on he could pinpoint it.

Before the lean detective could fully devote his attentions to the analysis, John wound strong hands through Jim's raven hair and pulled him back, releasing his cock from the smaller man's mouth. A soft, wet sound accompanied the movement, and once again the detective's own cock throbbed in response. Sherlock couldn't see Jim's eyes but he knew from experience that those inky pupils were as blown wide with a lust that mirrored the one that flared in John's steely blue gaze. The diminutive criminal gave a longing sigh as John pulled him away, and Sherlock could exactly picture how the criminal's face would look, open-mouthed and straining against John's hand to recapture his prize.

"Jim." John's voice was little more than a low growl, something that Sherlock previously thought he had been the only one privileged enough to hear. Another sudden spasm ran through him (anger? lust? resentment? frustration? fear? vexation? excitement? possessiveness?) as he imagined Jim fluttering his sinfully long lashes, gazing up at John hungrily. The doctor's familiarly strong hands remained tangled in Jim's hair, and John used his grip to angle the criminal's head so he was looking directly up at him.

"Yes, Doctor Watson?" Sherlock noticed John's almost imperceptible shudder as Jim's prurient lilt caressed every syllable of his name. The unknown feeling struck him again, and heart clenched as if John's reaction caused an invisible band to tighten inside his chest.

"Before we go any further, do you have a safeword?" Jim merely laughed and pushed forward again, attempting to once more wrap his lips around John's erection. The doctor stopped him with a sharp tug on those wild, dark locks, and Jim rocked back on his knees slightly.

"Safeword, Jim. What is yours?" John's irises gained ground, his eyes showing more of their blue coloring as he focused on reading the smaller man kneeling before him. Sherlock noted the change in John's gaze, from full blown arousal to careful contemplation, and felt strangely pleased.

"Oh John! How quaint. I don't have one. Never have, actually." Even though he could only see the back of the other man's head, Sherlock knew that Jim was fixing John with one of his very best threatening smiles. The one that was just a hint of teeth between pink lips, that screamed 'try me, I dare you'.

"Gelsemium. There. Now you do." John's tone was no nonsense, even if his choice was strange. Despite the already overwhelming flood of information assaulting his brain (John's cock. Jim's lips. Chest pains. John. God I need release. John. Jim. Gelsemium?) he took note to investigate the significance his doctor put on a common shrub at a later point in time.

"How adorable. I shan't use it." Jim's voice had been lowered to a whisper, his tone insistent and almost threatening in spite of its huskiness; a quality likely brought on by John's rather enthusiastic mouth fucking. "And you can fucking well make me try, but it won't happen."

Appreciatively, Sherlock took note of his doctor's imperturbable expression. Stormy blue eyes gazed down on Jim with patience and composure, frustration nowhere on his face. Still in control. Not giving into the criminal's little power play. Good.

"Your choice," the stalwart doctor replied smoothly, before using his unrelinquished fistful of Jim's dark locks to pull the smaller man to standing. Once upright, Jim brought his face closer to the blonde's, somewhat swollen and reddened lips just millimeters from John's mouth. This time the jolt that ran through Sherlock was very familiar; a wave of lust that crashed over his senses and pooled in his groin. Jim was always so lovely with a freshly fucked mouth. John's fist tightened in the criminal's hair in warning against too much disobedience, but he did nothing to limit the smaller man's movements.

"Does it make you feel powerful John? Does it make you hard?" Jim's voice was breathy and low, sex dripping off every lilting syllable. The sound of it distracted Sherlock from any further contemplation as to the nature of his strange chest pains. When Jim talked like that, it was damn impossible to give him anything but one's full attention. Apparently this rang true whether or not Moriarty was talking directly to Sherlock or not.

As the criminal's dexterous fingers traced a light line up the underside of John's cock, Sherlock felt his own twitch in sympathy. The doctor held steadfast, hips not moving a fraction in response to the teasing touch. He simply gazed at Jim with something perilously close to indifference; blue eyes radiating cool composure despite the featherlight touch.

"I bet it does. Knowing I've ordered people to die with this mouth. Knowing I've used that same mouth to suck you off. I've killed people with nothing more than words, John." Moriarty's tongue darted out, tracing over John's lower lip before retreating and Sherlock bit back a moan. They were both too absolutely beautiful. Jim's dark eyes were wild with lust, his elegant hands starkly outlined against the deep blue of Johns's jeans. And John. Oh, his John. John with his golden hair and stupid cardigan and his jeans hanging off his hips, exposing the doctor's rather impressive cock.

Sherlock noted that it was rather flushed; a ruddy color spread over the shaft that the detective associated with only the doctor's deepest of sexual desires and frustrations. And again, the unfamiliar pangs shot through him. They weren't as strong as before, but the sensation of his own erection straining against the flimsy material of his pyjamas would have distracted him from anything short of a mortal wound.

"Well, you're certainly putting it to much better uses now. I think your lips are far more suited to sucking cock, don't you?" John raised his free hand to the criminal's fine boned face. Sherlock felt a shiver in his own flesh as John stroked his cheekbone, trailing along to follow the elegant curve to his jaw.

"Mmhmm." Jim chuckled darkly. "You do like it, don't you? Knowing the things I've done, and yet still having me on my knees, your aching dick buried deep in my mouth? I bet it makes you want to fuck my throat that much harder." Jim's voice was musical, every word pitched perfectly to fit his lusty intonation.

"I did have my sights set on fucking other parts of you, James." Jim blinked slowly, and John took advantage of the momentary surprise Jim felt at hearing his full name to yank the criminal back by his hair.

He used his free hand to spin the smaller man around, and with a hard shove he pushed Moriarty's narrow frame up against the kitchen table. Still tugging on the criminal's dark locks, the stocky blond wrapped his unoccupied hand around Jim's narrow waist. Broad fingers tangled in the fine material of Moriarty's trousers to gain purchase. With a gentle push on the criminal's head timed with a pull back on his waist, John urged the other man to bend forward. The action forced the diminutive criminal to push his ass out against the hardness jutting from the doctor's jeans.

Sherlock was momentarily startled by Jim's response; a deep moan soaked in absolute need. It took him a moment to realize that the noise had emanated from him, not the black eyed man John had bent over the table. Once the captive detective managed to settle himself, he realized that Jim was making noises of his own. Moriarty emitted thin, keening whines during the normally empty spaces between deep shuddering breaths. It seemed the delicate criminal moaned in perfect time with each of John's taunting thrusts, and Sherlock found that he couldn't help but answer those delicious sounds with moans of his own.

The doctor pressed himself into Jim's expensively clad backside, rolling his hips against the smaller man. Consumed with his own vexation, Sherlock luxuriated in knowing that the consulting criminal was likely at least as frustrated as he was. John was so good at that; tormenting and teasing flesh until the complicated latticework of his thoughts collapsed inward on themselves, leaving Sherlock's normally magnificent brain barely functional enough to control basic responses like breathing and blinking. Knowing that Jim was feeling the full brunt of John's overwhelming presence was somewhat of a salve to his own frustrations, even if it did make the detective's stomach a bit cold to think about.

Unsurprisingly, Jim hadn't quite given himself over to John's control. Despite the restraining grip of John's hands on his waist and hair, the criminal bowed himself up off the table, pushing back into the doctor's thrusts with force and urgency. Rather than the (quickly-becoming-all-too-familiar) unknown lance of sensation bolting through his chest, Sherlock felt smug despite his own restraints and neglection. Wild as he was, the detective had no doubt in his mind that the dark eyed criminal severely underestimated the sheer control that his doctor could exert over a body.

He fondly remembered learning those lessons himself, mind reeling with the remembered intensity of the release he achieved by succumbing to John's insistent ministrations. John had pushed and tormented, setting a maddeningly slow pace and taking control of the situation away from Sherlock one slow thrust at a time. The detective's cock ached at the memory; the thought of him writhing in need and urgency underneath the weight of his doctor; all cleverness and control abandoned in favor of letting John push him just a little closer to the edge of orgasm.

And now his lovely doctor was prepared to strip Jim down in much the same manner. (John. Methodical. Unyielding.) Sherlock felt his cock jump in anticipation of watching the ex-Captain divest the criminal of his clothing, his pretenses, his smugness, his wit, his control, and finally his thoughts. What would it be like to see Jim become completely undone; gasping and unraveled in the same fashion that he so enjoyed inflicting on Sherlock? If he believed the sensations coiling tightly in his abdomen, it would fall somewhere between highly erotic and outright orgasmic.

The anticipation of watching John take Jim apart was strong enough to finally force the hollow, uncomfortable feeling inside him to the back of his mind. John released Jim's hair and waist, wrapping solid arms around to the front of the criminal's narrow hips to begin working at his zip. As John's fingers skillfully undid his expensive trousers, Jim turned his head to the side to catch Sherlock's aquamarine eyes with his own dark gaze. John worked one hand inside Jim's trousers, roughly palming the hardness there, chuckling in the back of his throat at Jim's lack of undergarments. Staring into Sherlock's eyes, the smaller man pointedly thrust into the doctor's hands. John continued to stroke him with just the flat of his palm, and Jim bit his lip and gave a delightful moan as he held eye contact with the captive detective. When John's strong grip wrapped itself around Jim's length and gave a strong warning squeeze, the noise that emitted from the criminal's ivory throat finally forced the last of Sherlock's reticence to the back of his mind.

There'd be enough time for sorting out the unidentifiable feelings later; for now his mind was lost in the process of becoming rapidly unable to focus on anything but the sight of the good doctor so skillfully beginning to tame Moriarty. As was so very often the case when it came to both John and Jim, eroticism won out over conscious thought. Sherlock finally relented and gave himself over to the carnal enthrallment that filled him. The idea of Jim wholly overcome by John was the fucking sexiest thing Sherlock thought he would ever have the chance to witness, even if Jim's impending surrender lasted a mere moment. Enraptured, distracted, and aroused beyond belief the strange pangs became a distant memory as the lean detective allowed himself to finally relax into the scene unfolding before him.

Soooo... Sherlock and his POV ran away with that chapter, but from here on all POV's should be part of a more balanced breakfast. As always; reviews, follows and favorites will be showered with love and affection and kept in my freezer with all my other favorite things. Suggestions are also welcome, so if there's something you'd like to see the boys get up to feel free to let me know.

Ta Loves!

Mazi