Author's Note: Here's part two. This is my first time ever writing a scene of quite this nature, so please let me know what you think. Again, very graphic so be warned.

The Sacrifice

Chapter 2

Moriarty watched, humming softly to himself as John slowly stripped off the layers of his clothing. God, where was Mycroft's bloody surveillance when they actually needed it? Where was Lestrade? This would be the perfect time for the DI to come bounding up the stairs with a case that Sherlock just had to look into right now. Hell, at the moment, John would settle for Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan and her on-again off-again fling, Carl Anderson. They might hurl insults and innuendo, they might hate Sherlock's ruddy guts, but they'd stop this rubbish right in its bloody tracks. Outer shirt unbuttoned and removed. Jumper off. Inner shirt off. Vest off. All folded neatly and piled beside him on the bed. Moriarty's humming grew louder. Was he getting impatient? John didn't want to look at him to find out. He kicked off his shoes, kicking them straight at the bastard, earning an amused chuckle from his tormentor and a cessation of the humming. He pulled off his socks and then stood to remove his trousers. He still didn't want to meet the man's eyes, couldn't bear to see the insanity lurking there – the arse was mad as a bag of ferrets! – but looking constantly down felt too much like giving up, too much like surrender, and the soldier in him just couldn't do it. So he stared past Moriarty as he unbuckled his belt, gaze fixed on the computer screen where the masked minion was sitting in his sodding chair, a newspaper open on his knee and the pistol fixed firmly on the sleeping Sherlock. John ground his teeth, fury burning like ice inside him, filling his veins with a cold hatred that could only end in death for one of them. There was something so infuriating, so offensive about the man sitting there, flipping through the daily rag while John was being – while Sherlock slept on unawares. Why it made it him madder than Moriarty's perverse demands, he couldn't say, but that tosser was going to die if John had his way. Dead man walking.

John had pulled his belt free, setting it carefully atop his discarded clothing, and had undone the zip on his trousers when Moriarty abruptly closed the distance between them, knocked John off his feet and shoved him back onto the bed. John landed on his bum, catching himself with outflung hands. Moriarty knelt quickly over the top of him, one trousered thigh between John's legs, balancing on the edge of the bed. John froze, instinct fighting choice. He'd agreed to this. He'd agreed. Throwing the git across the room would definitely be breaking that agreement. John's thoughts cut off as Moriarty grabbed his wrists and slid them underneath him, holding them at the small of John's back, causing him to fall the rest of the way to the bed. The madman lowered his head and licked up the center of John's torso, from his navel to his sternum. "Fuck!" John exclaimed, shocked and disgusted by the assault, and suddenly in no doubt that Moriarty was dead serious about the programme he'd proposed.

"Careful, Johnny boy," Moriarty remonstrated, raising his head from John's chest and staring into his eyes. "Wouldn't want to wake Sherlock… or worse, that dear, dim landlady of yours. Mrs. Hudson is a bit of a nosy neighbour, and I never made any promises about killing her." John slammed his mouth closed on a blistering retort, clenching his teeth so hard that the ache spiked from his jaw to the top of his skull. "Good, boy," Moriarty praised. "You are a quick learner." He leaned closer and flicked his tongue at John's chin. John jerked away, his head pressing into the duvet, but Moriarty just followed, his lips ghosting from John's chin to the hinge of his jaw. They lingered there for a moment before the monster settled closer, his nose practically in John's ear, his tongue darting in and out like a lizard's. John's heart pounded like a jack-hammer in his chest as Moriarty settled atop him, the madman's bulk weighing him down. His wrists throbbed beneath him, and he tried to work them loose, only to have Moriarty tighten his hold and thrust his hips against John's, pushing him even more firmly into the mattress.

"I like your hands where they are for now, pet," Moriarty breathed into his ear before nipping at his earlobe with his teeth.

"Why are you doing this," John hissed, desperately. "I mean, why this?"

Moriarty pulled back, eyeing him with exasperation eerily similar to the looks Sherlock so often favored him with. "Isn't it obvious?" he asked, all trace of the fake falsetto gone from his voice, leaving behind a rich tenor that made the hairs on the back of John's neck stand on end. "You were willing to die for Sherlock. I simply had to find out what else you'd be willing to do for him."

John swallowed, forcing himself to hold Moriarty's gaze. "Marvelous. You've found out. Why don't you leave off now?"

Moriarty tsked. "But I'm just starting to have fun." Pulling sharply on John's wrists, he used their gripped hands to yank John's hips upward, grinding their pelvises together. John had never had sex with a man before, had never been pressed up against another man's erection, but there was no mistaking the feel of the lump in Moriarty's trousers, and John swallowed bile. The madman just laughed and dove downward, latching onto a nipple with his teeth and pulling. John spasmed, fighting not to make a sound as the other man pulled repeatedly at the sensitive nub. He couldn't stop himself from grunting, though, and the sound seemed to have an electrifying effect on Moriarty. "God, I wish I could hear you scream," he moaned, "but Daddy doesn't want to wake the baby." The lilting falsetto was back, rising and falling like a rocker. Head twisting side to side, still lizard-like, Moriarty sniffed at John's chest. "You smell different. You've changed your soap since the last time I saw you." John shuddered at the strange intimacy of the statement, the movement rippling through his entire frame, and Moriarty sighed with pleasure. "Oh, that feels brilliant. Do it again."

John went stock still, fighting his own vibrating muscles, muscles that still ached abominably from the electrical stun. His hands felt as if they were going numb. His back twinged from the strange position Moriarty had pulled his hips into, and his head throbbed more than ever as his teeth clenched so hard that he feared they'd break. Moriarty sniffed his way back up John's chest, nuzzling against his straining ribcage, licking at a nipple as he passed before settling his lips against the pulse point at the base of John's neck. He swiped at the area with his revolting tongue, like some perverted nurse disinfecting a patch of skin before a shot. Then, without warning, he bit down hard. John gasped and jerked away, bouncing them both on the bed, the movement pulling at the skin clamped between Moriarty's teeth. He groaned, unable to help himself as Moriarty crooked his head to the side, twisting the skin of John's throat painfully. Bugger, he thought, horrorstruck, there'll be teeth marks. Fuck.

Moriarty released his clench on John's skin only to begin sucking at it like a bloody Hoover, and despite his best efforts to remain detached from this insanity, to show no fear, John felt himself begin to tremble. The idea of the bastard leaving such a visible mark of his attack behind appalled John. Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous to assume that Moriarty wasn't going to mark him in every way imaginable. If John came out of this with a square-inch of undamaged skin, he'd be surprised. If he came out of this at all, he'd be surprised.

Please, God, let me live. Please, let Sherlock live. Please, God…

Releasing him, Moriarty backed quickly off the bed. The sudden rush of blood returning to his benumbed hands was excruciating, and John rolled onto his side, curling into a ball and cradling his hands in front of him protectively. The skin was swollen and stiff, bruises already coming in on the tender skin of his wrists. He could hear Moriarty moving beside the bed, fabric sliding against skin, the dull double thunk of shoes hitting the floorboards, and he cringed, knowing what that meant was coming. I'll get through this somehow, he thought, saying the words to himself again and again. I'll get through this and dance on the bastard's grave. I'll get –

Hands closed around his ankles and John was flipped once more onto his back. Still holding his hands against his abdomen, John could only close his eyes and fight to control his breathing as Moriarty hooked his fingers into the waistbands of both his trousers and his pants and slid them slowly down his body. He wanted to kick the monster's testicles so hard they'd lodge in sodding throat. He wanted to yell his bloody lungs out and have a whole and healthy Sherlock come running up the stairs to bash Moriarty's brains in. Most of all, he wanted to dig his Sig out of his nightstand drawer, put the barrel to Moriarty's head and pull the trigger. Twice.

The trousers pulled free of John's feet and he opened his eyes again as Moriarty settled on the edge of the bed. The madman reached out and ran a hand from John's scarred shoulder, across his chest, over his ribcage and down onto his abdomen. His hand trailed slowly, torturously, dragging out the suspense, but even so John was emotionally unprepared for the fingers that twirled in his pubic hair. His body reacted without any approval from his mind. Suddenly, he found himself sitting up on the bed, one hand around Moriarty's throat, the other twisting the offending hand backwards, on the verge of dislocating the bastard's elbow. Moriarty's eyes were wide, shocked, his eyebrows climbing. One little pop, John thought, one squeeze and I could fucking end him. Moriarty must have realized it too because, though his head didn't move, his eyes tracked across the room to the computer screen and lingered there meaningfully. John began to shake in earnest now. He could kill this man. He wouldn't even be the first, but there was no way he could guarantee to himself that he could kill Moriarty before the man sounded the alarm. One wrong noise, and the newspaper-reading minion would kill Sherlock. Was it worth the risk? Looking back at him, Moriarty must have read John's answer in his eyes because a smug, dark smile spread across his lips. Gradually releasing his hold on the bastard, John fell back onto the bed, his entire body shaking with inexpressible rage. He pressed the heels of hands against his eyes, unable to look at Moriarty an instant longer. This was happening. It was going to happen. For fuck's sake, where was Mycroft and his bloody all-seeing eye? Where was the damned cavalry? Why he had agreed to this madness?

Because, he thought resignedly, because I just couldn't let Moriarty take what little innocence Sherlock has left.

"And here I thought you were all fur coat and no knickers," Moriarty purred, his tones gone deep again as he slapped a hand possessively onto John's hip. He leaned down, and John stiffened as he heard the drawer of his nightstand opening. "Let's make this more interesting," Moriarty sang, and John opened his eyes as a solid weight landed on the duvet beside his shoulder. It was his Sig. His Sig! His eyes shot to Moriarty's, his pulse speeding up so rapidly that the bastard almost had to be able to hear it. Was Moriarty going to shoot him with his own sidearm? "You choice, Johnny boy, shoot me or shag me. Just remember, whatever you choose to do, you choose the consequences too."

"I made my choice," John said softly, letting his gaze drift away from Moriarty and back to the pistol. It lay there, fully loaded and deadly, emphasizing his helplessness, mocking his lack of options.

Then, before he could say more, Moriarty was on top of him, body pressed full length against John's own, hands clamped bruisingly on John's hips as the madman rubbed against him like an overly affectionate dog. John dropped his hands to his sides and twisted his fingers into the duvet, holding on for dear life. He couldn't afford to attack Moriarty again no matter how badly he wanted to. Even a madman would run out of patience with that game eventually. One hand slid from John's hip to the small of his back, the other wormed its way between their bodies and the bed, cupping John's buttock. He gasped as fingers toyed with the crack between his cheeks, one finger tapping at his anus. His hands twisted, fisting in the duvet cover as he trembled beneath the serial killer about to turn rapist.

Moriarty hummed in appreciation as John squirmed. He must have really like the sensation, because he trailed his fingertips repeatedly over John's anus, until John was quivering fit to shake the bed. "You can't imagine how arousing it is to have you beneath me like this, unbound, deadly, and yet utterly, utterly helpless. You hate every touch, loathe every caress, but you won't fight me, will you, pet? You know how that would end. How it must infuriate you, having to tolerate my lowly attentions, knowing the entire time that you could crush my throat with one well-placed thrust." Moriarty kneaded John's arse as he spoke, thrust his pelvis against John's. His erection slammed against John's own limp penis, hot and heavy. "Does Sherlock realise how dangerous you are?" Moriarty demanded. "Does he know you did more than heal people in that little war you fought? I'm sure Big Brother must know, with his abundance resources. Tell me, how many different ways could you kill me in this position with just your bare hands? Hmmm?"

"Seven!" John growled, hands clenched at his sides, useless as fuck. "Would you shut it!"

Moriarty chuckled. "You're a funny little fish, John, but I wouldn't throw you back, pet. No. I'm beginning to see why Sherlock keeps you around." John shivered, sickened, as Moriarty pushed the tip of a finger again his anus, hinting at darker things to come. "Pity he'll never know what he's missing, not tasting your skin, but then it's all just transport to him. You could certainly transport me, John… and you will. I'm going to ride you to Heaven tonight."

John huffed out a bitter laugh. "Bit cliché, don't you think?"

"Criticising now, are we? Let's see if I can't give you something else to think about." John shut his eyes and turned his head away as Moriarty brought his face within inches of his own, his foul breathe hot again John's skin. "Be a good pet and kiss me."

John gagged at the very thought. The finger at his anus had begun to push harder and he shuddered. A hand clamped vice-like on his jaw, turning his head round to face Moriarty, and –

"Boss?" They both jumped and John opened his eyes as the door to his room swung shut behind his new visitor. He hadn't even heard the footsteps on the stairs. "Boss, we're blown!" the man in the balaclava hissed urgently. The man in the balaclava! John's gaze darted to the computer screen – Sherlock still asleep and utterly alone – then his hand darted for the Sig. His finger had just touched grip when a heavy weight slammed in the side of his head and the world went away.

tbc