Tuesday 20
He could not say how this had happened or what had brought this about; the only thought that crossed his mind when the stronger man's grip tightened around his arms was at least I'm not alone. And I wouldn't want to be alone. Which was what most things boiled down to these days. Not being alone. He could not be sure about when this infatuation had started. He had always preferred his own company to that of other people. But then, John wasn't other people, was he? After all, he was here with him.
Sherlock felt the stranger's fingers press into his skin, leaving marks even through his shirt. John was facing him in calculating tension, watching him. To not disappoint his flatmate Sherlock continued keeping himself overly erect and trying to arrogantly look down on his attacker. Which wasn't too easy, given the other was three inches taller and standing behind him. Still he found himself quite impressive in comparison. Fighting was useless. There were at least three more men in the room whose actions had to be taken into consideration. One, for instance, was pointing a gun at John's head.
"I take it you know what's going to happen now?" a voice from the corner of the room said, and Sherlock sneered. He had heard that voice before.
"Let me guess. You're going to kill us," the detective answered in a calm tone staring at the smallish opponent in the expensive suit whose face was wearing a contorted smile and slowly moved from side to side.
"That would be neat, wouldn't it?" Moriarty had walked up to Sherlock and gave him a cold glare, "You try and blow me up. I come after you. What a weak analogy. Boring!" Moriarty fingered Sherlock's top buttons, undoing three of them and baring immaculately white flesh, "You are hot, sexy! Such a shame you're not available."
He turned to John and outstared him. John cast Sherlock an inquiring glance. What was going on?
"Oh, I'm not heartbroken over the two of you being - close," the stylish criminal continued and sighed, "I'll have my share eventually, won't I?"
"Don't waste your breath," Sherlock remarked and Moriarty rested a hand on John's shoulder bending in to whisper, "You'll be enjoying this, John, go on," and he pushed John into Sherlock's direction, "Why don't you get on your knees, John? Would be more comfortable."
John stumbled inelegantly but stopped in front of his friend and watched him carefully. As usual, Sherlock seemed miles away.
"You're not-" John began not sure whether to focus on Sherlock or Moriarty.
"Serious? Oh, I am, see, I'll even lend a hand," shoving past John, Moriarty undid Sherlock's belt and jeans at which the slender young man stirred, ineffectively against his captivator though. Moriarty eased the black trousers down bony hips and slid his hand inside Sherlock's underpants, "Oh! Not so cock-sure now, are we?" Moriarty hissed and removed the hand, putting it on John's back, "Now, don't like being kept waiting. On you go, John, you know what I'm talking about."
"What if-"
"-you refuse? You wouldn't. Want to stain Mrs Hudson's carpet with bits of brain."
"You won't get away with this," John weakly reasoned.
"And who would stop me?" At a quick nod, one of the intruders had joined Sherlock's captivator and put a gun to the detective's neck. John realized that there was still another one pointed at himself, so he slowly got to his knees.
"John-" He did not recognize the croaking voice as Sherlock's at first, "you don't have to do this." He did not realize he had spoken. The words had just come. John did not have to do this. He should not have to do - this. Sherlock had always wondered what genuine embarrassment felt like. He had been humiliated before, had been badly abused, mostly verbally, but he had never felt like this. John was his friend. His only friend. No boyfriend or lover, much more than that. He did not want John to see him naked. He did not want him to do these things. He did not want John to touch him. Not here. Not with strangers watching.
"You have a choice. It's you. Or him," Moriarty declared and John snorted. He couldn't expect Sherlock to - blow him. God, this was mad. Madder than anything they had been through. This man didn't do sex. Having him on his hands and knees in front of John simply wouldn't fit. God, the image would stay with him forever. He fumbled about the tall man's trousers, exposing as little as he could of his friend. Don't look. He forced himself not to look up. If he had, he would have seen the set jaw line blush.
"You're not very good at this, Sherlock," Moriarty cut in, "the blood's not supposed to rush to your face!" He giggled to himself and told John to get to work. How was he supposed to tell Sarah? What was he supposed to tell Sarah? Was he supposed to tell Sarah? Oh, by the way, gave Sherlock a blow-job today. She wouldn't like it. Good deduction. Sherlock seemed to be rubbing off. Shouldn't he be rubbing him off?
Carefully John unwrapped Sherlock and eventually looked up when he felt the detective slacken as if he were about to faint. His face had turned deep red, his eyes were closed and he let out a strangled moan.
"Interesting!" Moriarty chuckled and leaned into Sherlock, "So you are a clean shaver."
He wanted to die.
Better get this off quickly, John decided and did what he was expected to do.
This wasn't happening, Sherlock told himself. Not now, not ever. Couldn't. Shouldn't. If he could only use his arms, he would pull John up and push him away. How was he ever to-
Oh. He found the grip on his arms lessen and shook himself free. In an instant, he had pushed John off, too, and turned to Moriarty. Stupid he had to pull up his trousers at the same time.
"Just leaving," Moriarty grinned and held up his hands, "seen enough for now. Might want to see more, though." And the intruders left.
Sherlock sank onto the couch trying to think but found himself strangely overpowered by emotion. He shot John a dark stare but found the blond innocently staring back at him.
What now? Sherlock thought through the options quicker than John who decided to be blunt and both spoke at once.
"That was - good. Thank you."
"That was the weirdest thing I've ever not done."
Both smiled briefly, then John added, "Did you just say thanks?" Sherlock confirmed and ran his hands through his hair, "I couldn't have - I didn't get it at first." And when John frowned, "When he said get on your knees."
"Well, that was obvious then, wasn't it?"
"To me it wasn't," Sherlock admitted and scratched his neck. John got off the floor and joined his friend on the couch.
"What? That's what it means," Sherlock huffed, "No one's ever - done that." To me. "With me."
"Nothing wrong with that," John said and Sherlock shot him a disdainful look, "You - made sure you were a - private man. That's - fine."
"Is it?"
John nodded.
"You're not - disgusted." Faint worry.
"Why should I be? I've seen worse, you know."
"Have you." Envy? Jealousy?
"Not guys, I mean. I've seen guys that were less handsome than you, not - in that particular context - though." He stopped shaking his head and Sherlock curiously observed John was shivering. He had been collected before. Probably the shock kicking in.
"Handsome?" John expected the diva in his flatmate to rebel against the word. To point out the understatement. The over-simplification.
"Yes, that's not the point though, is it?"
"But you think I'm handsome."
John shrugged and wanted to elaborate. Well-kempt wasn't really accurate. Moreover did he wish to avoid any reference to - hair. "As in attractive, pleasant, cute. Handsome, yes." He must know that, John thought. Fishing for compliments. Sherlock looked at him curiously, sad rather than suspiciously. Then he jumped up and walked into the kitchen.
"Where're you going?"
"Bed!"
John shook his head and sighed, when Sherlock changed his mind and turned back, "No one ever called me cute. Perfect, yes. Exceptional and extraordinarily flawless. Never handsome," each adjective delivered so whip-like carried bitter disappointment. Surely somebody must have shown Sherlock some respect. Some tenderness.
"You're really kind with me," he sadly admitted and then walked down the hall.