John froze as he heard slow footsteps come near his closet. "John?" A voice whispered lowly.
Sebastian had made a copy of the house key for Sherlock. The plan was that Sherlock would wait with a gun until Jim got back and keep John from doing anything stupid. Sherlock stepped into the dark house, wondering where John was kept.
John stiffened and pressed back against the back wall of the cupboard, his eyes going wide. Who was here? He clamped a hand over his mouth, and scooped Mrs. Buttons up, holding her to him, a wave of panic washing over him.
Sebastian had mentioned a cupboard. Sherlock stepped over toward the cupboard and swung it open, keeping his pistol close at hand. "John?" he whispered, and was startled when a cat sprang out past him.
John had tried to grab Mrs. Buttons, but she slipped through his fingers and launched out the door. John scrambled backwards as far as he could, pulling the blanket up around him, hoping it was too dark in the room to see him.
Sherlock peered into the dark space, feeling the wall for some sort of light switch. There wasn't one. "John, I'm not going to hurt you," he said, hoping he wasn't idiotically talking to a blank wall back there. "Come out, now."
John, having gone so long without hearing the voice, and terrified out of his mind, didn't recognize the dark figure looming over him as Sherlock. When it said his name, it about sent him over the edge with panic and he lunged at whoever it was, tackling him to the ground and wrestling the gun away, cocking it and pointing it down at the man as he sat astride his hips. "Who are you?"
Sherlock gaped up at him. He had expected John to be wary of him, but to not recognize his voice, his figure? His stomach turned in horror. He could feel that John was much, much thinner than he should be. "John—it's me. It's Sherlock. Where are the lights in this place? If you turn them on, you'll see. It's me. Put the gun away," he said carefully.
"…Sherlock?" John asked, brow furrowed. It was strange. Of course he recognized the name, he knew who Sherlock was and he remembered him being his friend, his flatmate—he remembered everything, but now, those feelings had been replaced by wariness and distrust. He slowly moved backwards off of Sherlock, keeping the gun trained on him and rose to his feet. He took a couple of steps backwards and flipped a switch, flooding the room with light. It was indeed Sherlock. John's heart leapt at the sight of him. He was simultaneously, excited, terrified, nervous, confused, and angry and he couldn't put his thoughts in order. 'What are you doing here?' he demanded, keeping the gun on him.
Sherlock flicked his eyes to the gun. He kept his voice even and calm. "First of all, John you are clearly in an atrophied state due to lack of nutrition. Know that I could wrestle that gun from your hand in a matter of seconds, so why don't you put that away? I'm here to help. Sebastian and I are both trying to help you. We're going to free you."
"I don't NEED any help!" John nearly shouted in a panicked voice, as if he were trying to calm himself. "I NEEDED help THREE MONTHS AGO!" His limbs started shaking and his voice rose. "What I need now is for you to GET OUT!" If Jim found out about this, John didn't want to think about what he'd do to him, to them both. It made his pulse skyrocket, and his breathing increased exponentially until he was practically hyperventilating.
Sherlock flared his nostrils, overwhelmed. John's yell felt like a punch in the gut. Why hadn't he worked faster, why hadn't he been better? Why hadn't he figured out how to rescue John as soon as he'd realized something was wrong? This was all his fault. In one swift movement he stepped over, then grabbed the gun from John's hand, tossed it across the room, and grabbed John to hold him, one gloved hand holding his head protectively, the other wrapped around his shoulders and back. He sank to the ground, still holding John. It was like holding a terrified, quivering animal, but Sherlock wouldn't let go. "John, I-I am so, so sorry." The words weren't enough. They were meaningless, weightless, nothing when put up against all that John had endured over the past few months.
John tried pushing him away, but found Sherlock stronger than he used to be...or perhaps he was just weaker. "Get off! Get off of me!" John cried, terrified that Jim would, at any moment burst through the door. While Sherlock was still Sherlock, John's feelings towards him were confused and conflicted. Regardless, though, he didn't want Sherlock or any other innocent people dying. "Let GO! You have to leave!" he tried shoving Sherlock again.
"John, I'm not an idiot. Surely you haven't forgotten that. Do you think I would ever risk coming to get you if it put you or me into certain danger?"
"He has cameras! He can see everything—LEAVE!" John yelled, finally managing to shove himself backwards and out of Sherlock's grasp, his eyes wide with both fear that Jim would come back and annoyance that Sherlock wouldn't listen to him.
"He's not going to get the chance to review the footage," Sherlock said darkly, standing and looking John over. God—what all had Moriarty done to him?
"Wh—what does that mean?" John asked his heart leaping into his throat, "What's going to happen to him?"
Sherlock's eyes widened in horror. God, so it was true. John had grown attached to Moriarty. He'd bored so far into John's mind that Sherlock knew John had a long, long recovery ahead of him. "John, get into the cupboard," Sherlock ordered.
John twitched a moment, about to head into the cupboard, but instead, turned tail and ran to the nearest phone, the one in Jim's office. He scooped it up and began dialing Jim's number—he had to warn him, he had to tell him to get out. If Jim died, the snipers would kill his friends and family. If Jim died, he would have no one.
"John, STOP!" Sherlock yelled, sprinting after him and jamming his finger into the receiver button, cutting the call before it could go out. He wrestled John away from the phone, tackling him to the floor. "Don't make me hurt you, John," he muttered, looking for something to tie his friend up with. He couldn't believe this writhing, vicious, terrified creature beneath him was John, his John. He wished he had the time to make Jim Moriarty suffer as exquisitely as he'd made John suffer, but he'd have to settle for a quick kill when the time came.
"No—NO!" John screamed, thrashing underneath him. "I need to tell him—I'll be in trouble—please! Everyone will die!" John sobbed as he weakly struggled against Sherlock.
Sherlock pressed his hand flat against John's throat, in a way that wouldn't cause a painful amount of pressure, but would cause him to lose his air supply enough to lose consciousness.
John choked and fought for breath, clawing at Sherlock's hand. This he hadn't seen coming...Sherlock being the one to kill him. It was a cruel joke, really. Sherlock making him promise to stay alive only to kill him himself. Then John just gave up. He stopped fighting and looked up at Sherlock, tears still streaming down his face. He twitched a bit as he tried to take in air, but his vision started to get spotty, then everything went black.
Sherlock rested there for a moment, panting, resting his head on his friend's chest. He was still breathing, and his heartbeat was strong. Good. He'd have a headache when he woke up, but he would be safe and alive. He hauled his friend over his shoulder and carried him to the cupboard, binding John's hands in front of him with a spare extension cord he found. He set his friend gently on his pillow in the cupboard, tucked the blanket around him, and then locked the door. He perched himself on the steps and waited, hoping John wouldn't wake up until it was all over.
Sebastian hissed in a breath as Jim's teeth dug into his skin, then groaned as Jim began thrusting in and out, doing his best to push his hips back to meet him. "Yes—Jim, please—more—" He begged.
Sebastian couldn't remember if they were on round three or four, but they'd been at it for hours, hurting each other and fucking each other every way they knew how, resting in between. Sebastian was sore and raw and exhausted, but Jim was relentless.
Jim happily obliged, moving faster, and reaching around to start pumping Sebastian's cock. "Nngh—you like that?"
"Fuck, yes, Jim, of course I like it," Sebastian growled, wishing he had some or any control over his limbs, pushing back against him as best as he could. "Want me to ask an obvious question too? Do you like fucking me?" He might as well be cheeky, seeing as how he was already being restrained and had already been beaten across the back.
Jim laughed. "Obviously, darling. Working over your tight, sweet, arse is one of my favorite activities. Right alongside explosions and assassinations.'
"Mmmm, I rank just after those two, do I? I'm flattered, Jim. You sure you don't love me?" It was a dangerous question, even with the teasing tone Sebastian put on it. But now he was curious, and this was his last night to find out. Sebastian supposed that he just wanted to try and understand Jim somehow. He had never been able to figure him out, not really.
Jim grabbed the riding crop and whacked it hard across Sebastian's back as he slammed up against his prostate and yelled "No!" ambiguously.
"Aungh!" Sebastian arched his back and groaned through the pain and the pleasure as Jim pushed his prostate. "No, what, Jim? No, what, James Moriarty? I've yet to get a straight answer from you!" he yelled.
"I LOVE you, you fucking idiot cocksucking bastard!" Jim yelled as he hit Sebastian again, punishing him for making him feel this way, and slamming up against his prostate because at the same time, he wanted so badly for Sebastian to enjoy this.
"Ah—!" Sebastian cried out at the crop, at Jim inside of him, at what Jim had just yelled at him. Shit. Shit. Shit. He couldn't let Jim live, not after what he'd done to John, not after ruining John. As muddled as his thoughts got around Jim, when he thought of John it was all so painfully simple. But then there was the thought of actually killing Jim. And he realized just how hard it was going to be, how guilty he would feel despite it all. His life had been closely twined with Jim for years. What would he be without him. "Good," Sebastian whispered. "Not so hard, is it? Ride me, Jim. We're so close..." So close to the end.
Jim cried out in both anger and relief at having it off his chest and began roughly slamming into Sebastian, punishing and pleasing, his feelings reaching both ends of the spectrum. He growled and dug his nails into Sebastian's hip, but at the same time, he moved his hand even faster on his cock, feeling his orgasm near, but he could hold off for Sebastian.
Sebastian gratefully stretched his cramped limbs, then looked Jim up and down and leaned in to kiss him deeply. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
Jim's eyes narrowed at him, and he leaned away from the kiss to ask, "For what?"
"...For making you say it," Sebastian lied, leaning his head against Jim's shoulder.
Jim rolled his eyes and dropped his head back onto the pillow. "Well," he said stiffly, "Now you know."