Warning-noncon touching and kissing. M/M sex (not nice sex either) (but not too horrible and it is consensual, so, yeah. I'm blithering over the internet. Just not good at warnings, I guess.)
So this is for mature audiences, really!
ANYWAY...
Chapter 14
John was invigorated by the blissfully cool, London air. It was bracing, he thought, as he marched to his favorite coffee shop. The light rain had cleaned the streets and left them glistening. Other people huddled under their umbrellas and rushed about, trying to avoid a little wet. Silly gits. This was London, the best city in the world, and after all, wasn't London known for its fog? This was really just a little mist, nothing to get all worked up about. John brushed back his hair, to keep it from dripping into his eyes, but that was fine. It was all fine.
"Morning, Dorcas," he said smiling broadly at the barista. She was really rather pretty, not his type of course-too pink and too blond-but, still, she was easy on the eyes. "Lovely day isn't it? And isn't that a lovely scarf, it suits you. One coffee please, milk, no sugar."
As soon as John paid with his last bit of change, he made to go back outside.
"Oh, you don' wanna go sit outside in the rain, Luv," said the rosy-cheeked barista, smiling back.
"It's just a bit of mist; it's no big deal," said John, with a cheeky grin.
John tapped the chair to knock off some of the rain water and sat down. His coffee steamed in the cool air, mingling with the clouds he blew out with his contented sigh.
John's lovely morning only improved when the lovely Dorcas stepped outside to offer John table service. She presented him with a free sample of seed cake and even leaned over, so that he could visually sample her ample cleavage. John could appreciate her generous bosom, even if he prefered a certain other person's broad, masculine chest. John smiled smugly, as he ate his rather large sample and read his rather soggy newspaper.
John felt a trifle disappointed when Sven/Sherlock did not appear, well it had been a late night, what with all that snogging. The younger man was probably having a bit of a lie in. No matter, John and Sherlock were going to look at a flat share this evening. Lovely. Brilliant.
Since the weather was so fine, the former soldier decided to take a stroll around the park. He admired the different colors of umbrellas and the many styles of raincoats, which he saw. John wondered if he should shop around for a trench coat. But, he remembered with a brief scowl, they always made his legs look too short. Well, that's not a problem; John would be sure to purchase a plain, dependable black umbrella over the weekend. Maybe he'd look around for a jumble sale. He smiled vaguely in the rain.
He ran his hand through his hair, finding it a bit wetter, soaking actually, but surely that was to be expected. This was London after all, not Afghanistan. They didn't have flat shares with brilliant, consulting detectives in Afghanistan.
Heading back to his bedsit in the shiny, silvery mist, John considered purchasing that umbrella sooner rather than later. Perhaps it had stopped misting and was actually raining. It was really rather difficult to see five feet in front of him in the downpour. Still, he judged, it was a good, solid English rain and John Watson was a patriot. He would not complain about the weather. He would embrace it.
He was comprehensively soaked from head to toe, when a black van sped to a stop next to him, splashing the muddy water up in an impressive wave. Before John could react, Colonel Moran and a hulking goon jumped out. Bloody hell.
The Colonel dragged John to the van, John swung his fist, but only connected with Moran's very solid shoulder. Between the Colonel and the hulk, John was not given any other chance to resist. They held his arms and lifted him into the van.
The doctor balked in the doorway. He panicked when he saw the clean floor mats and fine leather upholstery.
"Wait. Stop! I'm all over wet. For God's sake, you don't want me dripping on the floor! What if it ruins the carpet?" said John, urgently. He twisted impotently in their grasps.
"Johnny, you are so sweet. None of my other boyfriends ever worried about my carpets," chirped Mor-whatever. "But I can't have my pet wandering about in this deluge. I just can't. You're soaking wet. What if you get pneumonia?"
"Ermm," said John as the handsome lunatic pulled off John's jacket, followed by one of his favorite jumpers, the one with orange and green stripes. The van pulled forward with no warning, dumping John into the Irishman's lap.
"Jawnny! " exclaimed the madman, in a high-pitched voice. "Johnny, you naughty boy! This doesn't count as our second date, silly. Now you sit next to me not on me," continued the lunatic in a lower pitched voice.
"I'll ruin the seat, I'll ruin your suit," babbled John. Who the hell would Moran shoot this time, wondered John? He scrambled off of the crazy man's lap. If the mud and water dripping off John stained the upholstery or, God forbid the lunatic's bespoke suit, Moran might have to shoot the poor hulking bugger in the seat across from John. Or would the Colonel just shoot John, this time? He looked like he wanted to shoot John.
"Settle down, Jawwn. Daddy wants to give his little pet a great, big hug!," said the madman, in falsetto now.
John sat stiffly with Mor-whatever's arm around him. At least John's checked button down shirt wasn't too damp. The rain pounded the roof of the van as it sped through London's streets.
The goons, which in John's mind included Moran, sat and seemed to stare into space. The crime boss babbled on about taking to John about shopping and fine wines and taking a cruise on a yacht and selling real estate. He might have mentioned, in passing, the elimination of a rival in Lahore, Pakistan. John was careful to nod and say yes or no, at appropriate intervals.
Upon reflection, taking a swing at Moran had been sort of stupid. No, it had been very stupid. It was one thing to risk his own life, thought John, but his stupidity might have put Harry in danger. He would have to control his temper.
John had to think about Harry before himself. And then there was Sherlock. At least, the mad crime boss doesn't know about Sherlock. Yet.
All of John's his reservations about moving in with the younger man returned, crashing into him like a tsunami. The flat share was a terrible idea. It would put Sherlock in danger. It was a non-starter.
Christ, what do I do? I bet I could kill Mor-whatever right now. John quickly thought of three ways to kill the lunatic, but then Moran would kill John and more importantly Harry.
At least they don't know about Sherlock, he thought again. And I'll just have to keep it that way. I can just end it with Sherlock before it really begins. It's no big deal. John was drowning in the disappointment and even despair, left by the tsunami. But he forced a smile at the criminally insane man who clutched his hand. John wished he was dead.
On Saville Row, the cheerful but dangerous Irishman announced, "First stop, Johnny! Lets get you some nice clothes."
The goons hustled John through the back door of a men's clothing store. Mor-whatever sauntered in behind them, under a large umbrella held by his driver.
Although there were several clerks on duty, the shades were down, and the front door was locked. Apparently, this was a private shopping event. John narrowly eyed the daïs surrounded by mirrors on two sides. John pursed his lips; this could prove to be embarrassing.
John stoically endured the fitting as the tailor measured him, whilst the ex-soldier stood in nothing but his pants. Obviously, he had been fitted for his dress uniforms in the past, but this was a whole new level of tailoring.
Unluckily, John had foolishly worn his red pants in a pathetic burst of romantic optimism. Mor-whatever ostentatiously licked his lips when John stepped onto the platform for The Taking of the Measurements. At least two of the clerks had the temerity to ogle him as well, much to the sneering amusement of the Colonel. John wished he was dead.
The tailor measured everything on John. Hell, thought John bitterly, the bloody tailor probably even measured my cock. This humiliation was followed by The Trying on of Outfits. John publicly modeled suit jackets, trousers, sports coats, jumpers and various shirts and shoes, while the barmy Irishman clapped and chattered and oh'd and ah'd. Cloth was sampled and selected. Mor-whatever made all the decisions, while John stood around, usually in nothing but his sodding red pants. The clerks, tailor and even the hulking goon ogled him constantly.
'Daddy" finally selected the new wardrobe for his pet. As a personal favor to Mr. Prince, the first fitting would be in only two days gushed the tailor, who had twice brushed John's arse, accidentally on purpose. Of course, Mor-whatever publicly grabbed John's arse several times, saying that John looked lovely in red. John seethed and promised himself revenge, cold and deadly, just like the Klingon proverb. The revenge would be scheduled, just as soon as Harry was hiden somewhere safe.
Then John realized it. The idiot tailor had spoken the lunatic's name. His name was Prince! For a few glorious seconds, John felt elated. Then Mor-whatever smirked at the shorter, blond. Well, shite, Prince was just an alias. Of course, it's an alias. All geniuses used alias all the time, obviously. God, I am so stupid, and of course, the sodding Irishman bloody knows it.
The sodding Irishman also purchased a new outfit for his pet to wear immediately. John's old clothes, including his lovely striped jumper were deemed trash. John put up a half-hearted protest when they were placed in the bin, but then Mor-whatever assumed a thinking pose and wondered out loud what Harry would want. John silently said farewell to his comfy old outfit.
At the last-minute, Mor-whatever ordered several more red pants for his precious pet, as a little treat for them both. John nearly gagged.
When they left the shop, John was wearing tight-fitting jeans and a form-fitting white shirt with a lavender cashmere jumper and a new leather jacket. John had also been encouraged to to allow, one of the clerks, Toby, to work some gel into his hair. Toby surreptitiously slipped his mobile number in John's pocket. Bloody hell.
"How do your new shoes feel, Luv?" asked the fashion-obsessed madman, while Moran and the hulk escorted John to the van..
"Um good, they feel good," and they did feel good. Everything felt good. Except the lavender jumper, it was soft and warm, but it was too clingy and it was lavender, like an Easter egg. He'd asked for the blue jumper but Daddy refused. John repeated his request, politely, but Daddy frowned. Then Daddy's eyes bugged out. John had suddenly seen all of the clerks as potential targets for Moran and quickly accepted the Easter egg jumper.
The next stop was for lunch at an exclusive bistro. Again they entered through the back. The kitchen staff seemed genuinely eager to see Mr. Prince (not his real name.) This must be a regular event, and no doubt Mr. Prince paid well for these private, little functions. John felt special. Not.
John and Mr. Prince/ Mor-whatever sat in the empty restaurant, which had been exclusively reserved for them. The white linen table-cloth sparkled with ridiculous amounts of cutlery and crystal glasses, and, big surprise, three blood-red roses graced the center of the table.
John felt that his purple jumper glowed. He felt like the staff stared at him. Maybe he looked as ridiculous as he felt. Or maybe the staff knew about the eventual fate of Mor/Prince's boyfriends. Probably they stared at John the way people might watch a train-wreck in progress. It's horrifying, and yet you can't help but look. Great, I'm a lavender train wreck. John virtually chugged his first glass of wine.
After John tossed back a second glass of wine, he began to enjoy lunch. The apple, leek and potato soup was a pretty darn good choice for a last supper. John went along with this ersatz dating thing for Harry's sake, but only up to a point. John had finally decided that he was going to have to die to defend his...well not virginity, he wasn't a virgin per se, no... but it was the same idea. It was just, he'd never had a...had a cock up his duff before.
And that wasn't even the point. A person should get to choose their partners without threats. Period. He just hoped that once he was dead, Harry would be spared.
At least,before his undoubtedly gruesome and probably painful death, John had had an amazing night of romance with the most brilliant man in London. He wondered vaguely if Sherlock would miss him. Probably not, a man like that could have anyone he wanted, after all.
If John was destined to die, he might as well enjoy the charming Zinfandel and the penne with artichokes and truffles. He figured he might as well have desert too. No need to worry about his waistline now.
When the waiter said that the crème Brulèe was to die for, John realized that he probably should have skipped the charming Zinfandel, because John lost it. He began to giggle uncontrollably.
Mor-whatever looked confused. He probably didn't know whether to be insulted or not, figured John. Which probably meant that the lunatic didn't know whether he should shoot a waiter or the ex-soldier. It was probably a tough decision, and John took pity on the poor, handsome psychopath's indecision.
"Look," he said. "the crème brulèe is 'to die for'. If I don't do what you want, you're going to kill me. Right? Right. So, I'm facing death... and the crème brulèe is to die for. Get it? To die for?"
John dissolved into frankly hysterical giggles. Yep, that last glass of Zinfandel really wasn't a good idea. Finally Mr. Prince/Mor-whatever began to giggle too; either he got the joke eventually, or perhaps John's giggling was infectious. The Irishman laughed like a girl, which made John laugh even harder. John found the madman's eager desire to please a little endearing. In a sick, pitiful, dysfunctional sort of way.
After the crème brulèe and Irish coffee (of course, Irish coffee, tittered John to himself). The happy, slightly inebriated couple made their way hand in hand back to the van of death, as John christened it. It was almost romantic, in dark, horror movie sort of way.
The next stop was an art gallery and a private tour. The lunatic wanted another weird painting. This one was of a black swastika on a dark grey canvas. John found a painting nearby that was only a little weird. It was a landscape of a lavender house on the edge of a cliff with weird lavender birds flying in the setting sun, which was an odd green color. It had very little black and no swastikas.
John pointed out the lavender highlights which matched his hideous jumper and Mor-whatever squealed with delight, like a girl, thought John. He giggled some more. The crazy man bought the colorful green sunset painting with an Easter egg house and left, his arm was draped around his little pet.
The alcohol was wearing off, and John began to wonder what time it was and whether it was time to die.
Since he was going to die, he had very little to lose. "Look, I think I deserve to know your name before, well, whatever. Colonel Moran gets to know your name. Even the hulk, there, gets to know your name, I bet," said John waiting for the punch, slap, or bullet between his eyes.
Mor-whatever's head swung from side to side, like a komodo dragon, thought John, mesmerized in spite of himself.
"Jim, you can call me Jim. Hi!" said the psychopath in falsetto again. "So, did you have a good time, Johnny?" he asked. Now his voice was low and dangerous, or was it seductive? "Because I had a good time, I really did."
John was pulled into an embrace. Jim, if that was really his name, kissed the blonds' temple and then left a trail of wet, mushy kisses down his face and into his neck.
Nope, not seductive, decided John, sobering up rapidly. This was just wrong.
John pushed himself away but Jim/Mor-whatever/Prince only laughed and clapped his hands. "Good! You've rather shown your hand, Jawn," said the psycho-boyfriend from hell, who stared at the traitorous bulge in John's pants.
The madman leaned forward, as John backed into the corner of the seat. The Irishman tittered and grabbed John's arms with his delicate but surprisingly strong hands.
"Now, now, remember your darling, drunken whore of a sister, pet," said Jim/Prince/Mor-whatever (and how the hell many names can one person have, thought John). The Irishman slid himself over the seat like an well-dressed slug. A slug dressed to kill, thought John, as another giggle escaped him.
The leering Irishman crawled into the former soldier's lap, grinning like a madman. Which is exactly what he is, John reminded himself.
"Jim, stop. Let go of me now..."said John, the giggles having been killed by the leering lunatic.
The madman pinned the blond's arms down and began to ravage his mouth. John's mind was fragmenting; part of him wanted to escape and he fought to free his arms. Part of him was alarmingly turned on by Jim's domination over him, only a small part but there it was. Part of him was terrified for Harry and wondered just how much danger would be in if he didn't give in.
John couldn't get his arms free. He couldn't push the bastard off of him.
Jim explored the lovely, hot cavern of John's mouth. Exquisite. Jim couldn't wait to explore all of John. Jim could hardly wait for the third date to invade this man's dark, scorching fissure-oh it was going to be so lovely!
And it was so cute, the way John tried to pull his head backwards and kept trying to free his arms. Those struggles were such a turn on. As a reward for his cuteness, Jim ensured that his boyfriend was properly kissed, the way a man like John should be kissed, with tongue and lips and teeth followed by the sharp, intoxicating, metallic, taste of blood. This is what a soldier like John deserved. Only Jim could truly satisfy his little pet.
Oh, and Seb was ready to explode. Behind his flinty exterior, Seb's eyes burned. Those eyes raged insanely. Jim grinned tauntingly at his longtime lover; he saw the large soldier's arousal swelling in his lap. Jim laughed again before he accosted John's tasty neck. The smaller man shuddered. John's fear, so well controlled but still so palpable, was mixed with desire, and wasn't it precious how he tried to hide his arousal from Daddy? Jim ground down on the obvious and pleasingly large erection underneath him.
John gasped, his firm little body tense and trembling under the onslaught. Would his precious little Johnny suddenly surrender or maybe he would snap, go berserk-oh, now that would be soooo delicious-and then John would fight back with all his strength, dooming the stupid slut who dared to call herself his sister. Jim hoped for the latter; he'd like to kill a woman who looked so much like John. It would be almost like killing his little soldier, but in the end, Daddy would still have his pet for more fun and games. The best of both worlds. This was just like a game. OHHHH, it is a game, silly! Jim loved games.
The madman bit his lip and sucked out the blood. VAMPIRE! VAMPIRE, thought JOhn, panicked. God that one hurt, and it made John throb with desire, and it made him physically ill. If it wasn't for Harry…
Fuck this. Harry would have to defend herself. And to hell with his double-crossing body. In the end, it didn't matter if his stupid body responded, this whole thing was wrong. John wanted out. He began to struggle harder, but to no avail. The psychopath had a madman's manic strength, and John's arms were no where near as strong as they used to be, no matter that he went to PT or a gym five days a week. And every time he said no, Jim just slammed his lips on top of John's mouth.
John glanced over the top of the psycho-vampire's shoulder and met Moran's eyes. For just an instant, Colonel Moran's shields were down and John saw the naked pain and longing in his eyes.
Then the Colonel looked straight ahead. Once again he was impervious to the struggle in front of him.
The former army-doctor realized that Jim had watched the exchange and had seen the man's pain too, and it made Jim smile, a dark, cruel and soulless smile. Shite, he's worse than a vampire; he's a demon. I'm doomed. John fought off the panic that bloomed in his chest.
Remember your training Captain Watson! Fuck retirement, you are still a soldier in service to Her Majesty. You will always be a soldier. Imagine Jim in your sights. I can see the madman though the crosshairs; he's grinning as he tortures me, as he tortures the Colonel. Lock on target. Breathe in. Breathe out….Breathe in….Breathe…out…Feel your heart beat…Breathe…in…..slow your hear beat…breathe…out.
As if a he had flipped a switch, the tension drained from John's body. The trembling stopped. The gasps, protests and the stifled moans were gone! What the fuck? Jim looked down, his pet's eyes were focused on the ceiling. He turned his head; his lieutenant was leaning forward, also alert to the sudden change.
Moriarty had to think, was this was a good thing or a bad thing.
Well, this was perfect! Johnny was never dull. None of Jim's other boyfriends had disappear in their minds-as much as they might have wanted to, especially at the end. Jim shook his pet, he grabbed John's jaw and slapped the silly, precious, disobedient thing. John's breathing was slow and measured and he had escaped, and even Sebby couldn't quite do this. Just make his mind disappear like that. I wonder if it's forever? Maybe he lost his mind? Or maybe he's gone to ground, my little foxie might be playing a little game with me. Playing hide and seek-how adorable!
Jim practically purred with pleasure, as he slapped his naughty little pet again. He couldn't stop himself, not really; and he bit behind his pet's ear hard but not to draw blood. Oh what the hell, why not? Naughty little pet. Jim trapped a tiny piece of skin between his teeth and bit and tore. He was rewarded by a grunt of pain and a hitch in Johnny's breathing. He was rewarded by the teeniest squirt of hot, salty, coppery-tasting blood. It danced on his tongue. And, oh, how Jim loved dancing.
After several minutes of suckling behind John's ear with no response. Mr Prince/Mor-whatever, pulled away and grabbed John's face with his hands squeezing John's jaw, hard.
The lunatic had slapped John more than once. John only lost control for a second when pain exploded behind his right ear. He bit me again! VAMPIRE! I fucking knew he was a vampire.
Finally, Jim's soft hands traveled down, gently caressing John's neck; John did not look at him. It ended with Jim's fingers encircling his neck; Jim's thumb's lightly rubbing over the doctor's trachea and gradually pressing down harder and harder. John looked up at the psycho-vampire above him. And the lunatic's eyes were cold and empty. They promised death. John forgot everything else. Fuck it, if I'm going to die anyway, thought John, I'm taking him down with me.
His arms were free; they had been for some time, the doctor realized. John readied himself to grab the lunatic's throat. He would brace his other hand behind the madman's neck; I should be able to snap his fucking neck before the Colonel can kill me. Almost imperceptibly, John's hands tensed .
Finally, thought Jim, caressing John's beautiful neck. He squeezed just enough to make John's gorgeous eyes widen. Finally, I have his attention again. It is a game; it is; it is!
"Jawn-ee," cooed Jim/Mr. Prince. "Jawnnee, you are planning murder. I see it in your eyes. And it's beautiful. Who're you goin' to murder, Jawnee? You want to murder me?"
John glanced up at the handsome leering face above him. Acquire target. Breathe in. He focused on the man's neck. Breathe out. Target acquired. Permission to kill? What about Harry? John hesitated but continued his breathing. He remained in control. Breathe in…
"I see the murderer lurking inside you, Johnny, and it wants out. And I will bring it out, Johnny," John looked up, his lips parted in a fierce grimace. He looked at the dark brown eye's boring into his soul, seeing everything. Breathe Watson. "And we will all play together, won't that be fun?" said Jim in an eager, childish voice, at odds with his dark corpse-like eyes.
Reacquire target, that's an order Captain Watson. Breath out. Lock on target… "That red-headed twat, you hung out with yesterday morning, couldn't possibly appreciate you John, not like I do." The insane Irishman's voice rolled from a sing-song falsetto to deep low growl. "He couldn't appreciate your slayer's soul; he just couldn't. I don't think he's right for you, Johnny. I think that if he comes sniffing around again, we'll have to get rid of him."
John tried not to stiffen at the threat against Sven/Sherlock. He was tired and frightened of all the threats and implied threats against his sister and now his friend. He was tired of playing sick games with this psychopath. Breathe in… Breathe…out. You have permission to kill, Captain. Breath in…Make ready. John's trigger finger relaxed.
The ex-colonel watched closely, he knew that the finger twitch was a tell. Moran crouched, tense and ready. Jim knew it too and timed it perfectly.
Without warning, Jim slid off John's lap. Moran lunged forward before John could do more than begin to stand. He knocked the shorter blond back into his seat, pinning John's arms to his side.
"Well, Johnny, it's been fun, but Daddy's had enough now. Here's money for cab fare,' said the pycho-demon-boyfriend from hell, slipping a wad of money into John's pocket. "By-e."
Wait. What?
As if on cue, Moran stood, pulling Watson with him; he opened the van door and threw John out onto the sidewalk. What the fuck? John lay stunned in the pouring rain as the van raced off. His face vacant of any emotion, the Colonel leaned out the door, watching the former army captain sprawled on the sidewalk.
"Oh that was so much fun!" chortled Moriarty. "You!" he demanded sharply to the toad that Sebby had brought for backup. "Out, now." At least this ignorant henchman was properly trained. He jumped up, scrambled for the door and as soon as the van slowed, he jumped out. Seb eyed his boss warily, as he shut the van door for the second time in five minutes.
"You like watching, don't you Seb? I can see your pathetic arousal from here. Do you wank off, when I fuck my little pets, Sebby? Do you imagine that you're the one fucking them, or do you imaging that you're fucking me?" said Moriarty, stroking himself through his fine tailored trousers. "Do you wonder what it would be like to tie my pretty little soldier down? I'm thinking about it. I am imaging him tied down and struggling. I am fucking his beautiful little mouth. PULL DOWN YOUR FUCKIN' TROUSERS! YOU MORON! How can I fuck you with your fucking pants on!" yelled the James Moriarty, unzipping his own trousers and pulling them off. He folded them carefully-they were Westwood, after all. Then he crooned to Sebastian again, "I'm thinking about fucking my little pet, just nailing his sweet little ass and maybe, just maybe, letting you fuck me at the same time. Would you like that Sebby? I think you would."
Sebby stood, his head ducked to under ther ceiling of the van. He was half-naked, his stiff cock red and throbbing.
Oh goodie, it was already leaking. "Come here, Sebby. Come give Daddy a kiss," crooned Moriarty.
Sebastian knelt down between Jim's bare legs. Jim was in an exceptionally good mood today and allowed Sebastian to kiss him for several minutes. Then he had the former colonel bend over the rear seat. Feeling generous, Moriarty allowed his lover to prepare himself and even apply some lube. Then he skewered Sebastian and banged away happily.
The entire time he that he fucked his lieutenant, the crime boss chattered away like a deranged magpie.
"Sebby, I need to see the forecasts on our real estate in Greece. We really bought a bit too much after we arranged for their banking crisis. No matter, we'll still quadrupal our profits. You know you're such a good fuck, Sebby. Oh and don't forget, I have to contact General Chan. Such a stupid name. She should not be a general, maybe a captain, but I'm not sure she's even good enough for that. I am beginning to have doubts about her, Sebby," sang Moriarty as he pounded as hard as he could into the ex-colonel. "She may have outlived her usefulness. Sebby, Sebby, I think I may be coming soon. You are such good boy today. I want to see you come too this time. I want you to touch youself, but only this once, just as a treat. Oh God, this is really one of our best fucks, Sebby. I wonder if Johnny will be as good as you. Probably better, you know why? I'll tell you why, because he still thinks he's one of the good guys and it will be so much fun to make him into one of the bad guys. Oh God, hurry up and come Sebby, Daddy can't wait much longer," snarled Jim irritably.
Sebastian was so inconsiderate, thought Jim, as he thrust with all his might, driving the larger man into the seat. Sebastian needed to be punished.
Jim picked his belt up from his neat pile of clothes and began whipping his lover with the folded strap. Sebastian gasped as the welts formed on his buttocks; as always, the pain brought him quickly to a shuddering climax. Jim cried out gleefully as he, too, came inside his lover.
Sated, Jim pulled out and slid to the floor. He rested against his spent lieutenant's firm, sweaty thigh and began texting instructions to his many operatives, at home and abroad.
Sebastion still knelt, bent over the seat. He was appreciative that his boss was so tender and loving today. There probably wouldn't even be any bleeding this time. And Jim was actually touching him after his release. It was wonderful. A couple of happy tears escaped his eye. The former colonel was grateful to John Watson for making his boss so happy and, thus, so loving and tender.
Sooner or later, Sebastian would have to kill the ex-army doctor, but, in gratitude for this afternoon, he would make Watson's death quick and almost, but not quite, pain-free.
He listened as Moriarty rattled off instructions to someone on the phone. As always, he didn't pay attention to Jim's conversations. They were often too complicated, and anyway, Jim was the boss. Jim made all the decisions, and like a good soldier, Sebastian just followed his orders.
OK, what just happened? One minute that madman's seducing me, then he looks like he wants to kill me; then he throws me out of the van of death while it's still moving. What the fuck? John rubbed his shoulder, as he sat up slowly in the middle of a puddle. His back protested just as much as his shoulder.
An older man slowed his mad dash through the rain, to try to help the veteran sniper to stand up. John thanked him and quickly began marching away. Ignore the shoulder, and your back. And the leg? Nope, it's nothing, it's fine. Everything's fine. No big deal.
John was quite lost, but he didn't want to use the money that Jim Mor-whatever gave him for a taxi, because he thought that there just might be some finger prints on it. He stuffed his trembling left hand into his new leather coat pocket and felt cold, hard steel. Christ, Jim (if that's even his name), or possibly Moran, had shoved a handgun in his pocket. Bloody hell. How long had it been in there? Was it loaded? Maybe he should use it on himself. That was one way to protect Harry, and Sherlock too. They'd be a damn sight better off, if John was dead.
The bloody damn sky looked dead. The clouds were a leaden grey. No, thought John with his lips pursed, they were corpse grey, just like the grey and black paintings in Jim Mor-whatever's underground quarters.
The stupid rain came down in buckets, drenching the former soldier. The frigid water dripped down his neck, giving him chills. People pushed and shoved past him in their straightjacket-like London Fog uniforms and their hideously colored rain ponchos. They're all a bunch of Nazis and clowns running about in the bloody rain. And everyone carried ugly black umbrellas, except the poor sod who sacrificed everything for them in the war, as if anyone bloody well cared. Only in London would everyone look so ugly in the rain, like drowned rats in raingear.
John hated London. He hated Britain. He hated the bloody, awful rain and the fucking, cold wind. His hands were clenched tightly.
He wanted to hit someone so badly. He wanted to punch Jim and Sebby. He wanted to punch that happy giggling couple in the doorway and that fat, red-cheeked old man laughing into his mobile under his enormous umbrella. John was fully prepared to punch anyone really.
He had been ten seconds from killing the bloody psycho-demon. If only he hadn't hesitated. A soldier must never lose his concentration. He knew better. Dammit! Dammit!
The air was so cold and freezing. What God-awful weather! John longed for the brilliant blue skies and the scorching sunshine of Afghanistan.
He asked directions twice, before finding the tube and heading towards 221 B Baker Street. He would only be a few minutes late for his rendezvous with Sherlock.
He would have to tell the tall, handsome ginger (if he was a ginger?) that the flat share would not work. The man would probably be relieved, wouldn't he? Sherlock had probably had time in the hard, cold light of day to reexamine the whole proposal and had surely realized his mistake. Who would want to share a flat with an old, disabled vet and one with little or no money? And who in their right mind would agree to share a flat with a man who had a psycho-demon-vampire-boyfriend from hell?
John hated the rain and the people on the tube and the traffic and everything to do with London.
He would have to say good-bye to the handsome, posh detective. At least we had The Savoy... It's like Casablanca, when Rick said, "At least we had Paris". Rick and Ilsa had to break up because Ilsa was married to Victor. Wait, that would mean Jim was Victor Lazlo, and then I would have to be Ilsa, and Sherlock gets to be Rick. That would make Lestrade the Vichy Captain and Mycroft could be the fat, underworld smuggler, played by Sydney Greenstreet. But I want to be the guy. I want to be Rick, and I don't want to be Ilsa.
Bloody hell, I worry about the stupidest things.
I'll have to die or leave London immediately. It's the only way to protect Sherlock and Harry and not have to get in bed with a demon. If I don't leave, I'll regret it, "Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow" but probably by the weekend and certainly by next week. Oh well, that's Rick/Sherlock's line anyway. If I'm Ilsa, I'll just have to stand around looking sultry and poignant before I leave with a freakin' broken heart.
John Watson looked neither sultry nor poignant. He looked like a very angry, mostly drowned hedgehog in an expensive leather jacket, as he stood in front of 221B Baker Street. John was had run most of the way there, and he was panting, his breath forming clouds in the frigid air. His chest hurt. Probably from running in the freezing cold rain. It certainly wasn't because he had made the decision to say goodbye to Sherlock forever. He was not Ilsa, and he did not have a broken heart. Nonetheless his chest hurt. Ignore it; it's no big deal.
He checked the cheap watch, which he bought at a church jumble last month. He was only seven minutes late. Bloody hell, I met Sherlock Holmes exactly one day too late, and I'll regret that for the rest of my life.
Standing in the rain and squaring his shoulders, John Watson raised his chin defiantly and then raised his hand. Finally, John raised the knocker on the door of 221 Baker Street, just in time to say goodbye.
A/N So a longer chapter to make up for the shorter, previous one. There will be a short hiatus (one week?) before the next update due to the interruptions of real life (hereafter known as RL). Also I need to work on my other fic which has been languishing in limbo.
So, finally a bit of MorMor, or was it too much? Anyway, reviews let me know what you like and what you don't like. So, please, let me know what you think :D
Thank you to everyone who follows this fic and any one who has made it one of their favorites. Special deluxe thank you's to everyone who reviewed chapter 13 including EJ 12212012, ruvy91, Kyuubigurl74, InuChimera7410, Quiet Time, SamuelE8688, power0girl, anyrei1, stringed deducer.
Disclaimer This is fan-fiction and so naturally I do not own any rights to SHERLOCK, yeah?