blind_author (blind_author) wrote,

Sherlock Fic - Reaction

Title: Reaction
Rating: R/NC-17
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, and am making no profit from their use, more's the pity.
Warnings: Non-con and slash.
Summary: Written for a prompt on the kinkmeme: Before shoving him in the explosive vest, Moriarty fucked John, viciously. John makes it through the whole encounter with Moriarty and Homles via his own badass soldier nerves of steel, but afterwards, when he and Sherlock are admitted to the hospital for minor burns and abrasions and shock, the hospital staff find other injuries on John.

(Title page by [info]birddi)

John supposed this meant he wasn't getting any tea.

It was a ridiculous thought to have as his knees buckled, but it swam through his brain nevertheless. Barely a street away from the flat, using one of those shortcuts he hadn't realised existed until he started following Sherlock around, he'd felt a sharp, sudden pain at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, as though someone had punched him with a pen. John had seized whatever had hit him and yanked it out, to find a small, hollow dart with a bright red tip, the kind they used to drug up zebras and lions in nature documentaries.

Then everything had started to get very fuzzy. Among the jumbled chaos of 'oh god, this can't be good' and 'who the hell uses tranquiliser guns on people anyway?' there was the very clear impression that he wouldn't be getting any tea, and he probably should have eaten before he left the flat.

Ridiculous, but it was there nevertheless, and was in fact John's only clear thought as conciousness drifted away like smoke on the wind.


John didn't open his eyes when he regained consciousness, partly because he suspected he wouldn't like what was going to greet him, but mostly because he wanted to figure out what was going on without alerting his captors he was doing so.

The first thing he took note of was that there was cloth in his mouth. He pushed tentatively against it with his tongue, but it did budge. Gag, then. Either he was somewhere screams would be heard and attract attention, or whoever had taken him just wanted him quiet – it could really go either way.

The second thing he noticed was that he was naked. John had read about how people didn't feel clothes against their skin because their brain became used to the sensation and simply blocked it out, and he figured that was true – he'd never really felt his clothes, not unless they were hideously uncomfortable, but he was definitely feeling their absence. So he'd been stripped while he was unconscious, though why he was stripped remained to be seen. There were a host of possible reasons that suggested themselves: sexual assault (the most obvious), to ensure he wasn't carrying any weapons, to dress him in something else...or they could have taken his clothes simply to unsettle him and put him in a very obvious position of vulnerability in relation to his kidnappers.

He was lying on his stomach, on something soft, something that felt a lot like a mattress. A bed? John shifted, trying to determine what he was lying on and at the same time make the movement look like a natural shifting of position while unconscious, when he became aware of something much more disturbing – he was tied up.

His wrists were fastened above his head to what was probably the headboard (John was going to assume he was lying on a bed) with something that felt a lot like handcuffs. And not the fuzzy sex-toy kind you bought in adult shops, but the police kind, the kind that could cut up your wrists if you struggled against them. His legs were spread so wide John just knew his tendons were going to be aching soon, and they were tied with something both strong and smooth – some kind of synthetic cord?

“Stop playing around Johnny-boy, I can tell you're awake,” came a voice from somewhere to his left. It was a man's – as cheerful as if he were greeting a long-missed friend, but there a sinister edge to it that made the hair stand up along the back of John's neck.

He almost wanted to keep his eyes shut, to be defiant, but knew that was only misplaced pride speaking. The game was up, and further prevarication would be pointless and only put him at a disadvantage.

That said, John certainly didn't expect to be greeted with the face of Molly's new (and supposedly gay) boyfriend.

“Jim?” he croaked. Or at least, he tried to – with the gag in his mouth it came out as more of a single-syllable mumble.

“We weren't properly introduced before,” the man grinned. It was the kind of grin John had seen on the faces of some of the nastier mental patients he'd had to deal with, the kind that had completely disconnected from reality. “I'm Jim Moriarty. I'd shake your hand, but you're a bit tied up at the moment, aren't you?”

He didn't laugh at his own joke, but his voice was rich with amusement, the kind of gloating smugness John had heard in Sherlock's voice when he was particularly pleased at his own cleverness.

For at least five solid seconds, John did nothing but stare at the man. When he thought of Moriarty, he'd thought of an old professor-type crossed with a Mafia boss, the kind of criminal who'd seen it all and had used that experience and knowledge to challenge Sherlock. He'd imagined someone with greying hair and guns and bodyguards ever-present at his side, not a man who was probably younger than John, dressed in smart tailoring and with a forgettable, almost generic face.

Moriarty wouldn't have looked out of place working in a high-end bank, or real-estate office, or PR job. But John supposed that was the point; there was no skill a criminal needed more than the ability to move about undetected and unremarked upon. And somehow, Moriarty's blandness only made him seem all the more threatening.

It hit John suddenly how very vulnerable he was, naked and bound to the bed in front of the man with a businessman's suit and a lunatic's smile, and the doctor couldn't help but tense. He was reminded that there was still one last 'pip' to go, still one last stepping stone in the mad game Sherlock was playing with this man, but he had a feeling Moriarty was changing the rules.

None of the other people dragged into the bombing spree had described being stripped of clothing and tied to a bed. Either they'd all left that part out, or Moriarty was trying something new.

John suspected it was the latter, and he could literally feel his stomach start to churn uncomfortably at the thought. Moriarty had obviously chosen to abduct him and not a random citizen for a reason, though John still wasn't clear on what exactly that reason was. He was equally sure he'd been stripped and tied to a bed for a reason, and he had a feeling he wouldn't like it.

He took the panicky little voice in the back of his head that was screaming he was about to be raped and told it to shut up. Torture was much more likely – if the whole point of this sick song and dance had been to get to Sherlock, it made sense that Moriarty would want more information on him.

Except that thought just didn't sit right. If Moriarty had known enough about Sherlock to send him shoes from the very first murder case he became interested in, surely there wasn't much he didn't know about the man? At least, nothing that interrogating John would get him, unless he wanted to know how Sherlock liked his tea.

“I can just see your little mind whirring,” Moriarty mused, sounding genuinely interested. His voice was bizarre, each sentence moving through a different accent and inflection pattern as though he had yet to find one that suited him. “Moves a bit slowly, doesn't it, Johnny? Not as slowly as some, I'll grant, but still...”

He shook his head, like a teacher disappointed in a child's bumbling efforts. “I really have no idea why he keeps you around.”

John assumed that 'he' referred to Sherlock and, unable to yell or curse at the man as he wanted so desperately to do, settled for glaring. It was the glare he hadn't used since his army days, the glare that said 'you are less than a cockroach beneath my boots, now get out of my way or I will end you'.

Moriarty rocked back on his heels and laughed, clapping his hands like a child delighted that his puppy had learned a new trick, obviously not intimidated in the slightest. He then shifted out of view, and John did his best not to outright panic. His head was twisted to the left, and the position he was bound in ensured he couldn't get enough leverage to raise his body and turn his face to the right without smothering himself in the mattress.

“You do display a kind of determined courage that some might admire,” came the soft, congenial voice from somewhere over John's shoulders. “And I must admit you're very loyal.”

A hand came down on John's exposed back, fingers stroking across his shoulder – his wounded shoulder, and John didn't think that was a coincidence. He arched his back and tried to jerk away, but wasn't truly surprised when Moriarty's grip only tightened, fingers sinking into scarred tissue and sending jolts of pain dancing across his nerves.

“Yes, I can think of a few uses for you,” Moriarty went on, and this time his voice was seething with a thousand implications.

Something cold and hard formed in John's chest, but at the same time, he felt the strange calmness he always felt when he was under stress or in danger. It wasn't that he became detached from his surroundings, or that it seemed to be happening to someone else, more like everything became very clear and sharp, and he could see what had to be done as clearly as if he were working a simple mathematics problem.

The hand disappeared, and Moriarty intruded on John's field of vision again, his eyes sharp and staring fixedly, not at John's body, but at his face.

'He wants a reaction,' John realised. 'Don't give him one.'

He tried to deliberately make his face blank, his expression completely indifferent, the way Sherlock sometimes looked when John interrupted his thinking to remind him of such trivialities like food and sleep.

He must have succeeded at least partly, because Moriarty looked vaguely put-out. Then his gaze sharpened and dragged over John's body, and his tongue slid out to wet his lips as though he was physically salivating. But the movement was a little too exaggerated to seem natural. John knew he probably wouldn't have realised it if he hadn't already been sinking into combat mentality, when he was hyper-aware of people's movements and gestures, but Moriarty's leering expression just struck him as...wrong, somehow.

Bizarrely, he thought of Sherlock's earlier performance, when he'd pretended to be over-emotional and grieving to extract information. This had the same ring of falseness to it, though in Sherlock's case it had only seemed staged because John knew him so well.

In an instant, he understood why – this was the behaviour of a mimic. Moriarty had probably never openly displayed desire for someone in his entire life, but because he wanted to unsettle John, he was trying to imitate the movements and expressions he'd seen on other people's faces. He'd probably made that 'hey, sexy' comment purely to unnerve Sherlock – he probably thought sex itself was pointless and time-wasting, but was happy enough to use it to manipulate people.

Knowing that Moriarty's leer was false gave the scenario a pantomime-like quality that made John want to laugh in spite of what he was facing. His face must have given away some of the scorn he was feeling, because Moriarty's expression suddenly turned very ugly. Any other man would have simply slapped him, but Moriarty reached out and quite deliberately curled his hand into John's wounded shoulder before squeezing viciously.

Agony seared through John's body, so intense it was like being shot all over again. Damaged nerves sparked and starbursts danced in front of his eyes as he screamed into the gag. This wasn't the light, reprimanding grip Moriarty had used before – this was cruel and vicious, fingers scraping at wounded muscle and bone as though he was trying to rip John's shoulder out of the socket.

John was released as suddenly as he'd been grabbed and lay still, panting desperately as the pain slowly subsided to a dull throbbing, like a knife was being jabbed there with each heartbeat.

Moriarty's expression was much more genial now. “That's better.”

He patted John's cheek twice, so hard they were more like slaps than anything else, but the remnants of his anger still glittered in the corners of his eyes.

'Can't bear honest contempt,' John thought, committing it to memory because in this situation, everything he knew about his captor was an advantage.

Of course, how he could possibly apply that advantage was another question entirely.

“You see, Johnny,” Moriarty continued, his voice light. “I've got some time to kill before my little rendezvous with Sherlock-”

John's eyes widened, and he made a muffled noise of horror. Moriarty broke off, smiling at him.

“You didn't know? He posted an invitation on his website – we'll be meeting up at midnight.”

John thought back to Sherlock's offer to buy milk himself – unheard of, as he treated supermarkets as though they had some kind of personal vendetta against him – and abruptly realised what had failed to so much as cross his mind earlier. Sherlock had let him go knowing that he was going to meet with the insane bomber later; he'd let him walk out that door knowing that later he would be going into a dangerous, possibly lethal, situation.

When John got out of this, he was going to strangle Sherlock. He was going to strangle him for being the most brilliant man John had ever met and at the same time, the most stupid. He was going to strangle Sherlock for being a monumental idiot and no court in the world would convict him.

But that hinged on getting free from Moriarty first, and John had a feeling that wasn't going to happen any time soon. Moriarty had managed to spin a web that had kept Sherlock intrigued for days; holding John prisoner for however long he wanted to was child's play compared to that. John considered the possibility that he'd be killed as soon as Moriarty was finished toying with him, but dismissed the idea out of hand – the whole point of this was to play with Sherlock, to somehow prove that Moriarty was superior, and outright killing John wouldn't prove anything.

“I'm sure even you can guess that we have hours yet.” Moriarty didn't bother leering this time, apparently having decided he'd had enough of the play-acting. “What can we do to pass the time, do you think?”

Moriarty's hand carded through John's hair in a bizarre parody of affection, before it suddenly fisted and yanked brutally, reflexive tears springing to his eyes as his neck was forced backwards at an achingly sharp angle. He felt fingers trace the line of his lips almost curiously, feeling the way they stretched around the gag.

John swore and struggled, ignoring the pain that still writhed through his shoulder, tossing his head even as he felt some of his hair rip free from his scalp. Moriarty laughed and released him, letting his forehead smack inelegantly into the mattress, apparently finding some kind of perverse pleasure in John's struggle to turn his face to the side so he could breathe properly.

Moriarty's patient wait for John to regain his breath seemed somehow the most horrifying thing that had happened so far – it implied he wanted John fully conscious and fully aware of what was going to take place.

“You're really a lovely little pet, aren't you?” he said, deliberately staying in John's line of sight as he unbuckled his belt. “So very amusing.”

He didn't bother undressing all the way; just unbuckled his belt, opened his pants and pulled himself out.

Moriarty was fully erect, which somewhat surprised John. His leers and lustful comments had been an act, so he'd been half-expecting that the man wouldn't be able to get it up. But there was no doubt he was excited; aside from the most obvious evidence, his pupils were dilated and his breaths were rapid and shallow, as though in gleeful anticipation.

John knew it wasn't the prospect of raping him that had Moriarty so excited, but what raping him represented. It was proof of his power, of his control over someone else...and another blow in his war against Sherlock.

His arousal also brought home to John exactly what was going to happen with an impact so solid it was like being slapped.

Beforehand, he'd been able to stay detached, to evaluate the whole situation with an almost clinical eye. Moriarty's clear disinterest in him had made the rape seem an abstract threat – something that was frightening, but unlikely to happen, like being hit by lightning.

It wasn't abstract any longer, and John could feel his heartrate climbing, panic clawing at his throat and making it difficult to breathe. The worst thing about it was that he knew what was coming; the medically-trained part of his brain was inundating him with snapshots of injuries he'd seen and treated, recovery periods and susceptibility to infection. The presence of the prostate made consensual anal sex a mind-blowing experience, but if the participant wasn't relaxed and properly prepared, it could be incredibly damaging and brutally painful.

John knew exactly what was going to happen to him, and he had a good idea of how much it was going to hurt.

'Don't give him a reaction,' he coached himself. 'Don't give him a reaction, don't give him a reaction...'

But he couldn't help himself from pulling against the handcuffs, the metal edges biting into his wrists like small, vicious animals. Little tingles of pain were beginning to run up and down his legs, muscles and ligaments protesting the strain of being forced so widely apart. John tensed his body and bucked, his spine arching like a bow, ropes scraping at his ankles as he fought his bonds.

It got him nowhere, of course. Moriarty didn't even bother stopping him, just watched with a kind of unholy glee in his eyes. He knew as well as John did that the doctor was pinned like a butterfly on a card, immobile and helpless.

It was the helplessness that really frightened John. He'd been in danger before, but usually with a gun in his hands and men at his back, and even when he was running after Sherlock without them he wasn't helpless, he could still yell an alarm or fight back or run away – the point was, he could do something.

But all he could do was lie there and take it.

He couldn't help his breath coming in harsh, stuttered gasps when he heard the slick, wet sound of lubricant on flesh.

'Don't give him a reaction, don't give him a reaction...'

The fact that John was anticipating the rough intrusion of the wet finger into his body didn't make it any less unpleasant, any less of a violation. He told himself to relax, told himself to surrender and hopefully avoid the worst of the physical damage, but it was hopeless. He couldn't relax, not now – every muscle in his body was clenched tight in useless, futile resistance.

“You'll have to loosen up a little, Johnny,” Moriarty cooed, the sudden, vicious intrusion of a second finger making John bite down on his gag to prevent himself from crying out. “You're so tense I might rip you clean in two, and that would rather spoil my plans.”

John wanted to swear at him, wanted to tell Moriarty exactly what he thought of his plans, but he didn't dare. His teeth were grinding over the gag, and he was sure that if he relaxed his jaw for even an instant he'd begin to scream and he wouldn't be able to stop.

'Don't give him a reaction, don't give him a reaction...'

The fingers withdrew, and the mattress shifted as Moriarty climbed on the bed between his spread legs.

'Don't give him a reaction, don't give him a reaction...'

Hands spread his buttocks, and something much larger than two fingers nudged between them as Moriarty lined himself up.

'Don't give him a reaction, don't give him a reaction...'

John had tried to prepare for it, but there was nothing, nothing, that could have prepared him for this. Moriarty drove into him like a cudgel, bulling his way through the resisting muscles and tissue without any hesitation, and it felt like a red-hot poker had been shoved into John's guts.

In spite of his vow not to give Moriarty what he wanted, he couldn't stop himself from screaming.

AN: First time fic (an in answer to a prompt on a kinkmeme - I despair of myself!), so concrit is more than welcome!  Also unbeta-d, so feel free to point out grammer/spelling mistakes and to britpick!

Also, this fic has been translated into Chinese by kiy900  and Korean by lumister 

Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight
Part Nine
Part Ten
Part Eleven
Part Twelve

Tags: fanfic, reaction, sherlock

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  • Empathy, Final Part

    Title: Empathy Rating: Maybe M/15? Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, and am making no profit from their use. Warnings: Disturbing…

  • Empathy, Part Three

    Title: Empathy Rating: Maybe M/15? Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, and am making no profit from their use. Warnings: Disturbing…

  • Empathy, Part Two (continued)

    Title: Empathy Rating: Maybe M/15? Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, and am making no profit from their use. Warnings: Disturbing…