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John Watson had lived through many bad experiences in his life - many of which he could have avoided had he taken some well-meant advice from those around him.
But John had always been stubborn, stupidly so, had walked right into danger with his eyes wide open.
Don't climb on the big oak trees, his mother had told him. They're too old to carry your weight. John had come home sobbing, cradling his broken arm because he hadn't listened and done so anyway.
Don't go to Afghanistan, Harry had begged. It's too dangerous. John had gone anyway and ended up shot, a limping excuse for a soldier.
Stay away from Sherlock Holmes, Sally Donovan had warned him. John hadn't listened and now - well. It certainly hadn't ended well either, had it?
"Has he always looked this sad, darling?"
The creepy, oh-so changeable voice of Jim Moriarty. Utterly mad, that man. Completely insane. But clever. Ever so smart.
"Not all the time, no."
Sherlock's voice: bored, cold. Used to be the voice of a friend.
Not anymore though. Sherlock had never been his friend to begin with, really. Rationally, John knew that now. But his heart - well, his heart had yet to catch on.
Why else would it flutter with hope every time Sherlock's attention focused on John, eyes smart and observant, as if he were looking for a way to save them both, telling John to hold on for just a few more days.
"Look at his mouth," Moriarty continued from where he was slouched in an armchair. "Look at the wrinkles. He looks like an old, miserable maaan."
John tried not to react, which was difficult with three pairs of eyes coming to rest on him, two of which belonged to the smartest people the world had ever seen.
The third pair, though, wasn't nearly as sharp. Sebastian Moran, while a brilliant sniper and a fighter with excellent reflexes, could only lose to men of their league. Still - John didn't like his attention any more than that of Sherlock and Moriarty.
"You worry about odd things, Jim," Sherlock commented, briefly checking his mobile phone for any missed messages.
John knew him well enough to see that there weren't any.
Clearly, both Sherlock and Moriarty were bored out of their minds. Definitely not a good sign. Especially for John.
"I think we should make him prettier," Moriarty proposed, clearly ignoring Sherlock's interjection. His grin had grown wider, showing off a perfect row of sharp teeth. "Give that mouth something to do, hm? Something to stretch around, maybe?"
John tried not to swallow against his anxiety, the dread of anticipation - and failed.
Sherlock let out something that sounded close to an exasperated sigh.
"Must we, really? Again?"
In moments like this, John couldn't help but hope. Why would Sherlock say things like that if not to spare him? Why interfere at all on John's behalf?
Of course, it was all just a grand illusion. Sherlock didn't care. Had never cared. It had all been a game, every conversation they had, every smile and joke they had shared. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, had never existed. Only ever Sherlock, Moriarty's partner-in-crime. Partner-in-everything, maybe.
John had seen them fuck each other, after all.
"I can't understand why you're so often bored with sex, Sherlock, I really can't. It's the best thing in the world - well, after causing someone's death, of course. Don't you agree, Seb? Isn't killing the best thing?"
Moran, who was sitting on the floor right next to Moriarty's armchair, nodded willingly, accepting possessive petting through his hair as his reward. His eyes were still fixed on John, though. Maybe, he was trying to unnerve him. Maybe, he simply hoped to be spared today.
"It's just so tedious," Sherlock replied, slipping his phone back into his left trouser pocket. "Frankly, I don't see the appeal. But don't mind me. Go ahead. John won't fight, will you?"
The piercing look Sherlock gave him then melted any and all resolve John might have had to try and struggle.
It really wasn't worth fighting anymore. There was no reason to, was there? John would never escape, things wouldn't go back to normal.
This was normal now. These days, normal consisted of him kneeling or sitting by Sherlock's or Moriarty's side, watching them play with government leaders and mafia bosses, terrorist groups and dictators as if they were mere puppets. These days, normal was being nothing but another toy to two evil geniuses.
"No," he croaked weakly at Sherlock's expecting look. "No, of course not."
"Excellent," Moriarty said.
For a few moments, it rather looked like today's session would only involve John and Moriarty. It was Moran's mistake to think right then a good time to shift where he was sitting, causing Moriarty's fingers to catch where they were still loosely curled into the man's hair.
John could tell that Moran recognised his mistake the very second he had made it.
"Ah," Moriarty said and turned his head, pulling at Moran's hair until the man's head was stretched and twisted in an awkward but upward angle. "Yes, my dear, I wouldn't want you to miss out, of course."
To his credit, Moran took it rather well, merely blinking a few times before settling for an accepting expression. Clearly, his experience with this went much further than John's own.
"Come here, John," Moriarty ordered lazily.
John didn't need any instructions. Bracing himself, John shifted until he had changed from his sitting position onto his hands and knees. A final breath through his nose and he was crawling, right through what Moriarty liked to call the office, hands curling into the decadent Persian carpet covering the floor as he moved forward and approached Moriarty's chair.
His eyes flickered to the right and he knew Sherlock was watching. He always watched when John was involved.
"What a good pet you are," Moriarty snickered as John stopped right by Moriarty's feet. "I'd love to take all the credit, but he's mostly your creation, Sherlock. Quite the masterpiece. Nearly as perfect as my Seb."
John hardly listened to the degrading names anymore. Pet really wasn't the worst nowadays.
"I wonder," Moriarty continued, calculation in his voice, and John couldn't help but tense up a bit.
Simply sucking Moriarty off, he could deal with. Getting fucked into the mouth was nothing - rather like a holiday, one might say, if one was one for dark humour.
I wonder didn't bode well, though. I wonder sounded like a fucking experiment.
John had lived with Sherlock long enough to know how that usually played out.
He flinched when Moriarty, having let go of Moran's hair, clapped his hands together in glee. He was grinning widely, eyes bright with anticipation.
"Yes, of course. Why haven't I thought of this yet? Oh, this will be quite the show, Sherlock."
He winked at Sherlock, then turned his attention back to Moran.
"Seb, you'll love this, I promise. Get up, uppedy-up, on your feet, if you please."
John watched Moran nod and get up, straightening his back as he came to stand next to Moriarty's chair.
"What is it, boss?" he asked casually, briefly throwing a glance at John before settling his full attention on Moriarty.
"Grab John and pull him over there," Moriarty replied excitedly, gesturing towards a spot maybe seven or eight feet away from Moriarty's chair, right in the middle between Sherlock and he. "Then, I want our precious John here to suck you off."
John saw Moran's eyebrows rise up to his hairline. Clearly, the man was as surprised as John by this particular invention. Moriarty had never made them touch each other beyond what was strictly necessary. Certainly not sexually.
John wasn't sure if this would be as bad or even worse than having to please Moriarty. Sherlock, he could deal with fine, undoubtedly some fuckery his brain had come up with due to their prior acquaintance.
Moriarty was practically always bad, though.
And now: Moran? Moran was a whole new level.
Moriarty was clearly obsessed with him, incredibly possessive, too. Sherlock hardly ever touched Moran as far as John could tell, had never seemed interested in his services, really, but John wasn't sure Moriarty would even let Sherlock have him.
John didn't know what to expect. It scared him more than he wanted to admit.
Moran, always rather good about following Moriarty’s lead, stepped forward and towards John, his military boots looking completely out of place against the softness of the rug.
John hardly had time to brace himself before Moran’s hand curled steadily around John’s neck, pushing and pulling him until John crawled once more, only stopping when they had reached the spot Moriarty had pointed at.
“Let him do the work,” Moriarty ordered from his chair and Moran, whose hand had already wandered towards his fly, nodded once more, than looked down expectantly at John who had sunk back onto his knees.
For a few seconds, John met his gaze, trying to decipher what the other man was thinking.
In a way, Moran’s situation was quite similar to that of John. A man of military background, ensnared by a genius, degraded to a mere toy, a weapon sometimes, but mostly just there for another man’s amusement. Granted, Moran was much more stoic about his situation, but then, John didn’t know how long, exactly, Moran had been in Moriarty’s services already.
Maybe, calm acceptance and a sort of cold carelessness would overcome John too at one point or another.
“Is there any reason you’re not sucking cock yet, John?”
John flinched at the sharp edge in Moriarty’s voice. Fuck. It wasn’t like him to lose track of his thoughts like that. Not since he’d come here.
Hurriedly, John pulled his gaze away from Moran’s mostly expressionless face and focused on the matter at hand. Raising his hands, John fumbled the other man’s trousers open.
They fell, pooling around Moran’s ankles, revealing his pants. They were plain, black boxers.
Telling himself that he’d be okay, that this wouldn’t be any different from all the other times he had been humiliated this way, John curled his fingers into the waistband and pulled down Moran’s underwear.
Moran’s cock was far from erect, but John could definitely see that he was liking the way things seemed to be progressing for him.
A quick glance to his right told John that Moriarty was watching closely. Biting down on his instinctual wish to turn, to make a run for it, John curled his left hand around the base of Moran’s cock, opened his mouth and wrapped his lips around the glans.
“There’s a good slut,” Moriarty cooed from his chair and John couldn’t fight the red burn of shame on his cheeks as he started to suck.
He had long ceased trying to make these acts enjoyable. There was no way he could imagine it being somebody else, no way this could ever be something he wanted, even on an abstract level.
Sometimes, with Sherlock, it could be - well, not good, not right, but certainly pleasurable, in a way. John didn’t know what warped kind of Stockholm that was, but couldn’t deny that it was so, that he sometimes found himself getting off on Sherlock fucking him.
The rest of the time, though, John simply sucked, begged, swallowed and spread his legs like the good slut Moriarty wanted him to feel like, to become, to be.
Moran steadily grew harder as John sucked and licked at his cock. John was taking him deeper and deeper as soon as he could manage in order to avoid being gagged by an impatient hand pushing him into it.
He could smell sweat and arousal, could hear Moran grunt in pleasure, hips snapping forward on occasions to increase friction.
“Enough,” Moriarty eventually ordered, voice thickened with what was clearly pleasure and arousal at the sight of John and Moran together. “John, undress, now. Seb, I want you to fuck him. Fuck him hard. I want to hear him whimper, understood?”
John hardly had time to process what had been said before Moran’s hand curled around the back of John's head, pulling his cock out of John’s mouth. It made an obscene, wet noise and John couldn’t stop some threads of saliva from trickling down his chin.
“You heard the boss,” Moran spoke up when John didn’t move at once. “Strip.”
Hands starting to shake, John struggled to pull off the shirt he was wearing, then - conscious of the fact he hadn’t been told to stand up - awkwardly wiggled out of his trousers and pants as quickly as he could manage in his kneeling position. Eventually, he was cowering nakedly in front of a half-dressed Moran, whose cock was hard and glistening, clearly ready for what Moriarty had in mind.
“On your back, slut,” Moriarty commanded from afar, sounding a tad breathless. “Spread your legs.”
John obeyed, doing just that.
Somewhere, in the back of his head, rebellious thoughts were trying to make themselves heard. Traces of some former version of John, persistent voices that told him to kick Moran right into his genitals, to break the man's neck and then fight his way out of the building.
John ignored them in favour of lying still, bracing himself as Moran kneeled down, then settled between John's legs.
There was no way he could ever leave here, could escape for good. Even if he made it, he wouldn't be safe. Never. Moriarty's and Sherlock's network was too wide-spread for that. All there was to do was to endure it.
It hurt, badly, when Moran pushed into him, no preparation provided for John's tense muscle. John could feel Moran's cock move inside him, stretching out tissue and skin, forcing its way forward until he was fully settled.
It was wrong, so wrong and for a brief moment, instincts took over. John squirmed on the floor, trying to get away from the pain.
"Wrap your legs around him, John. I want you to look like you're enjoying it."
Sherlock's voice, this time, a clearly commanding tone. John let out a mewling, pitiful sound, stopping his involuntary movements immediately. Instead, his legs curled faster around Moran's hips than he could think (and God, wasn't that pathetic, how Sherlock could make him do things because John's brain still had some fucked-up sort of trust in the man that made him a obedient little pet).
Moriarty laughed from the other side of the room.
"Like I said," he snickered. "A masterpiece. Now, Seb - fuck him."
Just as Moriarty had wished, John did whimper. He whimpered and grunted and hissed as Moran's cock slid in and out, fucking John in a hard, merciless pace, with John's legs wrapped around him, undoubtedly making it look like John was encouraging the act.
He wondered if Sherlock needed the illusion to enjoy this, but that wouldn't make sense. Sherlock wasn't the type to delude himself, especially not in such an obvious way. He knew that John was forced into this.
Perhaps, it was just a way to relief his boredom. Perhaps, Sherlock simply felt like messing with John.
When Moran finally came, John almost sobbed in relief. He could feel Moran's semen spill inside him, sticky and warm and disgusting, felt it smearing around his hole as Moran's cock eventually slipped out of John as it grew softer.
"Kiss," came Sherlock's command. "Kiss him."
John wasn't sure if Sherlock meant him or Moran, but didn't resist when Moran's lips met his own. He opened his mouth, letting Moran push his tongue in. He reciprocated, if somewhat weakly, knowing what Sherlock would expect, trying not to focus on the pain in his arse or the way Moran's skin was slightly sticky with sweat.
They kissed for quite a while as they weren't told to stop, until John could hear shuffling, the sound of footfall growing louder, closer.
"I want him, now," Sherlock said roughly and Moran broke off their kiss immediately, leaning back until he was no longer looming over John.
Sherlock had come to stand next to the two of them, staring down at them with an intense look in his face, far from the indifference he had displayed earlier.
For a few seconds, John was sure that Sherlock meant him, and some insane part of his psyche rejoiced over the fact that Sherlock would take him next, would erase every trace if Moran out of John's system.
But Sherlock hadn't spoken to Moran - he had spoken about him.
"I want him," Sherlock repeated, turning his head to look at Moriarty instead. "Your Sebastian. I want him to suck me off."
John gasped, eyes snapping towards Moriarty, trying to get a good look of the man's face, which proved difficult with him lying on his back. The glimpse he got, though, didn't show a possessive or angry Moriarty, not at all.
Moriarty looked pleased.
"Yes, of course. Seb, you hear Sherlock. Make it good for him."
He got up from his chair, too, and stepped closer. John could see his expression better now, could see the bright eyes hungry with arousal.
"I'll have John," he said and John pressed his eyes close, unable to look at anybody or anything anymore.
Sherlock wanted Moran. Sherlock wanted Moran, wanted Moran to suck him off, and Moriarty would have John, would drive home the fact, once more, that John was nothing but a slut, a toy, a thing to be used as they pleased.
No chance of feeling Sherlock's hands in his hair calming him down, no chance of false hope that with Sherlock, at least, it wasn't so bad, okay even, in a totally backwards way.
John didn't look when he heard shuffling that could mean nothing else but Moran getting up and arranging his clothes. He didn't watch when he heard Sherlock return to his chair, didn't want to see Moran settling between his legs.
And, most certainly, John didn't need to see Moriarty open his fly, take out his cock and settle between John's legs.
"Look at you," Moriarty was saying, his cock nudging against John's abused entrance. "All fucked open and slick. Such a good whore."
John could feel Moriarty’s hands curl around John's legs, pushing until John got the hint and drew them in and towards his stomach, exposing himself properly for Moriarty. Then, he simply let his mind drift as Moriarty took him, renewing the pain in John's arse with every thrust.
What had his life become, John thought numbly. What would his life become with Sherlock finding pleasure elsewhere, with Moran. John wasn't special. Sherlock didn't need John.
For some reason, nothing quite drove home the fact that Sherlock didn't give a fuck about him as what was happening right now.
But maybe... hope blooming in his chest, John pried his eyes open once more, seeking out Sherlock's face, hoping to see Sherlock stare at John, at John, as Moran sucked him off.
But no.
Sherlock's pale eyes were glued to Moran's face, watching the way his own cock was slipping in and out of the other man's mouth, fascination and arousal evident on his face.
Crushed by the sight but unable to look away, John nearly missed Moriarty's orgasm, half-ignoring the feeling of more semen filling him up, too entranced by the way Sherlock completely ignored John’s presence.
Once Moriarty was finished and setting himself to rights, John rolled onto his side and curled up, eyes still fixed on Sherlock and Moran, watching Sherlock come into Moran's mouth, long and pale fingers carding through Moran's hair in what clearly was a caress, a sign of approval.
Feeling sick at the sight, John closed his eyes again, telling himself that he really, really should have known better.
At some point, he must have drifted off, because the next thing he knew, Moran's hand was settled on John's back, the smell of cigarettes in the air.
Moran was sitting on the floor right next to John's naked form, legs crossed, calmly looking down at John's face as he inhaled, exhaled, the smoke passing his lips, curling and dissolving. He was dressed properly again, and only the way his mouth looked redder than usual spoke of what he had been up to earlier.
"You don't get it yet, do you?" he asked.
For some reason, John didn't find it in him to shake off Moran's hand.
"What?" John replied, surprised at how empty his own voice sounded. "What am I not getting? That I am worth nothing? That Sherlock doesn't give a fuck? That I'll be their slut for the rest of my life?"
Moran blinked down at him, unimpressed.
"Like I said," he repeated. "You don't get it yet."
The hand on John's shoulder curled briefly, almost a reassuring gesture, then disappeared. John watched Moran smoke for a few minutes, silence descending over the room.
Moriarty and Sherlock must have left some time ago. John hadn't noticed.
"What is it, then?" John finally asked, voice croaky. "What am I missing?"
Moran smiled.
"The boss," he said, "took six years until he had me. Six years, he tracked my activities, my movements, my life, until the moment was just right and he could snatch me away. He caught me in his web, a spider and its prey. Now, I am his."
John frowned, but Moran continued.
"They don't love us," he said, voice somewhere between amused and gruff. "They don't love us, not like other people love each other. But they want us. Need us, really. You think Holmes doesn't give a fuck about you? Why did he leave the boss for two years, why did he make up the games, everything, why did he lure you in until he had you? He could've taken you, just like that, didn't have to arrange for you to be shot, didn't have to live with you, none of that."
John laughed dryly.
"That means nothing," he said. "It's just how they work - they love playing games. They get off on seeing their own cleverness at work."
"It's true," Moran agreed willingly. "They love their games. But it doesn't change the fact that we're special, somehow. We're special because they could have taken us and tied us up and tortured us into submission until we were mindless drones, then killed us off once we ceased to amuse them. Instead, they made an effort to get us to follow them freely until there was no going back."
He grinned.
"You'll learn, soon. I know you think Holmes has betrayed you for choosing me today, but it means nothing, not really. You're still his favourite. It's just a thing they do - share. You've seen them fuck each other. Sharing us - it's the same thing, really. They know there's nobody out there like them and they revel in it, revel in the knowledge that they’re above us all and only have each other."
He sobered a bit, finally looking away from John, staring into the distance.
"Of course, they're sadists. They love seeing us hurt and degraded. The boss even more so than Holmes. I know nothing gets the boss as hard as me begging." He chuckled roughly, then looked back at John. "But then, we're masochists, aren't we."
He paused for another inhale.
"I suppose you haven't warmed up to Jim yet, but I know you enjoy what Holmes does with you, even when he's rough and unyielding. I’ve learned to enjoy Holmes' attentions, you know. Wasn’t too keen on it first, but I’ve learned to make do. This wasn't the first time with him. It's just been a while. And you - well. You'll learn to like the boss as well, in time."
Finishing his smoke, Moran flicked the rest of the cigarette through the room, obviously not caring that it might burn a hole into the carpet. Then, he got up, coming to stand next to John.
"You don't have to believe me," Moran continued. "Took me a while to understand it myself. You'll see."
His eyes trailed down John's naked form.
"I'll get you some clothes," he added. "Stay."
John watched him leave the room until he was out of sight, not knowing what to think. He felt - confused. He was hurting and there was semen drying between his buttocks, maybe even blood. He felt disgusting and violated.
And yet - John shook his head.
There’d be time to think about this. For now, he’d get dressed. Cleaned up. Prepared for another round.
And then, he’d go look for Sherlock.
Naturally.