Chapter Text
Sherlock spends two days alone, hooked up to an IV. He does get what he wanted. Moriarty leaves him cotton lougne pants and a cotton shirt. When Sherlock asks for socks since the tiles make his feet ache, he is granted it.
Sherlock learns to count the days by the guard changes. They switch every eight hours, so by four changes, it's a new day. Sherlock can glance them in the little window on the door.
It's a bit of a surprise when two of them enter the room with the nurse. She removes Sherlock's IV and stands back. There are no drugs administered. Sherlock is expected to walk on his own.
The handcuffs are new.
Sherlock doesn't resist his hands being pulled behind his back. He knows exactly what is happening as the metal tightens around his wrists. He's been in handcuffs before. He knows his way out of them. But this is about trust.
Sherlock watches the hallways as they walk. He tries to take in all he can. What he can glimpse out the windows are only trees. There's levels and long hallways. A manor. It must be somewhere in the British countryside because it's quiet. Somewhere like Mycroft's house. Does he know that James Moriarty is one of his neighbors?
Aside from ornate rugs, golden scones, and blood red walls, the hallways are bare too. Sherlock shouldn't have expected more than that.
He is let into a room that is dimly lit. Red lamp shades allow in bits of mood lighting. Moriarty sits in a velvet backed chair at a dining table.
James stands, pulling back the other chair for Sherlock. He eases into it, his back arched where his bound hands sit.
"Don't look so uncomfortable, Sherly," Moriarty grins. "The handcuffs were more for the ease of the guards. I know you can get right out of them. Be my guest."
Sherlock drops the latch on the handcuffs, setting them onto the table. "That's okay?"
"That's fine," he rolls his eyes. "Christ, if you wanted to kill me, you would have already."
Sherlock glances away, but nods. James did leave a knife in front of him.
"So," James leans back, crossing his arms behind his head. "This is a date. We're on a date and you're going to eat something so help me."
Sherlock startles. "I've eaten before. I eat all the time."
"Oh, come on, I've seen tabloids about how you have an eating disorder. Dr. Watson himself even speculated it. Tell me, Sherly, what do you like to eat?"
Sherlock flinches. Food is food. He didn't really care for anything. He liked Angelo's, partially because Angelo let him eat for free but also because the Italian was good. He liked curry from the Indian place around the corner.
Most recently, Sherlock learned to love whatever John cooked. Mrs. Hudson used to leave them food, but John started to figure out how to make gourmet meals. He always looked so bloody adorable in his apron, but he never let Sherlock bring it into the bedroom.
Sherlock can almost feel the apron fabric beneath his fingers. Smell the spices of whatever John was making. Him shouting when he'd open cupboards to find experiments, not cans.
"I'm not particular to anything," Sherlock says instead.
"Fine, be that way. Babetté!"
A woman comes out with a rolling cart. She sets a large bowl of soup before either of them and some crusty bread. She bobs into a curtsy before leaving.
"Babetté is the most wonderful French chef. She can make anything."
"And she made an Irish dish."
"Per my request, Sherly. She can make anything I ask for."
"Are we in Ireland then?"
James half-smiles. Sherlock is used to it but it always feels wrong.
"I'm not liable to tell you that."
"How long have you had me on fluids?"
Moriarty's eyes flick back and forth as he counts. "About a week."
"Right, so I'm just going to stick to the bread then, thanks."
"Don't be rude, Sherlock. Try it."
"Did you poison it or something? You seem awfully insistent."
James sits back and laughs. "You're fucking ridiculous, you know that? Moron!"
Sherlock flinches but he doesn't back down. He hasn't had to deal with shouting since his mother last caught him and Mycroft smoking at Easter.
"I just need you to eat something. I'm trying not to kill you," James explains.
"I've done far worse to myself."
"This is a date. Eat."
"I'm a little underdressed if this is a date."
Moriarty grabs one of the plates that was set down for the bread and hurls it at the wall. It shatters on impact. Sherlock looks up at him with a smile. James Moriarty is so easy to push. It's amusing how he thinks he's so untouchable.
"I should just lock you back in the box," James growls.
"Why? I'm having a wonderful time. Is this normally how dates go?"
"You've never been on one?"
Sherlock shakes his head, grabbing a piece of bread. He bites into it, watching is scatter crumbs across his clothes and the table.
"You know what happens after dates, Sherlock?"
"Dessert?"
"Someone gets shagged and someone does the shagging."
Sherlock nearly chokes on his bread. He reaches for the water next to his plate to swallow it down.
"Sex really does scare you," James laughs.
"I'm not afraid of sex. Why does everyone think that?"
Moriarty waves his hand at the entirety of Sherlock. Sherlock tries not to sound like a child as he huffs at that remark.
"I'm demisexual at best," Sherlock grumbles.
"Well, we'll have some fun if you ever want a chance at your sources," James smacks the table. "Now, open wide."
"Why?"
"Airplane is coming."
A spoonful of broth is coming towards Sherlock. He gives in, opening his mouth. Moriarty dumps the concoction on Sherlock's tongue. It is good. Fishy, creamy, rich, a little buttery. But Sherlock knows better for his stomach.
"It is quite delicious," Sherlock sits back. "Another time, perhaps. When I've had more consistent caloric intake."
James rolls his eyes.
"I presume you get to know your date a little," Sherlock tilts his head. "What do I get to know about you?"
"Oh, well, I was born in— NOTHING!"
"That's not fair. You know everything about me, apparently."
"Deduce it if you're so keen."
Sherlock presses his hands together. "Born in Ireland, or alternatively, in Wales to an Irish parent and an American. You don't have any siblings, judging by their messy divorce. You've spent time in both countries, but you love England. Scorpio, I can tell. Harrassed by classmates your entire life but that's not why you turned to crime. No, you have a sense of justice that demands the powerful be knocked to their feet. You have it out for me because I believe in a justice regardless of cost. We could resolve our distance if we both believed in anarchy, but you like your chaos controlled. You are also neurodivergent, but I cannot place which way yet."
James slowly claps and smiles. "Brilliant work, Sherlock."
"Don't patronize me."
Moriarty shrugs. "Well. Dinner was delicious. Let's see where the night takes us."
James leads Sherlock down the hall some more before leading him upstairs to the royal bedroom. He jumps onto the bed, sitting comfortably on the edge of it.
"To your left, change of clothes."
Sherlock looks to find a satin dressing gown. It's a deep burgundy, the color of John's cardigan when they had first met at the pool. Sentimental. So human.
Sherlock drops his cotton ensemble out of James's view. He wraps the dressing gown tight at his waist. A shield made of his brave little solider.
"Get back here," James beckons.
Sherlock rounds the bed. James pats his lap. Sherlock stands between his legs.
"On your knees."
Sherlock knows what this is. He's had enough gay sex with John Watson to understand. John's at least kinder about it. 'Knees please?' Never begs, only asks. If Sherlock doesn't feel it, John lets him go.
James Moriarty does not offer that sentiment.
"Tell me your plan, Sherlock."
"I'm going to murder Greg Lestrade," Sherlock says.
"But you love the detective inspector."
"I don't," Sherlock watches James's trousers begin to tent. "I use him for work and he's the only one who ever advocates for me to the police. I take him out, I am nothing and the police are in chaos."
James tosses his head back. "You really know how to get a man going."
"I can talk about other things. Corpses, blood, viscera."
"No, no. That's quite good. Betrayal is so darling, but betrayal and murder," he caresses his trousers. "Fuck."
James puts his hand on Sherlock's jaw. His thumb rubs on Sherlock's lower lip. Sherlock drops his mouth open.
"Take me out of my trousers," James says, a little breathless.
Sherlock puts his fingers on James's belt. He is surprised he's allowed to touch it. It could be used as a weapon. He slides the length out of the belt loop before unlatching it. Sherlock slips it out of James's beltloops and drops it onto the floor.
Sherlock goes for the buttons next. He undoes the slide and the inner button before he tackles the zipper.
This is an act either way. Sherlock kisses James through his underpants. He goes to pull down the trousers but James smacks his hands away.
"Just like this. You're so close, Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock fights an eye roll. He pulls down the fabric. James's cock springs forth. This is what talk of murder does to this man. He's leaking a bit. Cut. Blame the American parent.
"Suck my cock, Sherlock," James grins, putting emphasis on the -ck in his words.
Sherlock has had a lot of practice at this. There are times when he has no sex drive but John does. This was the easiest, least messy way to take care of that.
He licks Moriarty up before taking him into his mouth. Now for the game. How long are they going to draw this out? This can't be how James intends to end the night. Not with how bare he made Sherlock. That much is clear.
"God, yes," James pushes further off the bed to give Sherlock more real-estate.
James shoves the dressing gown off Sherlock's shoulders, thumbs digging into his collarbones.
Sherlock takes him down further. His hands carress the inside of James's thighs. James Moriarty is really starting to fall apart.
Stayin' Alive by the Beegees starts playing.
"Ugh," Moriarty groans. He wrestles the phone out of his inner jacket pocket. "Don't stop. I've just got to take this."
Sherlock shrugs, but doesn't stop his work.
"WHAT?" James shouts.
Sherlock can't hear what the person on the other end of the line is talking about. James only responds with "yes" and "okay" and "fine" before screaming into the phone "THEN DO THE JOB!"
Moriarty shoves Sherlock back onto the floor. He doesn't move.
"Get the job done or I will eat your pancreas after I BOIL YOU ALIVE."
James throws his phone across the room. It skitters across the carpet before it hits the wall.
"Sorry about that," he rubs his face. "Underlings, am I right?"
"I wouldn't know."
"No? John Watson is an intellectual equal?"
"No, but he's not beneath me because he makes logical choices every time."
James grabs the tie on the dressing gown between his Oxfords. He yanks it, the dressing gown falling open. Sherlock tries not to squirm. He doesn't like to be looked at naked. He's not self conscious about nudity, he could care less. It's about his body being in the wrong state at the wrong time. Soft when he's supposed to be hard. It's the struggle Sherlock has been forced to accept.
Which is what made John so perfect. So bloody perfect and kind and careful. Always asking permission. Pulling rank on Sherlock which was… God such a turn on. John Watson was the best first Sherlock could have ever asked for.
James Moriarty is just cruel. "That's the best you've got for me."
"I can't help it."
"All this time you've had ED?"
"There's no physical dysfunction. I'm just not always… on. Sometimes my drive turns off. It's not a medical problem."
"If I'd known that it would have been soooooo much easier to smear you in the papers. Get up, Sherlock."
James stands on the robe so Sherlock loses it. He's entirely bare and he tries not to think about it. James reaches for the belt and that does draw his attention.
He gets off the bed, wandering out of Sherlock's line of site. There's only two things he could be doing with the belt. No, three. Putting it back on, beating Sherlock with it, or binding his hands. Sherlock steels himself, ready for whatever will come.
First, it's the harsh lick of a leather belt across his arse. Then another. Two more hits follow in succession. Sherlock is breathing harshly when he notices the blood rush.
Well. That's certainly new.
The belt goes around his wrists. Two for one. Should have known with Moriarty's unpredictable nature.
"On the bed, Sherlock," comes James's next command.
Sherlock climbs onto the bed. James shoves him down so his chest is the other point of contact.
"God, I love that nurse," James says, removing the plug from Sherlock's arse.
"You abuse her," Sherlock says into the covers. "At least give her a raise."
"If she'll prep you this wonderfully every time, I'm liable to. And hard from a hit! Sherlock, you dirty dog."
John didn't hit. How the hell was Sherlock supposed to know?
James knocks Sherlock's thighs further apart. He sinks into Sherlock. Sherlock tries to focus on breathing rather than the way James Moriarty stretches him open, but it's rather difficult. The edge of his zipper bites at Sherlock's intimate skin as he bottoms out. James is still fully clothed. Such an odd choice.
James yanks on the belt, pulling Sherlock's arms taunt. He begins to thrust into Sherlock. The pace becomes merciless, entirely selfish. What should one expect from a psychopath?
Sherlock believes his arms are going to be pulled from his sockets. A fire distracts him. Something scorching his insides. Sherlock gasps, unable to fight it, unable to cease the consuming flames.
James is moaning his head off. Sherlock expected him to be more chatty, but maybe he's lost. Maybe it's been some time since he has had sex.
Sherlock thinks of John for a moment. The fire swallows him.
Sherlock comes hands-free on the mattresss.
He doesn't even have time to process before James digs into his hips and thrusts through his ending. He pulls out almost instantly. James rolls Sherlock over on the bed.
"Look at that. Sherlock Holmes, you filthy animal," James laughs.
Sherlock closes his eyes. Exhaustion is sinking in. He hasn't eaten enough to stay awake after that much activity.
"Oh, we must reward you for being such a good boy," James strokes his cheek.
Sherlock is freed of the belt. He is sent to the en-suite to clean up. When he returns, James personally locks Sherlock in the metal wrist contraption. It's connected to the bed post, so not the worst. James covers him with the duvet.
"Sleep well, Sherlock Holmes."
The room is soaked in darkness. Sherlock is alone. On a far comfier bed than he has probably ever been on.
"I can't believe you," John chuckles in his ear. "Who would have known that just a little spanking knocks down the Great Sherlock Holmes."
"I'm sorry," Sherlock mutters.
"It's going to be hard to forgive," John confesses. "But you know I always come round."
Sherlock imagines the flurry of kisses he and John share when they are finished having sex. It's always the best part.
It gently carries Sherlock to sleep.