Chapter Text
John came home late from the pub after finally having accepted Greg's offer to go out for drinks sometime. Sherlock had been skirting around the edges of a case he'd been certain Moriarty was involved with and John had told him to try and get some sleep while he went out -- a suggestion that he knew Sherlock hadn't listened to. Expecting to find Sherlock messing around with chemicals in the kitchen or playing the violin when he got home, John was surprised to find that the flat seemed…empty. Strange. John wondered what Sherlock could possibly have felt the need to leave the flat for at one in the morning and why, if it was so important, he hadn't invited John, when he heard Sherlock's phone go off. The screen lit up from where it sat on his desk among cluttered case files and pages of sheet music. John read Sherlock's texts all the time (most often, and most irritatingly, when Sherlock asked him to read them aloud because the detective couldn't be bothered to get up), so he picked the phone up off the desk.
One new message from: [number withheld]
John clicked on the message.
Missing someone, Johnny boy? JM
John's fist clenched in anger. As he started to type a reply, asking where Sherlock was, the phone went off again.
The pool. Come and play. JM
John quickly grabbed his gun and pulled his coat back on, shoving Sherlock's phone into his coat pocket with his own mobile.
~~~
"I don't need to sleep," said Sherlock.
"Come on, Sherlock, everyone needs sleep. Just like…an hour or something? You haven't slept in almost a week," replied John as he pulled on his coat. Sherlock remained by the window, composing on his violin. "Right, well, I'm going out for a bit. Should be home in a few hours."
When Sherlock didn't reply, John sighed softly and went down the stairs.
Sherlock stood by the window for a few minutes. He was tired. That didn't mean he needed sleep. He just needed caffeine. Though, the sofa looked very tempting at the moment. Perhaps John was right. An hour of sleep would be good.
Within moments of flopping onto the cushions, his eyes fluttered closed and he fell asleep.
He woke to a sharp stabbing pain in his arm. He squirmed around on the sofa and saw Moriarty looming over him, injecting him with a small syringe.
"What are you -- "
"Shhh…" whispered Jim. "Go back to sleep, love."
"What -- what is this?" stammered Sherlock.
"Shh…" he whispered, and Sherlock fell back into unconsciousness.
~~~
John pushed open the doors to the pool and quickly went inside, where he saw Sherlock tied up, naked, with a cloth gag in his mouth, kneeling against the wall. He slumped against the tiles, Jim's fingers carding through his hair. Jim must have heard the door open, but didn't look up at John.
"He's such a pretty thing, isn't he?" murmured Jim. "Pity he's asexual…"
John furrowed his brow at Jim for a moment, made uneasy by Sherlock's state of undress paired with what Jim had said.
"Yeah well, that's…what he is, so…there's nothing we can do about it…" said John uneasily.
"Isn't there?" he asked softly, stroking Sherlock's cheek with his thumb.
John's eyes narrowed. "Don't touch him," he growled protectively.
Jim's eyes flicked up at him. "Don't be so tense, Johnny boy. He's unconscious now. Won't remember a thing…He won't know if I do anything to him," he said, his hand running down Sherlock's chest to the base of his limp cock. "He won't remember if I do this," he said, palming Sherlock's balls, which caused Sherlock to stir slightly, but he didn't wake.
"Stop it!" yelled John, instinctively reaching for his gun.
Jim smirked and stepped back, holding his hands up defensively. "I've got snipers stationed all around this place," said Jim, "so if I were you -- assuming you don't want to see Sherlock's pretty little brain splattered all over the wall -- , I'd stop pointing that gun at me."
John bit his lip and set the gun down on the floor, kicking it a few meters away.
"Atta boy…" said Jim. "You know, John… He wouldn't remember if you did anything to him either," he said with a twisted grin.
John looked at him, not liking what Jim was suggesting.
"Oh, come on, I see the way you look at him, Johnny…" said Jim. "Hell, you killed a man for him the day you met. If that's not love -- "
"This," said John firmly, "isn't love."
This was rape.
"Well, no, you're right. Not exactly love…but, it's the closest you'll ever get to it with him."
Sherlock stirred again and his eyes opened, still slightly dazed and vaguely unaware of his surroundings.
"If you don't," continued Jim, "I will. And I can assure you, I won't be as gentle as you."
John swallowed.
"Your choice," said Jim.
Sherlock stirred and tried to lift his head to look around, but he was too weak and slumped back against the wall, his nose pressing against the cold tile.
"Come on, do hurry, dear. Haven't got all night," said Jim. "People to kill, museums to rob…"
John felt panicked. He knew he'd have to do it. He knew he couldn't let Moriarty rape Sherlock, but this wouldn't be much better. What was worse -- being raped by your best friend? Or your worst enemy?
Sherlock started to squirm in the ropes, struggling unsuccessfully to free himself.
"You'll want this," said Jim, tossing John a bottle of lubricant.
John looked at the bottle in his hands and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, drawing in a deep breath before looking back at Jim. "I fucking hate you."
Jim only smirked in reply and kicked Sherlock down onto all fours. Drawing in another deep breath, John walked over to Sherlock and knelt down beside him.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly, "I'm so sorry." He looked at Sherlock and then closed his eyes. He couldn't. He couldn't see Sherlock as he the pieces started to click together in his brain. He couldn't see the panic rising up in him, though he could hear the change in his breathing. A muffled sound came from his mouth that sounded like a "please". John inhaled deeply and opened his eyes. "I know you don't want this, but I haven't got a choice.…It'll be over before you know it, I promise. I'll make it quick, okay?" John felt his voice cracking as he tried to reassure Sherlock. He could see tears welling up in the detective's eyes and John's heart broke. He'd never seen Sherlock cry before, almost wondered if he ever had, if he even could cry.
As John gently eased in one lubricated finger, tears fell down Sherlock's face and John could hear him start to cry. He added another finger as gently as he could and scissored his fingers, stretching Sherlock. He slicked up his cock and positioned himself over Sherlock, whose eyes were shut tight, likely trying to escape somewhere in his mind. John eased into him and Sherlock whimpered, tears still falling down his face. He slowly pulled almost all the way out and then pushed back in, continuing in slow, gentle thrusts, trying to get off as quickly as he could, but it was difficult with muffled sobs coming from Sherlock.
"Come on dear, fuck him harder than that!" taunted Jim. "Or else I might have to have a go at him when you're finished."
John thrust harder, causing Sherlock to scream.
"I FUCKING HATE YOU, JIM!" yelled John, tears stinging in the corners of his eyes as he desperately tried to get off, thrusting harder. He tried to recall in as much detail as he could the porn video he'd watched last night, that time he'd shagged Sarah, anything to try and make this end quicker, but Sherlock kept fucking squirming. Without realising it, John gripped roughly onto Sherlock's shoulders, forcing him to keep still. Sherlock's sobs grew hysterical. It hurt. Every thrust sent a shock of pain through the detective's body.
"Shut up!" snapped John, and again without it quite registering in his brain, John tugged on the gag slightly, causing a choking sound to escape Sherlock's lips and then he grew silent.
Finally, John managed to get off, coming inside of Sherlock. It felt horrible and disgusting an dirty to Sherlock. As John pulled out, Sherlock felt empty, and then felt cum dripping down his thighs which made him want to throw up.
John pulled his trousers back up, and finally got a look at Sherlock, who was reduced to a whimpering heap on the floor, tears silently flooding down his face, his voice too cracked, from screaming, to make a sound.
John could see bruises beginning to form where he'd grabbed him on his shoulders and his heart shattered.
"Oh my god…" he said, voice a hoarse whisper. "Sherlock, I…I'm so sorry, Sherlock…"
"Congratulations," said Jim, "you've just been promoted to Grade-A Monster. Excellent work, might I add. I mean look at him: he's completely broken. You nailed it -- literally. Couldn't have done a better job myself."
John wanted to turn and shove Jim against the wall and break his fucking nose. Or kill him. But instead, he found himself glued to the spot, unable to move. His eyes were stuck on Sherlock, whose white cloth gag was stained with blood and whose alabaster shoulders were marked with purple bruises in the shape of John's hands and whose tears had been caused by John, the man who'd sworn to protect him. 'I'm so sorry, Sher…' he wanted to say, but he couldn't form any words.
Jim walked over to Sherlock, lifting his chin up with his shoe. "How ya feeling, Sherly?" Sherlock's eyes were barely open; he looked broken down and exhausted.
John swallowed, fists clenched at his sides, but his feet were still glued to the floor and as much as he wanted to, he couldn't look away from Sherlock.
Jim crouched beside Sherlock, pressing his fingertips onto the bruises on Sherlock's back, causing him to flinch. "Johnny boy sure did fuck you, didn't he, 'Lock?" he said, grinning. "Must say, I'm impressed. Didn't think he had it in him, but Jesus…he let you have it -- "
"Shut up!" snapped Sherlock, then slumped against the tiles, the outburst having used the last of his energy.
Jim arched an eyebrow, grin spreading across his face. "Well, a deal's a deal, so I'll let you keep him, Johnny," he said, picking up Sherlock's coat from where it had been tossed on the floor in a corner. He tossed the coat to John. "The rest of his clothes are at your flat."