Bad, Bad Man (Part One of the Nymphomania series)
Rated: R (sexual situations, nudity, some language, much naughtiness abounds but no real intercourse)
Characters: John/Jim..? implied Sherlock/John, random henchman! Slutty!John
Summary: Moriarty has a plan to break the great Sherlock Holmes and his intrepid blogger, John Watson, forever. However, it seems he has miscalculated the veracity of a certain army doctor…
Author’s Notes: This is as close to a Song Fic as I have ever written. It is HIGHLY recommended that you listen to The Heavy’s “How You Like Me Now” while reading this story. I can not urge this enough.
Bad, Bad Man
Jim Moriarty didn’t have to do much research on the pair to know exactly how to break them. Sherlock was interesting, and Jim’s notes on the man could fill terabytes—but for as much bluster and bother as Sherlock gave to the nature and existence of emotions, the consulting detective really did wear his heart on his sleeve.
No, Sherlock Holmes was easy to figure out, and Jim was going to have fun breaking him. Burning him.
He thought, perhaps, that Sherlock’s little friend might prove to be more of an enigma—but sadly, Jim was mistaken. John Watson proved to be as boring as he appeared to be. Military. Practical. So very, very straight and so very, very boring.
Jim sighed. It would be easy, too easy to break the pair. It would almost be dull.
Still, the act of breaking them could be enjoyable, if Jim planned it right. After all, there was nothing quite like watching a heterosexual man’s abject horror and self-loathing as you forced him to please another man. Forcing him to gain pleasure from it for himself, as well. Oh yes, the act of breaking England’s heroic detective team would be enjoyable.
He would break Sherlock Holmes’s most favored toy, and then he would break the man himself.
Oh yes, this would be fun.
Sherlock had expected this for quite some time. He woke, groggy, his mouth tasting bitter and very, very dry. He was blindfolded and tied immobile to a chair, but by the very faint ambient noise he could detect, he knew that they weren’t very far from civilization. All the better—escaping Moriarty’s clutches would be hard enough as it was without them being stranded in the countryside.
Them, he thought, and searched for traces of John. Yes, he could hear the distinctive patterns of John’s breath, approximately three?—maybe less—meters to his right. Good—they had been together when they were taken, fought valiantly against their kidnappers, too, before finally being tranquilized like feral animals.
At least together, they may stand a chance against whatever Moriarty had planned.
“I can tell you’re awake,” a very familiar, sing-song voice said.
Sherlock’s blindfold was yanked off his head with a flourish. Moriarty was lounging in front of him in a ridiculous, red velvet upholstered theater chair, the kind installed in private boxes. Sherlock declined to say anything, instead, diverting his attention to his immediate surroundings.
They were in a smallish room, bare concrete floors and concrete walls. Bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. Table out of the corner of his eye with something—a music player? What was that doing here?—placed on it. John was a few paltry paces to his right, as he had notices from his breathing before. A tall man Sherlock didn’t immediately recognize—the military, hand-to-hand combat and weapons training. Dark and twisted, probably dishonorably discharged, otherwise he wouldn’t be working for Moriarty—yanked the blindfold off John. John blinked at the sudden light, and turned straight to Sherlock.
Sherlock blinked at him.
John started looking for exits.
“I bet you’re wondering why you’re here,” Moriarty informed, hands underneath his chin in an eerily similar gesture as Sherlock’s usual thinking pose.
Sherlock calculated, and decided the risk was acceptable. He shrugged. “Not really.”
Moriarty sat up. “No?” he asked, voice lilting upwards. “Tell me,” he cooed, batting his lashes.
Sherlock paused for one, slight dramatic moment. “Theater chair,” he finally answered. Moriarty dropped his hands, and looked at him. Good, he had his attention. Sherlock continued. “You want one of us—or both—to perform some task, so you can watch.”
Moriarty’s previously eager smile morphed into a grimace for one, short moment before evening out into a smoothly bland expression. “Very good,” he offered. He threw his arms out wide. “It was fairly obvious, wasn’t it?”
Sherlock lifted one slim shoulder and dropped it. The action seemed to annoy Moriarty.
Beside him, the as yet unnamed ex-military henchman began untying John’s bonds. Moriarty narrated. “You’re right, of course. You’ll be putting on a little show for me. And by you, I mean your pet.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. The henchman forcibly lifted John to his feet, gripping his arm tight.
Sherlock surged forward, a denial dying on his lips when Moriarty broke into a shit-eating grin. “Oh Sherlock,” the insane man crooned. “Precious Sherlock. You thought this was about you?”
Sherlock glared. He heard John stifle a gasp next to him, and saw his flat mate stumbling forward. The other criminal in the room walked to stand behind Sherlock’s chair.
He heard the click of a hand gun being cocked and primed. Sherlock swallowed.
Moriarty leaned back in his ridiculous theater chair, swinging one leg over the arm. He draped himself over the thing like an overgrown cat.
“You’ve been bored before, haven’t you, Sherlock?” Moriarty questioned. “I have—I am,” he corrected. He threw an arm in the air and his head back against the back. Ever the drama queen. “There’s a special kind of boredom, though. That takes a special kind of event,” he drawled, “to alleviate. Do you know what I mean?”
Sherlock snarled. Beside him, John was looking increasingly nervous. Moriarty grinned.
“I’m bored, Sherlock,” he said. “And your pet’s going to help me.”
The muzzle of the gun pressed into the back of Sherlock’s skull. It was John that hissed out a “No!”
“Yes,” Moriarty countered. “Do what I say, or we’ll all see what the inside of Sexy here’s pretty little head.”
Sherlock didn’t dare move, but he caught John’s frantic look with his eyes and held it. “John,” he said.
John took a deep breath, and faced Moriarty. His back was painfully straight.
“Good,” Moriarty purred. He spared a glance at Sherlock before pinning John with an invasive stare. “You’re going to dance for me, Johnny boy.”
John audibly swallowed. “Pardon?”
“Dance, Johnny. And make it sexy,” Moriarty cooed.
John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes widened. Moriarty laughed, and the gun remained ever present at the back of Sherlock’s head.
“What’s the matter, Johnny?” Moriarty asked. He swung his leg back away from the indecent sprawl. “Never danced for a man before?”
John squared his shoulders, but offered nothing.
Moriarty smirked. “You can imagine that I’m one of your girlfriends. If it helps.” He smiled sweetly. “Except with a cock.”
John visibly flinched at that. Sherlock didn’t blame him.
“What do you say, Johnny boy?” Moriarty prodded. “Dance for me? Or wipe up what remains of pretty boy’s brain with a rag?”
John breathed in deeply, once, shutting his eyes. Sherlock recognized the look, and tensed fractionally against his bonds.
“Can I pick the music?” John answered, finally, firmly. He added, “Please?”
Moriarty smile was a crocodile grin, full of teeth. “Since you asked so nicely.”
Everyone in the room tensed for a moment while John dug into his trouser pocket. He pulled out his phone, and headed toward the music player in the back of the room—its presence obvious now. As he passed Sherlock, he let a little smile slip out of the corner of his mouth.
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. Oh.
John scrolled through the settings on his phone, everyone now watching the line of his back in predatory anticipation.
When the jazzy trumpets sounded in a heart thudding beat, Sherlock suddenly saw everything unfold to its inevitable conclusion. Confident, he relaxed slightly, determined to enjoy the show.
His John was such a minx.
Moriarty’s eyebrows shot straight to his hairline when John started swaying his hips to the horns blasting through the speakers. When the sex-roughened voice started singing, John spun, bracing himself against the table and grinding his hips against the air. He ran his hands up his chest and through his hair, hips gyrating and stomach rippling. It looked slightly odd with his jumper and plain, ill-fitting trousers, but it was on rhythm and it was smooth and so undeniably sexy.
Sherlock was pleased to note that he wasn’t the only one salivating.
John opened his eyes and stared down Moriarty, pupils blown wide and lips parted. He stalked toward the criminal mastermind, swaying and strutting. He reached the obscene theater chair, braced his hands against its arms, and bent over, face inches from Moriarty’s. His back was one flat plane and his hips, high in the air, swung in wide, slow circles. The lyrics seemed more and more appropriate as John danced in place, breaths away from Moriarty.
See, I’ve been a bad, bad, bad, bad man.
John mouthed the words in Moriarty’s ear, then reared back. Hips still swaying in time to the quick beat, he dragged his hands up his thighs up to the edge of his jumper. Grabbing the hem, he drew it tantalizingly up his stomach, revealing the plain button-up beneath it. In one smooth motion, the sweater was up over his head and tossed aside.
So how you like me now? The song crooned, and John danced a few steps backward, stretching upwards so that a strip of skin showed at his waistline. Arms above his head, he thrust once more in Moriarty’s direction before spinning to face Sherlock and dropping to a crouch to the floor.
Hips still high and swaying indecently to the beat of the music, John reached up and dragged his thumb across his lips, biting at it. Sherlock swallowed a groan. John stared at him through his thick lashes, gaze full of heat and desire. They kept their gazes locked while John slowly lifted himself to a standing position, hips rocking back and forth and head thrown back in a soundless moan. And he still faced Sherlock as his hand came to the collar of his shirt.
Oh, Sherlock knew who this show was for.
John spun to face Moriarty once again, mouthing all the lyrics as he thumbed each button of his shirt open, all the while hips moving in time with the music. As each button exposed inch by inch of skin, he pushed the shirt further off his shoulders until it was hanging off his arms. Moriarty’s eyes went wide at the sight of the muscled-definition of John’s chest and abdomen, the small, perfectly round scar at his left shoulder almost like a decoration. Sherlock doubted any file Moriarty had dug up had ever revealed that John was muscled like an underpants model. Hell, Sherlock hadn’t known until he had stared face to face with John’s washboard abs.
The music continued, and John danced close, extremely close, to where Moriarty was openly panting. The speakers sang behind him, So if I was to cheat on you baby, would you see right through me? John tossed his shirt over the back of Moriarty’s chair. He placed his hands on either side of the other man’s head, swaying close enough that Moriarty could lick the proffered chest if he wanted. He did run tongue along his own lips, wetting them, before John pulled back. If I sing a sad, sad, sad, sad song, would you give it to me?
And John promptly dropped his head into Moriarty’s lap. Above him, the consulting criminal gasped, bucking his hips as John mouthed up his pant leg to his stomach, before climbing onto the chair with Moriarty, knees on either side of the man’s hips. He ground into his thighs, hands once again on the top of the chair, bracing himself, as he gave Moriarty one hell of a lap dance.
“So how you like me now?” John whispered in a broken pant in Moriarty’s ear, before rocketing upward to thrust his crotch in Moriarty’s face as he swayed and bumped and ground to the music.
Moriarty actually moaned, fingers clenched against the armrest until his knuckles were white. It was hard to mistake the long line etching his trousers as anything but utter lust.
As the music grew to a crashing crescendo, John arched his back backwards, a perfect bow, head thrown back almost to Moriarty’s knees in a parody of orgasm. Underneath him, Moriarty bucked again and whined, deep in his throat.
The music softening now to a haunting pace, John straightened again, and slithered off the other man’s lap. He drug his hands up his abs to his chest, and back down his sides to toy with the buckle of his belt. The song crooned, and John with it.
Does that make you love me, baby?
Does that make you want me, baby?
He flipped it open the latch and pulled the belt out, tossing it aside when it was no longer wrapped around him. He continued petting himself, the long line of his back sweaty and glistening as he swayed in time. He inched forward once more to Moriarty, gaining to his feet while mouthing the knees of the other man’s trousers. Sherlock saw his hands going to his waist once more, smoothly undoing the fly to his trousers before reaching back up to the cushion of the chair.
The music rose in beat, back to its deafening crescendo from moments before, and John with it. He thrust once more in Moriarty’s direction before swiftly dropping his trousers to his shins and spinning to sit in Moriarty’s lap, grinding hard against the seated man. John had one arm behind him, grasping the head rest, the cut lines of his triceps glinting in the harsh light of the interrogation room. The other hand snaked behind him to clutch at Moriarty’s still clothed hip, forcing him closer.
They ground and bucked and humped against each other, one long smooth line of motion, still moving in time to the clashing beat of music. Both the music and the pair entwined headed quickly and messily to climax.
John’s eyes were open and staring straight at Sherlock. He licked his lips and smiled as Moriarty gasped and groaned, jerking underneath him. Sherlock heard another muffled shout from behind him.
The muzzle of the gun had disappeared from Sherlock’s head some time ago.
After the music finally died, leaving an eerie, empty silence, John stood up from Moriarty’s lap. He bent, pulled up his trousers, and fastened them once more around his hips, uncaring of the wet spot Moriarty left on his backside.
He stalked back to his phone, plucking it from the music player. Turning, he held it up and snapped a quick picture of Moriarty, still panting and utterly debauched on the theater chair. Considering a moment, he swung and grabbed a picture of the henchman, whose hand was still on his slowly softening cock, a smear of cum drying on his shirt.
John walked over to Sherlock, who was smiling at him with his goofy, school boy grin he used when he was particularly pleased about something. As John bent to undo Sherlock’s hands from the arm rests, Sherlock whispered in his happy, sultry voice John rarely heard outside the bedroom.
“You’re a nymphomaniac.”
John broke into a shit-eating grin, and pressed a messy kiss to Sherlock’s mouth. Then, he finished untying his partner from the chair.
Neither Moriarty nor his henchman moved or said anything to the pair as John collected the rest of his discarded clothing and Sherlock stood, straightening the lines of his suit jacket and trousers. As they headed to leave, Sherlock offered a wave of his hand and a quick “Ta!” to the nigh-comatose criminal mastermind with the large, indecent wet spot cooling on his trousers.
Then, they left. All in all, Sherlock thought that whole episode went rather well. He looped an arm around John’s bare shoulders, and smiled as they went to find their way back to Baker Street.
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