Author's Note: Not my usual fare, I know. Hope you all enjoy it nonetheless. Remember reviews are love, especially on this one as I am feeling a bit uncertain about the non-traditional – for me – subject matter. Thanks, Catslynw.

The Sacrifice

John was reaching to flick on the lamp just inside his bedroom door when a hand clamped down on his wrist, the grip bruising. He swung automatically, military training taking over before his mind had even completely registered the threat, but there was a sudden pressure against his ribcage and a jolt passed through him. Stun gun he thought as his knees buckled and his face slammed into the oaken floorboards. The light came on. His muscles were hard knots of pain, his body rigid, and it seemed to go on forever as he stared unblinking at the shoes of the man before him. They looked strangely familiar, kind of like pair that Sherlock wore when a case required him to dress the part. Berluti, his brain finally supplied. Berluti. Berluti. Berluti. It was a broken record. Then, suddenly as it had begun, the attack ended and every muscle in John's body went limp, leaving him vibrating on the floor.

"Interesting," Moriarty drawled in that affected falsetto of his. "You didn't scream, but I bet I can change that."

Moriarty. Fuck. Fuck. Sherlock was downstairs asleep on the sofa. Not just asleep either, but deeply asleep, under the influence of healthy dose of vicodin, and wrapped tight in a back brace that the consulting detective had compared blisteringly to a straight jacket. It was the only way he could sleep since the bloody explosion at the bloody pool where Moriarty had done his best to kill them both. John flinched as hands grabbed him under the armpits, lifted him off the cold floor and dumped him unceremoniously on the bed. He lay there, twisted and awkward, one arm angled beneath him, his body spasming. He could hear Moriarty moving around the room behind his back. The lamp beside the bed came on. There came the sound items being shoved willy-nilly off the lowboy and then a larger, solid item being set down in their place. He heard a small click that he couldn't quite identify followed by the sound of typing. A laptop then. Time crawled by as bursts of pain shot through him at random intervals.

"You should be able to talk now, Johnny boy," Moriarty said, a sneer in his voice. "You could try moving, too. I do so want to get the show on the road."

Reluctant to comply with anything the madman asked of him, John tried to roll over nevertheless. It took an inordinate amount of effort, but he finally managed to get his elbows firmly planted on the duvet, his shaking arms supporting his upper body as he levered it up, unwilling to face Moriarty while lying down. "What in the bleeding hell do you want?" he demanded, pleased that his voice, at least, was steady.

"Gooood," Moriarty sang, smiling at him. "Straight to the point. That's excellent. No time to waste. No time at all, knowing the kind of surveillance that Big Brother has on you."

"Who?" John asked frowning, unable to help himself.

Moriarty waved the question aside, then brushed an imaginary bit of dust from his waistcoat. He wasn't wearing his jacket, and John soon spotted it draped carefully over the back of his bedside chair, a fact that disconcerted him oddly. "To business. You are going let me bang you. What's more, you're going to participate."

"No, I'm bloody not!" John ejaculated instinctively. He tried to edge off the bed, but discovered rapidly that his muscles weren't yet up to that much movement.

"Oh, yes, you are," Moriarty countered, tapping the screen of the open laptop with one long finger. John's eyes were drawn the image there, and he felt himself go completely still, despite the tremors that still rippled through his muscles. There was a video window open, the Skype logo clearly visible. In the video display, John could see both the sleeping Sherlock and a stranger wearing a balaclava and pointing a sidearm at his flatmate. John's eyes darted back to Moriarty's face, grimacing at the amusement he saw clearly in those fox-like features. His heart pounded inside him like kettle drum. "What are you going to do to Sherlock?"

"Nothing at all if you cooperate, Dr. Watson," Moriarty assured him. Then, smiling broadly, he added, "I told you that you'd rather given yourself away."

"So you want to fuck me?" John shot back, swallowing dryly. "Somehow, I'm not buying. Doubt I'm your type."

"Not usually, no," Moriarty agreed. "But you see, I've hit on the most delicious idea. Absolutely ace! I can either shag you, or I can go downstairs and shag Sherlock."

John jerked toward the psychopath, unable to stop the "No!" that burst instinctively from his lips.

"You do know that he's utterly asexual," Moriarty went on, in a tone like a purr. "I've done my research, loads of it, and dear Sherlock has never had sex. Near as I can tell, he's never even snogged anyone. An utter and complete virgin. I… I could be his first." The madman bounced on the balls of his feet, his whole body quivering in evident anticipation.

"Bastard," John hissed, tensing his muscles, ready to spring off the bed and obliterate Moriarty. The man didn't even seem to be carrying a firearm.

"Uh, uh, uh," he said, waggling a finger at John. "This feed goes two ways. Attack me, and my colleague will shoot darling Sherlock before coming up here to finish you off."

"Prove it!"

Rolling his eyes, Moriarty turned and waved at the screen. The minion saluted back, and John had his proof. Grudgingly, he forced his body to relax, conveying the message he couldn't bring himself to say with words. Fine. You win. I'll just lay here like a good little boy.

"Good boy. You really are a well trained pet."

"Bugger off!"

"That's idea, yes."

"Why? Why me?" he asked, shaking his head in denial… puzzlement… and yes, he admitted to himself, fear.

"Well, as I said, it's a choice between shagging Sherlock, our unawakened little virgin – " Moriarty tapped the computer screen for emphasis before moving to stand directly beside the bed – "and forcing you, a rampantly heterosexual male, to have willing sex with me. I know which one of you I'd prefer to have a go at, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it will bother Sherlock immensely more this way." Moriarty began to remove his waistcoat, staring fixedly at John's face the entire time.

Horrorstruck, John could only stare back at him. It was too horrific to contemplate. Thanks to his investigations and studies, Sherlock might know everything that could factually be known about sex and affairs and infidelity, but Moriarty was right. He was asexual and he probably was a virgin. Hell, he didn't even like to be touched most of the time, and the idea of that happening to him…

"What's it going to be Dr. Watson? Though I suppose," he said, contorting his features in a mock-bashful expression, "I suppose I should call you John, under the circumstances."

John's gaze drifted back the computer, to the image of his sleeping friend. It wasn't really a question, was it? No choice at all. Moving slowly to the edge of his bed, John began unbuttoning his heavy canvas coat with hands that shook not at all.

tbc