Taking The Leap

Author's Note: Once upon a time, a girl named Katie (heretherebefandom dot tumblr dot com) and a girl named Quinn (jim-moriarty-in-your-flesh dot tumblr dot com) were very bored and decided to write ask fics back and forth to each other on Tumblr. The next thing they knew, they had 11,000 words of pure smut and a very naughty idea. So, we present to you, a Sherlock x John x Moriarty x Moran Sex-travaganza.

Katie wrote John and Sherlock, and I (Quinn Anderson) wrote Moriarty and Moran. If you're wondering why it switches perspectives about every 200 words, such is the nature of the ask box on tumblr. To see the original posts, go to our tumblrs.

This will have two parts, both posted here as chapters.

Enjoy.

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The walk to Bart's was so familiar it was practically automatic. In fact, it took John a moment to realise he was even heading in that direction and a few moments more to realise why. Just an experiment, he told himself, and if the voice in his head sounded an awful lot like Sherlock's, he chose to ignore it. Through the doors, down the hall, up the stairs; one blur of movement that didn't stop until he was there, on the edge. The sky above him was blue and lovely. The pavement below was as dark as his mood. Looking down, he couldn't help but wonder how the fall would feel on this end.

"Careful there, Johnny boy," cooed a sing-song voice. Moriarty giggled when the doctor startled and whirled around. "It's a long way down." He sauntered slowly over, his hands shoved in the pockets of his expensive suit. It was navy blue Versace with high, elegant lapels and a stark white dress shirt underneath. It certainly outclassed John's plaid jumper (really though? Plaid? In the spring?) and faded jeans.

"You," John growled. "You're dead!"

"Clearly not!" Jim twirled mockingly, his arms spread out in a welcoming gesture. "This must feel like returning to the scene of the crime for you, standing right where Sherlock did before he jumped. Bit depressing, don't you think? Knowing you could have saved him and didn't? Knowing you love a dead man?"

"Don't," John hissed out through gritted teeth. "You don't speak about him. Not ever."

Moriarty lifted a hand and rested it delicately across his mouth, reminding John of a perverse rendition of one of those "see no evil, speak no evil, hear no evil" monkeys. When Moriarty took a step forward, John took a reflexive step back, reminding himself belatedly that he was still on the ledge.

This wasn't right. This wasn't possible. He'd seen the crime scene photos himself. No one survived swallowing a gun, just as no one survived a sixty-foot fall.

"You're not really here." John all but whispered. "This isn't real. You're not—"

"Not what, Johnny boy? Not a nightmare? Not you losing your mind? Not the man you'd really like to see come back from the dead?" Jim let his hand fall limply to his side and licked his lips. The pet looked like he was debating between launching himself at him and crumbling to the ground in misery. "Admit it, you're just a tiny bit pleased to see me."

"No!" John barked, though his cheeks reddened tellingly.

Jim's smile was beatific. "Liar. You're ecstatic, because if I'm alive, there's a chance Sherlock is, too."

Everything seemed to slow to a stop, like the world had suddenly disconnected itself from time and space. Like the entire universe had chosen that exact moment to remind John that hope was a beautiful and dangerous thing, that it could come from anywhere, even the treacherous, damaging, lying fucking mouth of James Moriarty, and John would believe it. He was beyond sense and reason, beyond doing anything else.

When he straightened up and whispered weakly, angrily, "Where is he? Just tell me," John blamed the hope.

"Just tell you? Just tell you?!" Jim was suddenly screaming, his face twisted into an expression of grotesque rage. "BUT WHERE'S THE FUN IN THAT, MY LOVE?!"

John flinched, and Jim giggled delightedly. He loved the moment when people realised what they were dealing with, shied away from him as they would a madman howling on the streets. That was what he was, after all: the raw, carnal embodiment of human emotion. He was the darkness in every man's heart. The horror, the horror.

"I'm not going to tell you where he is, pet. Unless..." Jim trailed off, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

John hated himself for it, for the sudden, involuntary rush of God, please, anything, I'll do whatever you want, anything, just please, tell me where he is, that ran through him at that single, all-consuming word. And he hated himself even more for the words that escaped him next, painful and bitter on the back of his tongue.

"Unless what?"

The look in Jim's eyes was like an addict's being offered a drug, his lips smiling evilly. But unmoving.

"Unless. What?" John hissed again.

Jim smiled in the slow, timid way that made him look deceptively harmless. He stepped closer, knowing John was too eager for his answer to realise the danger he was in.

"Unless, Johnny boy, you can come up with some way to pay me for the information. Perhaps we could have an exchange of sorts."

He relished in the look of confusion that bloomed across John's face. Really, pets were cute and all, but it was irritating how long they took to catch on. Jim was endlessly grateful Seb wasn't anywhere near this slow.

John blinked owlishly. Payment? Exchanges? It was like being doused with cold water. What the fuck was he thinking? This was James Moriarty! The man who was responsible for ruining his life and taking away the one good thing he'd had since being invalided. The man responsible for why John woke up almost every night with Sherlock's name choking him, an image of him falling fresh behind his eyes. Always fresh. And driving him insane. John looked hard at Moriarty. Maybe he was already insane.

He squared his shoulders into a semblance of the proud military posture he'd once borne. Moriarty might have been one of the most frightening human beings—if he could be referred to as such—that he'd ever met, but John was no coward. "What kind of exchange?"

"Oh, nothing unusual," Jim said in a sickeningly sweet voice. "Nothing you'd feel uncomfortable with." He was mimicking the Ice Man on purpose. John's eyes widened, and Jim knew his point had struck home: he knew a lot more about him than John thought. "Sherlock kept you around for a reason, after all. You have your uses, your unique skill sets. I always have need for reliable men who know how to use a gun." His smile turned shrewd, his dark eyes narrow. "I want, in other words, to offer you a job."

"A job." John parroted lamely. The longer John thought about it the crazier it seemed. Was he really considering this? If Sherlock was alive—and as desperate for that as he was, John wasn't exactly certain of the fact—he would never forgive him for this. John wasn't sure he'd be able to forgive himself. But he was treading water here, had been since Sherlock's death, just waiting to drown with him. So what choice did he have really?

"One job." John frowned. "Then you tell me where he is." The second the words were out of his mouth, he felt their impact like a wall of ice, smacking into him, dragging the air from his lungs. He'd just made a proverbial deal with the devil, and even though he couldn't see it, a line had certainly been crossed.

Jim wagged a finger back and forth in John's face. The idiot hadn't even noticed how close they were standing now. Jim didn't feel the slightest bit intimidated by the height advantage John gained from standing on the ledge.

"You don't get to call the shots here, dear. This isn't a negotiation. Do keep in mind I'm holding all the cards. You've nothing to offer me, and I have everything to offer you." He chuckled evilly. "You'll do what I tell you, when I tell you, or you'll never see Sherlock again."

It was like sprinting down a tunnel, knowing there would be a light at the end but not quite believing it when everything around you is so suffocatingly dark. John was desperate, more desperate than he'd ever been, but he wasn't stupid. Reckless maybe. Just being here was reckless. But not stupid.

"Do you have proof?" John whispered, keeping his gaze steady. "Prove you know where he is, prove he's alive, and we have a deal." He offered his hand to Moriarty. It wasn't shaking at all.

Jim smiled. Very good. If the pet had accepted him on only his word, he would have had no choice but to fuck him over, if only to teach him a lesson. Jim took John's hand, almost touched by the gesture. The brave soldier's grip was firm and steady beneath his fingers. Jim couldn't be more delighted. His new toy was turning out to be more interesting than he'd originally thought. Without warning, he jerked John down from the roof ledge. He stumbled but quickly regained his footing and yanked his hand back.

"You want proof?" Jim asked in a sing-song voice. "Take a look at this." He reached into his breast pocket and retrieved a single photograph.

John took it, holding it gingerly between his fingers as though it might crumble to pieces if he weren't careful. It was blurry, probably a still from CCTV footage, but it was good enough. John would recognise him even if the photo had been taken in the dead of night with a disposable camera. It was definitely, indisputably Sherlock. He was exiting a store, wearing sunglasses and a green coat that looked strange on him, considering how accustomed John was to his long black one. John sagged, a breath escaping him that he didn't know he'd been holding.

The photo was dated two days ago. Sherlock was alive.

John looked at Moriarty sharply. "A deal's a deal then."

Jim clapped his hands together and kicked a leg up like a '50s housewife. "Excellent! I knew you'd come around eventually." He replaced the photo in his breast pocket and pulled out his mobile, hitting the number 3 on his speed dial. It only rang once before a gruff male voice answered.

"Seb, we got him." Jim winked at John. "Yes, have the car waiting for us." He rang off without saying goodbye and grinned. "We're going for a little ride."

"Where to?" John asked hesitantly.

Jim giggled again. "Your new home."

"Wait!" John tried, but Moriarty had already turned away, walking in the direction of the roof exit.

"Hang on!" He yelled, practically chasing him down the stairs. "What new home? Where are we going?" Moriarty only chuckled, continuing forward through the front doors of Bart's and out onto the street where a black car stood idle, waiting for them.

"You'll see, Dr John Watson," he offered cryptically, John coming to a halt in front of the car. If he got in, there was no going back. But what did he have to go back to?

Jim got into the car and situated himself, breathing in the musky scent of leather seats and luxury. Sebastian was sat in the driver's seat and turned around long enough to give him a toothy grin. John studied him from the pavement. He was blond with bright blue eyes, tan skin, and a large, solid build, from what John could tell. He also distantly noted that he was quite attractive.

"Hullo, darling," Jim drawled to his lover-and-right-hand-man. Then he realised John wasn't climbing in after him. He leaned over and fixed the doctor in a pointed look. "I know that pathetic bedsit of yours isn't what's holding you back. Could anywhere I might take you be worse than that? Get in the car."

Moment of truth, then, John thought to himself, resigned himself to it, really. He'd come this far, jumped directly into the line of fire just for the possibility of seeing Sherlock again. It wasn't like he had a choice, not anymore. Not that he ever really did, not once Sherlock still being alive became an option.

"Right," John cleared his throat, sliding into the back next to Moriarty, trying not to feel too unnerved by the close proximity. He closed the door and attempted to ignore how trapped he felt as they pulled away from Bart's.

Oh, how cute. John was clearly uncomfortable, making sure his body absolutely didn't touch Jim's. Unfortunately for him, the consulting criminal loved to play both the devil and the devil's advocate. Jim slid over, not bothering to be subtle about it, until their thighs were touching. John jumped and looked at him, realising his mistake only when their faces came within inches of each other. He shifted almost imperceptibly, but Jim could tell from the steely reserve in his eyes that he would refuse to move away.

"What's the matter, Johnny Boy?" Jim purred, leaning even closer. "Do I make you nervous?"

John narrowed his eyes. "Afghanistan made me nervous. Having a bomb strapped to my chest made me nervous. This is annoying at best." He could practically feel the heat radiating off of Moriarty's body; his whole side was engulfed in it, magnified by closeness. But he wouldn't let the bastard see him squirm, so he leaned back, feigning indifference, even going so far as to sling an arm along the back of the seat in a comfortable way, tapping out a rhythm on the hard, black leather.

"So what's next then?" he asked lightly.

Jim couldn't be more pleased. He loved it when they pushed back, when they tried to struggle against him and never guessed they were wasting their time. Jim turned to Seb, who was watching the exchange in the rearview mirror with a raised eyebrow.

"I pay you to drive and give fantastic blow jobs," Jim purred. "I suggest you do one of those things immediately before I start to feel cross with you."

Seb saluted and shifted the car into drive, pulling away from the kerb.

Jim turned back to John. "Tell me something, John. Have you ever been with a man?"

John couldn't have stifled the cringe that ran through him even if he'd wanted to, the question causing him to recoil slightly before he could stop himself. Though he was certain Moriarty had noticed, John managed to compose himself quickly, settling his arm back down behind Moriarty's head. "Never really crossed my mind." Which wasn't exactly true. Not that he'd ever admit it to himself, but it had crossed his mind plenty.

With Sherlock.

"Oh, come on," Jim said, his voice taking on an edge of anger. "I don't believe that for a second. In all your life, you've never once entertained the idea of being with a man? Not when you were at university and everyone around you was shagging everyone else? Not when you were in a trench in the desert, fighting for your life, plagued by the knowledge that any day could be your last and everyone around you was male?" Jim reached up and gently stroked John's wrist. "Stop boring me."

"Don't," John hissed involuntarily, jerking his hand just out of the way of Moriarty's touch. But he knew what it meant when the bastard got bored, knew what it could mean for him. And for Sherlock. So he put his hand back where it was, thinking it through, ignoring the way his stomach clenched as he said, "I mean… I don't. Think about it. Not anymore." The look in Moriarty's eyes told him it wasn't enough, so he looked out the window and added, "There's only ever been one man… I guess."

"Interesting!" Jim said, raising his voice and moving closer until the whole sides of their bodies were touching. He went back to stroking John's wrist. "I can only assume you're talking about your former flatmate, disappointed as I am that you don't mean me." He leant in, letting his breath brush John's ear. The soldier did an impressive job of ignoring his proximity. "Did you ever tell him how you felt? How do you think he would have taken the news? Sherlock, the man who thinks love is a chemical defect?"

The desire to make something up was fierce and bitter on his tongue, but it was hard to process anything beyond the sick feeling of Moriarty's breath travelling down his neck, his light touches raising goose bumps on John's arms.

"He doesn't think that way," John replied eventually, voice thick and heavy with truth. "So I never brought it up." John glanced at the back of Sebastian's head. The comment about blowjobs from earlier was weighing on his mind. "And despite popular opinion, I'm not gay.

"You're telling me," Jim said slowly, mockingly, "that you developed a sexual, potentially romantic interest in a man, and that doesn't make you gay?" Just to be a dick, he swooped in and raked his teeth over John's earlobe, moving back before he could react. "Come now, John, that at least makes you bisexual. I'll even settle for Sherlock-sexual. I have a touch of that myself, you know." He glanced at the driver. "Sorry, Seb, but you know it's true." His right-hand man met his eyes in the mirror and nodded obediently.

John did as best he could to swallow back the shiver that ran through him at the feel of Moriarty's teeth nipping at one of his most sensitive weak spot. Damn him. His body would always react to that, apparently, no matter who did the biting. John cleared his throat, offering a sardonic chuckle and clipped words in the hope that Moriarty hadn't noticed. Much. "Sherlock-sexual, huh? Can't deny that, I guess. But he's it, you know? No other man—" At the look on Moriarty's face, John froze.

Jim's expression had twisted into a mask of gruesome anger. "Stop. Lying," he bit out, his murderous look daring John to push him further. "I know you, pet. I know your history. I know about the fling you had with your professor when you were at Bart's and the one with the corporal while you were enlisted." He took a leap of faith and opted for a bold gesture. In one swift movement he swung around and slid into John's lap. "And you've always had a thing for geniuses. Namely, Sherlock and myself."

"H-How…?" John paled, knowing there was no point in asking. They were too much alike, him and Sherlock. How they knew things, how they could practically read a life story just by looking in your eyes. There was no denying anything with them. And with Moriarty pressed up against him, straddling his lap in that way that John's body couldn't help but respond to, there was no denying him now either. Yet still, his mouth tried to form words. "And what makes you think I've ever been attracted to you?"

"Come now, darling, it's child's play." Jim smoothed his hands down John's jumper. It wasn't nearly as appealing as the designer suit Jim was wearing, but the former soldier filled it out nicely. "I saw it in your face the first time I walked into that laboratory at Bart's. Your gaze lingered on all the places that matter." Jim ducked forward and sucked John's earlobe into his mouth, nipping it. "And you looked just a little too pleased when Sherlock pronounced me gay, which I am by the way."

John really didn't mean tilt into that touch, eyes rolling back into his head. He really, truly, honestly didn't mean to, but Moriarty's teeth were scraping just so along sensitive skin and God, he just… What had he said just then? Something about being gay.

"You are?" John muttered lamely, licking his lips. "I suppose that… Well, that makes sense then. Considering." John cleared his throat again, desperately trying to inch the man off his thighs, which only served to add blessed but unfortunate friction.

Jim smirked. This was far too easy. John had placed his hands on his hips, initially trying to shove him off, but as Jim pressed closer, he was now just gripping him, obviously itching to press their groins flush together. He could feel his blood starting to bubble pleasantly just beneath the surface of his skin.

"Yes, I'm not really known for my subtlety," Jim murmured around the earlobe he was intermittently biting and licking. He popped off long enough to glance over his shoulder. "Am I, Seb?"

The blond looked back briefly before returning his eyes to the road. "No, sir. Most definitely not."

With his ear free of Moriarty's too talented teeth—and tongue—John managed to blink away some of the haziness clouding his judgment, shaking his head and swallowing thickly. This was so wrong. Sick and wrong and the sort of dangerous he'd never been trained to deal with. He could feel Moriarty against him like a mass of pure heat, could feel each breath ghosting against his skin, each movement of the bastard's hands.

And like the worst kind of nightmare, he could feel himself getting hard.

"I'd ask if you're pleased to see me, but I can clearly feel that you are." Jim emphasised his point by grinding their hips slowly together. He'd been in a semi-erect state ever since they'd got in the car, and it felt obscenely good to finally do something about it. Jim had a thing for men who knew how to use a gun. "My, my, what would your darling Sherlock say?"

Before Jim could react, he was thrown violently onto his back, sprawled across the leather seats with both hands trapped above his head and John looming over him.

"Shut up!" John growled fiercely.

Whether he'd pinned the man beneath him to keep them apart or to force them closer together, John wasn't entirely sure. All he knew was this was spiraling out of control, and he had no idea how to stop it. Or even if he wanted to. "Just shut up," John repeated, scanning Moriarty's devious, smug, too damn attractive—what?—face. Nothing made sense anymore. He was doing this for Sherlock… Right?

"Just shut. The fuck. Up," he growled out again before forcing their lips together in a fierce and painful kiss.

Jim moaned against John's lips and practically melted into the seat. God, that was hot. He wriggled his wrists, but John held firm, pinning him in place as he forced his mouth open and simply invaded with his tongue and teeth. He was lucky he'd done so, too, because Seb had trained a pistol at his head the second he'd forced him down. If he'd tried to hurt Jim, he'd already be dead. Jim returned the kiss with enthusiasm, letting his tongue slide wetly into the other man's mouth.

Jim lifted a leg and wrapped it around John, pulling their hips together. The man above him was all compact muscle and impossible warmth. It was almost suffocating, the way he held Jim down, smothered him with his body, stole the air from his lungs with his lips and tongue. It was impossibly, incomprehensively erotic.

John was being overcome by a similar set of unexpected feelings. It was like an electric shock straight to his groin, the sudden pressure between them maddening. Moriarty tilted his head just enough to reveal a strip of creamy neck that John felt no desire to refuse, breaking the kiss and latching on, sucking, biting with alacrity. Dear God, was he really doing this? John worked his way lower, teeth scraping over Moriarty's Adam's apple before clamping down on the knot of his tie, pulling it loose so he could work on the buttons of his collar.

It couldn't be possible to feel this good. There had to be some other explanation.

"Did you drug me?" John breathed without meaning to. He was sliding his hands down, down, down to the slender chest beneath him.

Though Jim did miss the feeling of being forcibly held in place, the release of his wrists meant he was finally free to touch all the warm, sun-kissed skin he wanted. He had his hands under John's jumper and raking over his torso in no time. He moaned obscenely as John worked at his throat, sending shivers of pleasure through him.

He chuckled at John's question and answered, "Of course not, darling. I want you to be fully cognizant of both your actions and the fact that you consented willingly."

John tensed. This wasn't supposed to be willing at all, let alone like this, this need that ran hot and demanding through him. It was like he was on autopilot, his fingers unbuttoning and pulling open Moriarty's jacket and shirt, kissing, licking, nipping at his collarbone. The familiar sound of a gun being disengaged caught his attention, eyes glancing up at Sebastian as he returned a pistol to somewhere out of sight, and godammit all, that just made him harder. What the fuck was wrong with him? He rocked his hips in distraction, nearly swooning at the sharp friction.

Loud moans were pouring from Jim's lips as John ground against him, making him writhe as pleasure coiled low in his belly. He felt John stop kissing his chest and opened his eyes. John was watching Seb put the gun away with obvious interest. Jim felt a sharp surge of arousal. Fuck, the gun turned him on. John was turning out to be delicious.

"Seb," Jim said in a commanding tone, and without another word his right-hand man once again trained the pistol at John's head over his shoulder, his eyes only barely managing to stay on the road.

John moaned involuntarily and sped his hips up. "Fuck." His hands fumbled with the zip of Moriarty's fly. The gun on him was a whole other level of kinky he never knew he wanted, needed.

"What then?" he breathed to Moriarty, sounding a touch irritated. "Did you read that in the bloody shift of my eyes?" He hissed as the trousers opened and snaked a hand inside. "The twitch of my lips?" He passed the waistband of Moriarty's pants. "Bloody the same, the both of you." He wrapped his hands around Moriarty's cock, giving it a stroke. He was like a second Sherlock, except all John saw, all he felt, was Jim.

Jim shuddered as John's strong fingers wrapped around him. Oh yes, the doctor definitely knew his way around a cock.

Jim panted out his answer, unable to keep his voice steady as John wrung pleasure from his body. "To be fair, it wasn't a difficult leap." John stroked him steadily, and when he twisted his wrist at the head, Jim really lost it, grabbing his shoulders and groaning luxuriously. "Ah yes, just like that. Fuck, yes, John." Jim shoved a hand between them, eager to return the favour.

John nearly bit clean through his lip at the feel of Moriarty's hand inching between them, cupping the aching bulge in his trousers for a moment before working them down his thighs. The first blast of cold air on his too-hot, sensitive skin ripped a gasp from his throat. The feel of those torturous fingers wrapping around his length almost did him in.

John bucked into that grasp too eagerly. "I fucking hate you," he growled against Moriarty's lips, crushing them, biting them. "You know that?"

Jim shivered beneath the force of John's emotion, his voice raw with it even as he kissed the breath from his lungs. "Oh, I know you do, darling." Jim paused to moan wantonly as John gave him a firm squeeze. The man was so good at this, it was practically unfair. "You should hate yourself, though. You're getting off with the man who forced the love of your life to fake his death. Let's not forget that fact."

Jim threw his head back and laughed as John stiffened. "Bit late for remorse now, love."

He's right, you know. The thought was loud and persistent and mocking in John's ears. He was right, and it felt wonderful-terrible-perfect-horrible, and it killed him because he was so close to coming undone in Moriarty's grasp, nowhere near stopping the rhythm his own hand working on the man's cock. But he had another hand, didn't he? John looked from Moriarty to Sebastian's gun and back, working his free hand up Moriarty's bare chest to wrap shaking fingers around his throat.

The sound of a gun cocking was deafening. For a moment, all three men froze, wondering who was going to make the first move. It ended up being Jim. He started stroking John again and looked at Seb. "It's okay. If he does it just right, I'll come even harder this way." Jim fixed his intense, black gaze on John's contorted face. Poor doggie was so conflicted. And with due cause. "Go ahead, Johnny boy. Squeeze."

John swallowed audibly, closed his eyes, and obeyed, both of his hands working on Moriarty. He could barely think anymore as it was, all manner of conflicting signals making his vision fuzzy, red around the edges, his hands tightening in both directions, but not enough. Not nearly enough. He wanted to kill him. He wanted to fuck him. He wanted to skin him bit by bit until he told him where Sherlock was and then make him into shoes. He wanted to forget about everything and just let himself be fucked. Exhaling harsh breaths through clenched teeth, John cut off the last of Moriarty's air.

Jim very nearly swooned. This was what he lived for, the rush of life and death and sex and humanity and the demonic side every man carried in his heart. John Watson was a good man, and here he was, getting Jim off and choking him at the same time. The loss of airflow to Jim's brain made him tingle, made his blood hot and his body even hotter. The oxygen deprivation was dizzying, and it was all he could do to keep pumping John's cock as he felt his orgasm looming just out of reach. Oh God, this was good.

At some point, John had buried his face into Moriarty's shoulder, the hand around the man's neck trembling with the force of the strangle. Though whether the force to end it or the force of holding back, John was beyond trying to decide anymore. All he knew, all that mattered in the whole universe was how close, so fucking close, he was to coming, just a little bit more, right there, but Moriarty's hand faltered, loosened just a bit. John saw his eyes roll back, his smirk twitch, and fuck it all, John let go.

The second John's fingers loosened, Jim sucked in a desperate breath. The rush of blood and oxygen left him senseless, not so much moaning as babbling some incoherent mixture of "Fuck" and "John" and "God", which to him at that moment were all synonymous. With a shaking hand and stuttering hips, he lined their erections up and took them both in his left hand, stroking quickly. He could taste how close they both were in the salty musk of the air.

"Come, John," he murmured, "all over me. Now."

For some reason the sound of Moriarty's words, his name on those treacherous, horrible, fucking perfect lips, went straight to his core, a flash of heat that threatened to consume him, and God the feel of their cocks pressed together like that and, and, and—"Fuck, Jim, God, yes!" He was coming, harder than he'd ever come in his life, spilling painfully hot between them, against both their pelvises with as close as they were, and all he could do was press closer, hold tighter, and keep a fumbling hand on Moriarty's cock.

Jim's whole body was shaking as he felt John's hot release spatter on him, all the way up to sweaty chest. His arms fell limply to his side. John, ever the angel, was fumbling for his cock, not properly stroking him, but after that display it was all Jim needed. Two half-strokes later, he came so hard he saw stars. It ached, pain and pleasure in glorious harmony. The world stuttered into white before flashing back in an array of too-bright colours that nearly blinded him. For a moment, there was nothing but their panting breaths and the all-consuming haze of post-coital glow.

When his senses cleared, he realised the car had stopped.

Someone opened the car door for them.

John looked blearily behind him and froze. Horror seeped into his veins like ice water. He'd know those pale eyes and black curls anywhere.

It was Sherlock, his face inexplicably blank as he looked in on the debauched scene.