A Lesson in Humiliation

Notes:

A collab between me and Aki1/scribblestorm. All feedback appreciated.

Warning(s): Starts off in 'medias res', and features non-con/rape. Also has some rather uncheerful allusions to John's past, and is very much disturbing all round. Unbet'd, so all mistakes are mine.

When John's eyelids crack open, the first thing that he notices is the searing pain in his head, and a coppery taste filling his mouth. So he has been both kicked and punched in the guts repeatedly until he blacked out. Again. Lovely, just lovely. Moriarty's men really never grow tired of showing him who's boss, and how playing 'tag' with the 'cute little hobbit from 221B Baker Street is 'fun, fun, fun!'.

But John ignores the dull ache in his chest, and tries to ignore the throbbing in his head as well, shakingly getting up on his feet in order to get a clear vision of his surroundings. It's difficult to get up because, for some reason, his hands are tied tightly behind his back (an experiment, he hopes). He hopes too, as always, that this is just another sodding nightmare, that if he just believes strongly enough, once he really opens his eyes he'll see that familiar splash of brown and beige , the couch on which Sherlock lies spread out like an eagle, the dusty mantelpiece on which Sherlock's skull used to rest before Mrs Hudson got rid of it, and the smell of burnt chemicals hovering in the living room.

It's not a simple feat to concentrate because his vision swims in and out of focus, but - once he's finally regained strength enough to stand - he does notice a linoleum floor, and bleak, white-washed walls lining up around him. And his hopes deflate immediately: this is nothing but the same warehouse that has been serving as his prison for God knows how many days. He hasn't bothered to count because it only depresses him (and he doesn't want to lose hope).

Then, all of a sudden, he hears that voice again, that very voice that sends anger rustling down his spine, and makes him clench his tied up fist so hard that he knows his fingernails will leave red imprints on the soft skin of his palm behind. He takes a deep breath, gathers all his wits and turns around to face his 'visitor'.

"Come here, Johnny, Daddy's boooooored!"

By now, John should know the routine in that little game of theirs, but somehow - despite the days he's spent in here, despite the restless hours of boredom and helplessness - he still narrows his eyes and says, hatred seeping into his voice, "Don't call me that. My name is John."

And Moriarty, as always, just smiles, walking closer, not caring that John could just lunge at him, despite his condition - not that anything would happen. John knows because he's tried, and failed. Spectacularly (he just remembers throwing himself at Moriarty or trying to before something zapped him in the shoulder, and down, down he went).

"Semantic nonsense," Moriarty finally replies, clicking his tongue, his smile growing wider, "What is this now, Day 23? And still nooooooo sign of Sherlock Holmes."

Despite the fact that John has heard those words repeated constantly for days onwards, John hides his doubts and fears well: military training and his belief in Sherlock (making the improbable possible) keep his fears in check.

"He'll come," John says, his voice growing firmer now. "He'll definitely come. He always follows me everywhere, after all."

Moriarty simply laughs, the sound bouncing and echoing off the walls. "So optimistic." And then, with a crazy smile etched on his face, he leans forward and pinches John's cheek. Just as if he were a puppy or a child. "Cuuuuute!"

At that, John merely sends a glare along Moriarty's way, his eyes narrowing. "Don't mock me." He doesn't think he looks cute right now - not in this state. He's killed people, feeling like this before, and that doesn't translate to cute, definitely not.

Yet, Moriarty's face remains devoid of any expression, reminding John why the man is terrifying, and why he's shifting away as Moriarty kneels down, moving even closer. "Am not mocking. I'm being completely honest here. I see why he was fond of you." He smiles then, and strokes John's cheek in a parody of gentleness.

And, with disgust curling in the pit of his stomach at that touch, John thinks how he has been around Sherlock for too long to not pick up certain things, and - stupidly because his mind is racing (Sherlock can't be dead, no, no, no), he asks, his voice tiny and insecure. "Was?"

"I assume so anyway," Moriarty says, chuckling," it's almost been a month, after all. You know how quickly men like him, like us, get boooored."

John heaves a sigh of relief, mutters 'you bastard' under his breath, and looks away briefly. He doesn't say anything else for a while because, despite his firm conviction earlier (he'll follow me everywhere), there's that nagging feeling inside of him that he's always just been a fun tag-along for Sherlock: a cute army doctor who serves as nothing but a replacement for a skull.

No, he can't think like that. John curls his hand into a fist, and looks at Moriarty. "Don't. He's not like you. He does care." Because John would rather jump off a rooftop than admit that Moriarty could be right.

"Are you so certain of that?" Moriarty asks, grinning, eyes raking over the bindings around John's wrists, and his grin growing devilish.

John feels the blood freeze in his veins because he knows that look, and it makes him narrow his eyes even more as he says, "I'm more than certain of that. He isn't you."

Sherlock would never look at him that way, not even if John wanted him to. Because he did say 'not my area' and 'married to my work' and John never forgot, telling himself he was fine with just being Sherlock's friend and colleague.

Chuckling lowly now, Moriarty trails his hand across John's hip. "You really are adorable."

Despite his military training, John can't avoid the stiffening of his body, and his breath hitches (no, no - not again, please not this again), and he looks away. "Don't. Please don't."

Moriarty simply grins, looking pleasantly surprised. "Hmmmmm? Oh, so you have done this before? And here I thought he'd never - ohhhhh. But it wasn't him, was it?"

"Shut up - just shut up," John simply says, and grits his teeth, not meeting Moriarty's eyes. He won't tell him, of course he won't.

"Who was it?" Moriarty murmurs, running his lips across the skin of John's neck. "Who had the privilege?"

His breath hitching, John closes his eyes, his voice smaller now, betraying a tinge of fear and immeasurable sadness. "No one who mattered."

Moriarty's grin widens. "Did he fuck you?"

John doesn't say anything, not a word, just lets out a shudder that no military training could ever hide, and his hands curl into fists so hard he can feel his nails digging into his palms even harder than before.

"Ohhhh, he did," Moriarty says, clearly enjoying this, so very much in fact that the soldier inside of John wishes he could just wipe that grin off his face (and he would if he weren't bound). "And was it only hiiiim? I think not," he adds, still touching John, still exploring.

At this point, John just feels sick, so very sick. "Please let's not talk about this anymore." And he opens his eyes again, both angry and sad now - hatred and despair fighting for dominance in his chest. "Just get on with it. If you must, and no, it wasn't only him."

Moriarty nibbles on an ear now - relishing in this, and taking his time. "How many, I wonder? One? Two? Twenty?" he asks before letting out a high pitched giggle, as if all this were simply a little quiz to pass the time.

But John doesn't answer because ears are his sensitive spot, so he merely shudders, hating how his body reacts automatically to this. "Don't - " John starts before shutting himself up.

Moriarty simply chuckles oh so gleefully. "You need a verb, doctor. 'Remember'? ˜Know'? 'CARE'?"

"All of those," John says angrily, desperately and meets Moriarty's eyes again. "Everything you shall be to me once this is over. I'll wash it off - all of it."

It's that utterance which finally puts an ugly frown on Moriarty's face because John knows that he utterly despises being ignored - that is, John thinks, lastly the frailty of genius (of course, Sherlock was right, of course"). Geniuses need an audience, always, and Moriarty is no different. For just a second, his persona fades, and his tone is cool, deadly. "Hope springs eternal, doesn't it? Though, I think you know the line between hope and idiocy is a blurry one."

Moriarty yanks at his hair, and John groans, feeling the beginning of tears springing into his eyes, but he won't give in. Now not, or ever. "Bloody try me then. Try me." He's been through Afghanistan, Sherlock - he can survive this.

(He will.)

There's no response because Moriarty tugs at the rope chafing John's wrists, suspending them above his head. "You know something I just realised now?"

This hurts, and John groans, not asking what, because he knows he'll hear it anyway - geniuses love to talk, don't they?

"For all the research and stalking I've done, I don't think I've ever seen you in uniform."

John's eyes widen, and he chuckles, in spite of himself. "I keep one in my wardrobe. Doubt it fits me anymore around the waist though." Because he'd put on some, after all, after being discharged - and it's funny and stupid that he's thinking of this now, in this kind of situation.

All of a sudden, Moriarty breaks through his thoughts, shouting "Chloroform!" as he takes out a rag, shoving it at John's face. John doesn't have any time to react, or do anything at all before the world fades to black yet again.

John wakes up hours later. Or so it seems.

His vision spins for quite a while, and he groans, confused when he's greeted by the sight of something he hasn't seen in years: a room that was made to look disturbingly like his old military barracks with its row of bunk beds in the corner and the linoleum floor - only it's silent, no laughing men or the sound of drilling outside.

John shifts, trying to get up but frowns: his hands are still tied, and he's even more confused when he notices that he's wearing a uniform (is this a dream?-).

"Where the bloody hell - ?" He struggles some more, the chains rustle but that's all - he can't break free.

He hears a chuckle, that familiar smug and crazy chuckle that he first encountered when bombs were strapped against his chest, and that he dreamt of while in New Zealand, trying to forget (the threat of explosion, death - ).

John curses.

"Language, Johnny-boy. Didn't they teach you restraint in the military?"

Shaking his head, John lets out another 'fuck', chuckling bitterly. "And I'd so wished this was just another nightmare."

Moriarty pouts. "Oh don't be like that. We've only just begun."

His eyes narrowed again, John grits his teeth. "I told you to just get over with it already."

"Oh, and here you were just saying 'don't, don't'-, " Moriarty whispers mockingly, and starts removing the decorative cap, "Captain."

John sneers because the title meant something to him once, and he won't let it get dragged down the dirt like this. "Well, even if I said don't, it's not like you'd stop, right? You'd just bloody get off on it."

Because Moriarty likes the thrill, the chase, and John immediately stops thinking because that reminds him of Sherlock.

"And what gets you off? Moriarty murmurs, lips curling, "I wonder." He takes out a gun from John's back pocket - his gun.

John snorts. "Not this. Definitely - " And yet, he's looking at the gun, various things springing into his mind (adventure, danger).

"Oh your lips say no, but your eyes - " Moriarty grins and runs the barrel over John's cheek, pursing his lips, and John immediately lets out a groan, closing his eyes, his not-answer saying much more than anything else. Not saying anything further, Moriarty waits for a few seconds, caressing John's cheek with the barrel of the gun, brushing some hair back before, without further ado, he shoves it into his mouth.

And John lets out a cut off 'what the bloody' - but has no choice but to accept the barrel, tasting cold metal, feeling disgust coiling in his stomach because the implications of this aren't lost on him - oh not at all.

"Are you aware of the game Russian Roulette, Johnny-boy? Moriarty's smile widens while he fucks John's mouth with the gun, his voice nonchalant and unconcerned.

John doesn't answer, but the word 'vaguely' floats through his mind, and he narrows his eyes, glaring at Moriarty - wishing this would just end already.

"Oh, right - you can't talk like this. Anyway, you have one bullet in a six-round chamber, and you pass the gun around and shoot. Let's seeeee..." Fingering the trigger, Moriarty shoves the barrel deeper into John's mouth and fires - an empty click.

Thisterrifies John so much momentarily that his eyes snap open, and he just stares - not quite glaring anymore, but just shocked, his heart beating wildly against his ribcage. In spite of his military training, he can't hide his terror because he wants to live and facing death bravely is nothing but a myth.

"Ooo, looks like you got lucky!" Moriarty pulls the gun out with a wet pop, and then turns it to his own temple. "My turn!" He pulls the trigger, still grinning - another empty click.

John just stares at Moriarty dumbly, before gritting his teeth. "You're a madman. You're nothing but a fucking madman."

Moriarty mock-blows a kiss, and then shoves the barrel of the gun back in John's mouth, thrusting again. "Thanks. I think you're very charming too."

The taste of metal is better than talking to Moriarty, John decides, because he doesn't know what else to say to this man: the crazy glint in his eyes reveals that he's getting off on this, and John decides not to think, but simply move his mouth against the barrel, mimicking what he remembers (what he learnt in the army), his eyes closed now, and his mind blissfully empty before he hears Moriarty laughing.

And John feels the bile rising to his throat again, remembering why he knows that sucking slow is good or why he knows how to hollow out his cheeks as he goes deeper (you're such a good boy, they used to say, know how to take it just like a real soldier.) If Moriarty is merciful, he'll be quiet, he'll -

But Moriarty is speaking, and John realises there's no such thing as mercy. "You're rather good at this, aren't you - got the technique down to a science and all that." Then he roughly pulls the gun out,

takes a knife from a nearby table and cuts the bindings loose. "Get up. If you can."

"Please don't talk to me," John says, nearly tripping over his feet because he feels dizzy and he sees things in double, but he tries not to let it show. "Don't you remember what I said about communication?"

Moriarty simply pushes on his shoulder with a finger, sending him toppling. "That it's a healthy part of relationships?"

John groans when his back hits the floor - he nearly landed on his tailbone, and it makes his eyes sting. "Right. Because everything about this is healthy."

"They do say laughter is the best medicine." As if wanting to prove his point, Moriarty laughs then, even as he grabs a rough hold of John's shoulder and flips him over as he starts working on his belt.

"There is nothing," John grunts out because while he was flipped over, he knocked his jaw against the floor, and it hurts, "humorous about this, you git."

But when hears a zipper being pulled down, John loses any bravado, and desperately tries to quench the fear building up inside of him. He needs to remain strong, unimpressed -

(This is the only way he'll survive.)

Moriarty smiles as yanks his pants down, taking John's cheeks in his hands and spreading them. "Speak for yourself."

John just closes his eyes, trying not to think. "Just shut up, and get on with it already. Don't waste precious time." Though he hopes Moriarty will use a condom and a lube, because otherwise this will not only be humiliating but painful as well. And unsafe.

But the closest thing John gets to lube is his own saliva around the barrel of the gun before Moriarty shoves it into him without any warning, only saying: "Relax. Relaaaaaaax. This will hurt less if you don't. "

The only thing John lets out is a scream because he was prepared for the other thing, but definitely not for something cold, and inflexible sliding into him, and it hurts, and he does the very opposite of relaxing.

"What did I just say?" Moriarty sighs, rolls his eyes, and slaps on a round cheek. "Relax." When that doesn't work, he begins pressing kisses against the back of John's neck, reaching around and closing a hand around his cock, obviously trying to relax John - not that it works, anyway, because his touch is mechanical, cold.

"Pull that thing out of me - " But John never gets to say please because he's sensitive against the back of his neck - and his breath hitches in spite of himself because like this he can pretends it's not him (but the other, his lips, his hand - ) And it's the thought of him that makes John relax, and let out a low moan.

"See now that wasn't so hard, was it?"

John would say something, but lets out a surprised 'ah' when the barrel brushes against his prostate, causing him to clench immediately, and Moriarty continues thrusting the gun into him, brushing that spot.

"Oh, I forgot, we were in the middle of a game!" And, suddenly, Moriarty just fires, without warning (though again, empty round).

John hisses out, and clenches again, despite the fact that his eyes are wide in fear. "You bloody bastard. You - " He grits his teeth, clawing his fingernails against the ground, trying not to say anything else (humiliating - all of this).

"Lucky boy~. What was that, three for six?" Moriarty bites on the shell of an ear now, and grinds against his thigh, and John doesn't grace him with a reply - he doesn't see how he's 'lucky' in any way. Luck doesn't translate to getting barrel-fucked by some madman, or moaning for him, or thrusting back against the hardness brushing against his thigh.

(John just doesn't want to think anymore, shut off all intellectual capacities until this turns into nothing, but one of those lurid daydreams he'll forget once everything has settled down.)

"Oh this is getting boring. Boooringggg." Moriarty laughs, loud and long, as he pulls out the gun without further comment, tossing it somewhere behind him, where it hits the floor and goes off with a bang and John realises it really was loaded, and Moriarty really is crazy.

But Moriarty hasn't stopped talking, and he's unzipping his fly. "How about something else, hmmm?"

Yet, John doesn't pay attention to that yet, still hearing the bang ringing in his ears as turns his head to look at Moriarty. "You ... that thing was loaded?! You're not, -" John says as he tries to back away, "human." And terror grabs hold of him when he realises what Moriarty is about to do. What he was planning to do all along.

"Oh please. It was a one in six chance. People have survived worse odds." Moriarty forces John's head back down again, using his other hand to position his cock at the entrance, whispering 'I know you have' before he thrusts in, slowly.

"Don't … please don't ," John starts, but it's too late, and though he's survived Afghanistan and criminals, he feels like dying when Moriarty starts pushing in - not because of the pain (it's only uncomfortable stretching, nothing he won't survive), but the shame and humiliation of all this: the position, the fact that, even if he gets out of this alive, Moriarty will always know what he looked like on his hands and knees and … John just closes his eyes, and tries to think of anything but what's happening here (milk, he needed to buy, milk).

"Still with me, Johnny-boy?" Moriarty's voice cuts through John's thoughts as he starts squeezing his cock, and rocks his hips, thrusting in and out.

Hearing himself moan out a 'ngh' makes John flush, and tears him away from his thoughts of domesticity, and -as much as he tries to roll back to the familiar, 221B Baker Street, the heads in the fridge and Sherlock - it's all lost because he's all too aware of the hand around his cock, and Moriarty driving into him, and oh god, he thinks, it actually feels good, and before John can even bite down on his underlip, he moans again.

Moriarty lets out a chuckle. "That's more like it," he says, and continues rocking into him harder, the sound of slapping flesh echoing in the empty room.

It's obscene, but he prefers the sound of that ringing in his ears to the moans he tries to choke back down, or to the talking Moriarty does (at least, the other men didn't talk, just fucked him). Still, John is barely thinking anymore, just moving his hips, driven by pure instinct now, and it's scary how much he doesn't mind this with his defences locked away, and all thought processes shut down.

"I have to say I never imagined you as the type to be heh," Moriarty chuckles, drives into that spot harder now, probably aware of John being close, but apparently also in need of some more stimulus to go all the way himself, "so wanton."

John's eyes snap open, and he stops moving, nausea rising up in him as he moans again, flushing more now, and he tries struggling again, stupidly he knows, but he's not Moriarty's whore.

"Oh, how presumptuous of me. Sorry." Leaning in closer, with one hand quickly jerking him off now, and the other reaching into a pocket, Moriarty asks, "Would you feel better if I pretended to be someone else?"

"No, "John says too quickly, panting now because the hand feels good, but the silly vestige of bravery still clings to him, and he meets Moriarty's gaze again. "Nothing about this could ever make me feel good."

"No?" Moriarty pulls his head back until he's out of sight, but still thrusting in hard, pressing kisses against John's neck. "Really? Not even if it's him?"

John might have said "no', but the way he shivers, and begins meeting those thrusts again betray that he likes this, and - if he does close his eyes - he could easily imagine Sherlock: his hands, his lips, carefully exploring and cataloguing every single of his reactions, but John isn't gone enough yet, not yet. "What do you want from me?" What shall that admission of him wanting Sherlock bring Moriarty?

"Hmm," Moriarty hums as he sucks a large red mark on John's neck before bringing his lips to his ear, and whispering in a deliberately lower timber of voice, "John. John."

It's that simple whisper of his name in that low voice that makes John forget, and he closes his eyes again, definitely moving against the person thrusting into him now, shivering and moaning - not caring anymore what he says (please, Sherlock).

"You feel so tight and warm," Sherlock says, thrusting, "no, hot. An almost oppressive heat. I..I can't think, I can't function. John."

At the back of his mind, John knows this isn't Sherlock because he wouldn't be this smooth (he'd be clumsy, more forceful-), but all humans are good at grasping for straws and lying to themselves to make reality more bearable. John's no different, never wanted to be, and so he just keeps moving against (Sherlock), trying to take him in as well as he can, whispering 'it's fine, don't think, just lose yourself - it's alright to let go'.

He hears a chuckle - a deep, rumbly chuckle that comes from the chest, fully unaware of the fact that Moriarty has pulled out his phone, and is tapping away on the screen until it shows a countdown for exactly twenty-eight seconds, all the while thrusting in and dropping more kisses along John's neck.

"Good, it's good," John pants, and digs his already bloodied fingers into the ground. "You can go harder. Not even flushing anymore, John grinds against (Sherlock's) that cock, wanting more (and so close, not caring because if it's Sherlock, then it's fine and John Watson would do anything for Sherlock, give him anything).

And the clock on the display bleeds slowly, but inexorably, and - and, meanwhile, because John still thinks it's Sherlock, just Sherlock - he clenches around the cock thrusting into him. Moaning even louder when he hears (Sherlock's voice) rasping 'John' and 'you make me -.' before thrusting in hard and, at the same time, sinking his teeth into John's neck, biting down.

It's all right, John thinks, if Sherlock just lets go, and loses control: it's flattering, and all of this feels good - that last, deep thrust as well as the teeth marking him. It hurts a bit maybe, but John doesn't mind the pain (loves it even, craves it like danger: it's what makes him follow Sherlock around, apart from his brilliant mind, apart from -)

John stops thinking all of a sudden, just moaning 'yes' loudly as he clenches and comes (feeling so alive, so very alive).

And right on time, because Moriarty's mobile phone's countdown runs out right then and there, and a loud recorded GUNSHOT echoes through the room.

John's eyes snap open at that, but his mind is too befuddled by his orgasm to do anything else, but he still realises a few facts (that he just came, who the man inside of him is -), and so he turns around to look (a mistake, certainly -)

Because the sight he is faced with is a grinning, amused-looking Moriarty who thrusts a few more times before climaxing himself with only a grunt and an insincere 'Oooopsie!' to offer. John wants to banish the memory of that immediately, and looks away, pressing his face against the ground while trying to ignore the hysteria rising in him when he feels the man spill inside of him.

"Oh come on, don't look so sad!" Moriarty chuckles, and thrusts in one last time before pulling out and wiping the tip of his cock against the back of John's thigh. "That was quite a performance, don't you think?"

John starts laughing then, not sure why but because anything else would be equally pathetic because he not only just let his enemy fuck him, but enjoyed it (it doesn't matter that he pretended it was Sherlock because Moriarty still knows, will always know now what makes him comes undone.)

"Well. I think we both learned something today, hmm?" Moriarty asks as he stands up, and re-adjusts his pants. "Can't wait to get the recording of that. I think," he scans the room, squinting, "camera three had the best angle. Best view of your arse."

John stops laughing, feeling sick to his stomach now, and utterly humiliated because he's still bare, with that man's semen leaking out of him, and he can't move. Can't do anything. "There's no point in asking if you're going to show them to him, right?" He chuckles bitterly, wondering why he hasn't started crying yet. Or hammering his head against the solid ground. Anything would be better than listening to this drivel.

Moriarty just grins, leans down, and plants a surprisingly chaste kiss on his cheek. "Ciao, Johnny-boy." He starts sauntering off, casually picking up the gun as he does so. "Try to get some rest. We have more training to do tomorrow." Having said that, he exits the room, whistling loudly all the while.

John wishes he could just pass out, but it won't happen all that quickly, if at all because he's been trained to endure, and so, he's numb to all the physical pain, but not the humiliation, he thinks, as he curls up, and tries to think of anything but what just happened, tries not to think of the throbbing pain down there, Moriarty's voice still ringing in his ears, or what Sherlock (oh god, Sherlock) will think if he ever finds out.

The worst is that he knows this isn't the end, but simply the beginning, and all John can do is just pray and hope this will be over quickly before he falls apart completely.

...