He stays silent the first time; doesn’t wince in pain or gasp in agony as too-dry fingers thrust roughly into him, followed too quickly by Moriarty’s cock. Somehow, his eyes even manage to stay open, light dim and yet searing even when the other man has tired of biting into his neck and nipping at his lips (and it hurts, dear God it hurts.)
Fight me. I dare you. It’s not you who’s gonna die if you do, anyway, Moriarty had whispered into his ear gently , and John wonders if it’s possible to perform surgery on himself (lie himself down on the operating table and raise that knife) and cut his own heart out (the parts that didn’t die with Sherlock, anyway).
John does fight him, but in the only way he can; he forces his body to relax, remembers not to let his facial muscles twitch, even when Moriarty comes inside of him with a satisfied grunt.
Afterwards, he determinedly takes the shortest shower he can (doesn’t scour his skin with bleach, trying to cleanse something that’ll never be clean again), and he sits on the couch for that evening’s episode of Doctor Who.
He can do this.
Moriarty drags him into Sherlock’s bedroom after four weeks of John lying limp on his stomach on the couch, of scrubbing at a stain for longer and longer, every time.
He digs a knife into his naked thigh, standing in the kitchen in nothing but his underwear after a shower that’s left his skin red and raw; for thinking, as Moriarty’s chest pressed against his back and a hand wrapped around his cock, that anything would be worth this stopping; Mrs Hudson, anything.
The blood flows sluggish, and he feels ashamed, because he’s becoming his own patient now; weak, pathetic, helpless, everything Sherlock disdained till the day he died.
But Sherlock isn’t here anymore.
Next visit, while John’s being stripped, slow and methodical in his living room, Moriarty notices the knife wound, still scarring over.
He doesn’t say anything; just looks up at John, and there’s something in his gaze that, briefly, causes something like confusion in his mind.
Moriarty fucks him slowly, in his own bed, dragging an orgasm out of him with a torturous meticulousness that somehow leaves him feeling more violated than ever.
He determines after that to play resigned, reluctant but willing; to not be the victim even more than his circumstances are forcing him to be.
This time, it’s not an indeterminate flicker in Moriarty’s expression that John receives; it’s disappointment that hardens the psychopath’s gaze, and the sinking realisation that John is going to be sore for the next week even as he comes violently from the almost viciously efficient slide of Moriarty’s hand over areas of his body he didn’t know were sensitive.
“I see right through you, Johnny m’boy,” Moriarty tells him, hovering over John as he trembles in the aftermath of his climax, before pulling out and walking out.
Moments later, the door slams shut.
John doesn’t realise till much later that the other man was still hard when he left.
The eleventh time (a Tuesday evening, like clockwork, every week), he’s resigned for real. It comes almost as a relief, an exhale releasing a breath that’s been held in too long for comfort, when arms wrap around his waist as he’s reaching out for the kettle.
“Hello, Johnny dear,” Moriarty murmurs, teeth brushing at the nape of his skull.
He doesn’t bother repressing the shiver of pleasure. “Hello,” he replies calmly, watching the stream of steaming water from kettle to mug (cracked in the corner from that time Sherlock accidentally knocked it to the tiles while in the process of de-braining the oven).
John feels the other man tense behind him, feels nothing but grim satisfaction at, for once, being unexpected; prolongs the feeling, when he turns in Moriarty’s arms to face him and, raising one trembling hand, pulls the person he hates most in the world down into a kiss, all teeth and tongue and blood and Ican’tdothisanymore.
He waits in the bed now, every Tuesday, as he gives more of himself to Moriarty.
Jim, the man insists, and it’s not just Tuesdays now; anything he can get, anything to forget, anything to stop him from betraying Sherlock one more time and signing Mrs Hudson’s death warrant when he can’t stay alive any longer.
“Move in with me,” Jim says, smiling as he props himself up on an elbow to smile down at John’s face.
Alright, he agrees, because it’s been two years, nine months and eighteen days and Sherlock isn’t coming back.