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You’re Pretty When it Hurts

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“Where the hell is Sherlock?”

So ferocious, this tiny doctor.

So courageous, so loyal. It’s easy to see why Sherlock has chosen him.

At this moment, however, Doctor Watson is blindfolded and shackled to the wall, and the way he writhes and snarls like a wild animal reminds me that he’s mine.

Mine. Why? Because I’m Jim Moriarty, and I’m going to take everything that Sherlock Holmes loves. And I’m going to break into each and every one of those things with my bare hands. And I’m going to turn them completely inside out, and I’m going to burn them until there’s nothing left but blood and tears and ashes.


Sherlock really ought to keep a closer eye on his pets.

“Who the hell are you?”

“You were far too easy to kidnap, Doctor Watson. A man with military experience ought to know when they’re being hunted, hmm?”

I approach Watson, the scent of his aftershave pulling me in like gravity, and I crowd his space, breathing against his skin. “You must not have been very good at it,” I say. “I’m guessing that’s why you got shot.”

Watson clenches his teeth and his fists. “I’m not going to ask you again. Where is Sherlock?”

Watson is a rather compact man, and our heights are aligned in such a way that my lips brush easily against his cheek. He tries to move away, but his restraints keep him from moving far.

“Sherlock?” I respond. “If I had to guess, I’d say he’s off searching for a truth in a murder. Pointless, isn’t it? Because the only real truth is that we all die, whether by the hand of a loved one, or ourselves, or an enemy, so does it really even matter? Death is ultimately the entire point.” I chuckle quietly, gliding my hand behind Watson’s head to tighten the knot of the blindfold he wears. “But he knows this, of course, because I know this, and we are the same.”

Watson swallows. “You know Sherlock?” he asks coolly. “Were you sent by Mycroft?”

“Oh, no, I come of my own accord. I suppose you could say I’m a friend of Sherlock’s.”

Watson laughs humourlessly. “Sherlock doesn’t have friends.”

“Let’s not play this game, Doctor Watson,” I whisper. “We both know what kind of a person he is.”

“You know nothing about Sherlock,” he utters.

“I know enough.” I sneak my hands down to Watson’s waistband and place my open palms onto his hips, and he freezes, but he surprisingly doesn’t protest. “I know enough to know that he’s very, very attached to you.”

Watson swallows thickly, but still says nothing.

“And I’m guessing you’d do anything for him, wouldn’t you?” I grind my hip against his thigh to demonstrate my point. “Anything.”

Watson makes a failed attempt to swing his fist at me; failing, of course, due to the shackles around his wrists. Once he’s calmed himself, he shakes his head. “Sherlock and I are not—“

Rage. Sudden, white rage.

I retract my body and I slap Watson across the face. “I told you.” Quickly, I place a kiss on his cheek to dull the pain, and he cringes. “We aren’t playing games, pet. I have eyes and I have ears, and I know when someone wants to fuck someone else into the ground.”

I lean forward into Watson, aligning our bodies tightly, my hands settling back at his hips. He glides his tongue over his bottom lip, and I can feel his warm breath on me.

“Why did you bring me here?” he asks steadily. “What do you want from me?”

I breathe heavily onto his neck. “You’re an attractive man, Doctor Watson,” I say. “Rugged. Fierce. Handsome.” I drag the tip of my nose over his stubbled cheek. “I can’t let Sherlock have you all to himself. I want to play, too.”

Watson wriggles uncomfortably. “Let me go,” he orders.

Smiling, I brush my lips against his ear, sliding my fingers softly against the back of his scalp. “I’m only asking for a small favour,” I assure him, “and in return, I’ll promise the safety of your Sherlock.”

“You wouldn’t hurt him,” Watson contests. “His brother is the British government, and he’d hunt you down within seconds, and—“

I can’t help but interrupt Watson to laugh hysterically. “You don’t know who I am yet,” I say, drifting both of my hands down his neck and his back, placing open-mouthed kisses to his forehead. “But if you did know who I was, Doctor Watson, you’d sing a different tune.”

“And why should I believe you?”

“Strictly speaking, I suppose you shouldn’t.” I shrug. “I mean, I have locked you up against your will and all. But humour me, won’t you? Unless you’re planning on going somewhere?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Come on,” I murmur softly as I rut my hips against his. “You can even pretend that I’m him, if you want.”

At that suggestion, a visible shiver runs through his body, his hips ever-so-slightly tipping forward into mine.

“And what—“ he swallows and licks his lips again. “What if I tell you no?”

I lean in and swirl my tongue into his earlobe, my hands travelling into the back of his trousers. “Then I leave you alone right now—but I can’t promise I won’t send one of four snipers I’ve currently got poised to assassinate him immediately.”

Watson tenses again, his chest rising and falling irregularly against mine. “And if I agree to let you have your way with me, he’s going to be safe?”

“Yes.” I grin, sliding my hands to the front of his trousers and unbuttoning them. “As long as I’m alive, Sherlock Holmes will be safe.”


Before today, Watson hasn’t been touched in a very long time. It’s achingly apparent; not only does he not put up any resistance to sex with a complete stranger while blindfolded and shackled; but the way he tilts his head backwards to expose his neck, his mouth falling open—it’s as if he’s actually giving willingly.

As his trousers and pants hit the ground, I also drop to my knees, and I take his cock into my mouth. It’s an impressive size, even though he’s not yet erect. (I’m able to remedy that, of course, with a few flicks of my tongue over the smooth flesh of the head.)

As I envelop his cock deeper into my throat, I hum lowly. Watson groans, his body frozen where he stands. I wrap one hand around the base of his cock, one hand digging into his arse cheek. I commence sucking him in, fast and messy, while he releases unvoiced gasps.

Pulling his stiffness out of my mouth, I look up at him. Behind the blindfold, his face is scarlet; beads of sweat form at his brow. His short, sandy hair is matted to his temples. His breaths are quick; his body lax but slightly trembling.

“Mmm,” I say lowly. “This turns you on, doesn’t it, pet? I knew you’d love the whole handcuff and blindfold bit.” As I move my hand over the shaft of his cock, he bites his lower lip.

“You’re thinking of him, aren’t you?” I ask. “That’s why you’re so uncontrollably aroused.”

He doesn’t reply.

But I’m far from finished. “Hmm.” I continue to stroke his cock slowly. “I bet you’re imagining his long, smooth fingers delicately wrapped around your fat cock right now—aren’t you?”

He inhales and exhales raggedly as I stroke him, gradually faster and faster as my words continue. “And you were thinking about him earlier, when I was sucking your cock. You thought about his smooth, velvet lips and wet, warm mouth swallowing you in. All the way to the very back of his throat, where you stuffed yourself into him and you fucked his mouth mercilessly, and he groaned at the perfect, bitter taste of you.”

Watson lets out a low groan himself, and I release my hold on him in order to stand. My fingertips roam over his body—my nails digging into his skin—and I come up behind him, my back sliding against the wall. “And I’ll bet,” I whisper, “that you think about his cock, throbbing in your arse while he fucks you, and he fucks you—“

Watson shivers.

I unbutton my own trousers and they slide to the ground. My cock bobs out and up into his backside. My tongue and lips and breath are all in his ear, and I continue—“You want him to fuck you, don’t you, pet? You’ve wanted it since the beginning.” My hands are at Watson’s hips and I’m squeezing hard enough to bruise, rutting against the crevice of his arse as he arches backwards into my thrusts. “That dark, mysterious genius,” I breathe, “giving himself completely over to you, his pale, naked body draped over your back as he pounds into you, gasping your name. God, you are fucking aching for it.”

Without notice, I draw a hand backwards and swat his arse cheek, hard. He jumps, clenching his arse muscles, his head falling backwards again.

Oh, he likes that, too.

I smack him over and over. And each time I do, he expels a whimper that can only be interpreted as pleasure.

“You like the pain, don’t you, pet? I ask as I wrap my fingers around his neck on both sides, and lightly squeeze. “You’re gasping for him,” I murmur. “Absolutely... choking for him…” and I squeeze harder.

Watson coughs and wheezes, but I don’t let go.

“You’re so pretty like this, Doctor Watson,” I inform him reverently as he gasps for air. “All tied up and at my fingertips. Sweaty and hot and hard and desperate to be fucked.” I kiss him on his cheek. “But you get fucked when I say so, love.”

I lick the sweat from the nape of his neck and rut my slick cock against his backside again, and he’s trembling and turning a gorgeous shade of purple. “And I’m afraid you breathe when I say so, too,” I add. I kiss the back of his shoulder, and finally, I let go of his neck. And the exact instant I let go, I stuff the tip of my cock into his tight, tight opening.

Fuck!” he rasps, gasping and seizing and trembling all at once. And then, “Nggg, god,” as I slide further in, digging my fingernails into his hips. He garbles incoherently as I push into him halfway, and then he whines in pain as I rip myself back out.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” I utter.

“Yes,” he says under his breath.

“You like when it hurts, don’t you?” I surge forward again, pushing into his opening, and the way he cries out is all the answer I need.

“Would he hurt you as good as I do, pet?” I murmur. “Would your gorgeous detective bruise you like this, and scar you and make you bleed?” I rip my cock out once again and dig my fingernails into his hips, and he sharply inhales, arching backwards.

“No,” he replies.

I pause, dipping my head and sliding my tongue over the side of his neck, and down to his shoulder, and then I sink my teeth into the skin. Not hard. Not enough to break. But he feels it.

He bucks backwards again, and I think I can almost sense a sob in his voice.

“You should ask him to,” I whisper against his skin. “I’m sure he’d love it, mmm. Pinning you against the wall and bruising your naked body with his mouth. Leaving red scratches all over your back as you kiss so desperately that he’s got to clutch onto you, just to remember to breathe.”

I use one of my hands to spread open the cheeks of Watson’s arse. “But nothing—“ I put one finger in my mouth and slide my tongue over it, gathering saliva, and then I coat my stiff cock with the moisture. “Nothing would compare, I’m sure, to the way he’d fuck you.” I align my cock with his hole. “God, he’d fuck you well.”

Watson breathes steadily, pushing back into me, his arsehole puckered, begging to be entered.

But I don’t push in— not yet. “He’d fuck you softly at first, affectionately, like he cherishes you,” I say as I tenderly caress his arms. “He’d hold you close to him, and he’d kiss you over and over, and he’d tell you that you’re his whole entire life—“

At this, John whimpers softly with arousal.

I grin. “You’ve got it bad for him. You love him, don’t you?”

“I—“ he swallows the words, inhaling and exhaling laboriously, as though the thought pains him. “Just...just fuck me,” he orders. “Fuck me.

I swat his arse once more, leaving a red hand mark. “I told you, pet, I get to decide when you’re fucked.”

Watson groans lowly, his wanton body grinding uncontrollably into my hips. “What do I need to do?” he snarls. “You want me to beg?”

“Oh, not at all. Just answer my question honestly.”

He continues to move against me slowly. “What question?”

I lean into his ear once more. “You’re in love with Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you?”

Watson silently exhales.

“Tell me the truth,” I say, wrapping one hand around him to take his stiff, dripping cock into my hand. I stroke it luxuriously, and he groans, writhing against me.

“Fuck me,” he chants. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.”

I ignore him, swirling my tongue in his ear. I pick up the pace of my strokes on his cock, and I barely—just barely—nudge my tip into his arsehole.

“When you imagine him fucking you,” I murmur, “does he always start off slowly and tenderly, until his desire for you overtakes every cell in his body?” I squeeze his cock. “Then, does he fuck you like an animal? Does he slide into you and against you and wrap himself over you, his cock buried into you, his scent all around you, his voice low and hushed and desperate, the sound of his skin, slapping against your skin, filling the room?“

“Nnngh, fuck me!” Watson is panting and wriggling, pressing his opening against my cock, but I slide away from him.

Say it,” I insist.

Watson inhales deeply. “I love him,” he finally rumbles.

I reward him by piercing his body with my cock, sliding into him and splitting him in two, fucking him wildly and without restraint, and he actually yells at the sensation.

“Say it again.” I glide my hands up his neck, sliding my fingers over and clutching onto his hair, and I pull, hard.

“I love him,” Watson chokes out between helpless moans of pleasure. “I love Sherlock. God, I love him.”

As Watson repeats the words, I drill into him repeatedly, hard and fast and rough. “Yeah, that’s right, pet,” I moan. “You love him, and you’re so fucking good to him, aren’t you? You really would do anything for him. You’d even let a complete stranger blindfold you and fuck you, yeah? God, you’re a fucking whore for him, that’s what you are.”

I squeeze his neck, hard, and his breaths stop, but he doesn’t stop riding me, reckless and greedy for my cock, needing it more than air.

When I finally release his neck, he gasps, and I take his cock into my hand. He inhales sharply, and then he exhales, and with that breath comes a name: “Sherlock.” And with that name comes his climax—hot, sticky wetness pouring all over my fingers and wrist, over and over and over as I continue to fuck him, hard. Until I can feel myself coming, and I pull out of him, spurting my release onto the small of his pretty backside.

I lean into his ear and smile against his skin. “Actually,” I lie, “My name is Richard. Richard Brook. And I expect you’ll be seeing me around.” I reach into my pocket for the key to the shackles. “And don’t worry,” I reassure him. “For as long as I’m alive, Sherlock will be safe.”


Months later, I die with a gun in my mouth and my brains splattered onto the Bart’s rooftop.

The last image I see before the world fades to black is Sherlock Holmes’ expression of utter horror.  

The next thing I know, I’m floating and looking down at my corpse. Sherlock is phoning Watson from the edge of the rooftop, and he’s begging him to do something for him with tears in his voice. I glance down at Watson in the street. He gazes back up at Sherlock, arm outstretched, his eyes utterly wrecked with sadness.

Then, Sherlock Holmes falls.

But I’m already dead myself, so I suppose it’s really no longer my concern.