Chapter 5: Damn That Adrenaline

Miraculously, John realized from the floor, he wasn't unconscious. And his jaw, where Bond had got him on the first hit, might not even be broken. The epinephrine rush kicked in, and John got up. He had just enough time to glimpse Sherlock on the bed, now with his mouth taped shut and his hands and ankles zip-tied together behind his back—okay, so maybe John had been out cold for a minute or two—before something hit him in the back of the head, knocking him down again. "Stubborn, this doctor of yours," Bond remarked coolly to Sherlock.

John knew he might not look it, but he was a fighter. And he was in full fight mode now. Bond didn't even bother evading as John came back up from that second hit and tackled him, taking him to the floor.

Of course, John knew somewhere in the back of his mind, wrestling on the floor like this wasn't going to end in his favor. He managed to tuck his head at the last second to avoid a blood choke, but wound up with Bond's arm around his neck anyway. Air choke, John remembered from some long-ago training. He'd pass out in less than a minute. At least Bond wasn't at a convenient angle to snap his neck, he thought.

Under the circumstances, there was only one thing John could think to do. He groped downwards over Bond's naked body and grabbed him by the balls, squeezing brutally with all his strength.

Bond made a noise like a crazed laugh, and released John's neck. "You've got me," he admitted, though there was no trace of pain in his voice. "You win."

Lungs heaving, John let go and scrambled to his feet. Bond stayed on the floor, one hand cupped protectively over what John had just nearly crushed. In spite of all that, he was still completely hard. And, John realized, damn that adrenaline and all those other angry chemicals, Bond wasn't the only one.

"Well done John, I'm impressed," Irene exclaimed, which earned her an infuriated glare.

"What's the second camera for?" John demanded, still catching his breath. "The laptop has a camera on both sides. What's it for?"

Irene recovered quickly from her surprise. "…In my line of work, I sometimes find it useful to have eyes in the back of my head."

"And were you keeping those eyes on me, just now?"

Irene balked. She was caught out, and she knew it. "This is about Sherlock," she said, sighing. "I wanted to see him… like he is now… so exposed, so gorgeously helpless." Her eyes drifted back longingly to Sherlock, hog-tied on the bed, and John looked back too, suddenly remembering that he hadn't yet confirmed if Sherlock was all right.

You good? John asked with his face.

Sherlock met his gaze with an infuriated expression, and rolled his eyes in a dramatic huff. Oh I'm wonderful! Sarcasm intended, John almost heard in his head.

Right then. He turned back around.

"But that isn't enough for me," Irene continued in a melancholic voice. "And neither is plain old sex. Sherlock thought he'd ruin it all with his indifference. That's why I needed you, needed to see your reaction."

John's voice was colder and angrier than it had been in a long time. "And now you've seen it. Are we done?"

Irene laughed. "Oh, not remotely! Not if you still want my help finding a certain villain."

"I've an idea," Bond spoke up. "Sort of a compromise. You've been watching me play with Sherlock's body. You've seen how he reacts; it's a disaster. But I wonder how he'd behave if I were to play with something he actually cares about."

Irene gasped happily. "Make Sherlock the captive audience, instead of John?" she exclaimed. "Oh, he'll hate me forever for that!" It was the most enticing idea she'd ever heard of.

She riveted her hungry eyes on John.

"What, me?" John asked, curving a hand towards his chest. He turned and looked at Bond, who raised his chin a fraction of an inch and sent the subtlest little kiss back at John, looking so damn smug.

"James. Do it," Irene urged. Her eyes narrowed, cat-like and eager. "And make Sherlock watch every second."

Bond glanced at Sherlock and gave a dismissive little half-shrug. "He'll have a front-row seat," Bond guaranteed.

"Rrrrgh!" Sherlock commented through the tape over his mouth, and rolled his eyes again.

John turned inward for a moment, and thought. There was something here, some way out. He was right on the edge of it, and damn it all, he could figure this out. Sherlock doesn't care, he latched onto. Sherlock doesn't care. So neither should I. Irene's voice from earlier flashed in head. Sex, John. That's your answer. And then there was something Bond had said, just a few moments earlier—You win.

John's eyes darkened, and he looked Bond over from head to toe and back up, slowly. "Yeah," he said at last, and smiled. "Yeah, okay. That'll be just fine."

Their faces crashed together, and John brought his hands to the sides of Bond's head. The man tasted like alcohol and had a perfectly nice mouth for kissing, and preferences and orientation be damned, James Bond was sex and sex was not going to get the better of John Watson.

John ran his thumbs up over the man's ears and into that regulation haircut. I remember when mine was that short, John recalled, appreciating the feel of it under his hands. Immediately going for control of the situation, John pushed Bond onto the bed, both of them working to get John's clothes off.

"You like it when 'the woman' tells you what to do?" John muttered into Bond's ear. Bond smiled, thinking of M rather than Irene.

"I've been known to follow orders," Bond replied, nipping at John's neck now that his shirt was out of the way. "Occasionally."

"Then follow an order now. Let me be in charge." John followed that up with an enthusiastic kiss, which Bond returned.

"I think I outrank you, Captain," Bond said when his mouth was free. He sounded amused, which was a good sign. His hands were in John's pants, ensuring that John wouldn't be losing interest any time soon.

"And I think you take orders from Sherlock's baby brother," John reminded him, practicing that roll of his hips that he so rarely got to use.

"Hrrrm," Bond growled in his throat. "Let's not give a damn about rank, then."

"More fun to be unpredictable," John suggested. His pants were off now, and it was getting more difficult to think clearly, so he knew he had to make his move.

"I have a feeling you speak from experience," Bond guessed, hands working over John's bare skin now, starting with his shoulders and fuck that felt good; no wonder Sherlock's brain short-circuited earlier.

"Sorry to disappoint, but this is completely new territory," John said, taking advantage of his position to grind himself against the other man's groin. Bond drew his knees up automatically to make it easier for him, and let his head fall back.

"Yet you think you can handle it," Bond asked through half-closed eyes.

"Yes I do," John confirmed. "You could have killed me earlier but you let me win. Let me win again."

"Why should I?"

John leaned in and kissed his throat. "Because you'll enjoy it," he promised, and felt Bond chuckle in reply.

"You scared to take it up the arse?"

"That's the last thing I'm scared of," John said.

"What's the first thing?" Bond asked, all smirk.

John thought quickly. "That Sherlock will actually give these sheets to Mrs. Hudson to wash when we're done on them."

Bond laughed again. "Mrs. Hudson's the older gal I met at your door today."

"Our landlady," John confirmed.

"She's lovely," said Bond, with a conspiratorial twinkle in his eyes. "You know, I've a bit of a thing for old ladies."

"I'm not even surprised," John muttered back. "Tell me, is there anything you don't have a thing for?"

Bond looked backwards, up behind his head at Sherlock, who was still miserably tied up on the other end of the bed, up near the headboard. "Detectives, apparently," Bond said. Sherlock scowled at him, which made Bond grin as he looked back at John. "They bore me."

"How do you feel about ex-Army doctors?"

"I feel they should wear a condom," Bond said frankly. "Because I don't know where they've been."

"I was going to insist anyway," John said, relieved that this was working out so well. "Because I don't know where you haven't been."

"There are probably still a few places out there," Bond mused. He brought his head up and licked at the scar on John's shoulder. "Bullet," he identified. "How'd you catch it?"

"It was meant for the back of my head." John took a breath and risked a glance at Sherlock. He'd been trying to forget that Sherlock was there, but now the pressure of those pale eyes was too much to ignore. This was the first time he'd told the story, really. Beyond saying I got shot. John broke eye contact with Sherlock and looked back down at Bond. "But I flinched."

"Mmm," Bond hummed appreciatively. "Good move."

"Can I show you a better one?" John asked, and gave him a free preview.

"Please," Bond said with a slow smile. "Demonstrate."

"I knew I liked something about you," Bond purred up at John, one rough shuffle of clothes and condom and lube later. He had his legs up over John's shoulders; John was leaning into him, slippery and sweating and wondering when sex had turned into so much exercise. "You know how to get things done," Bond complimented him, arching his back and lifting his hips to be as accommodating as possible.

He winced as John found a satisfactory angle, and then smirked up at him. "You're sure you've never done this before?"

"And never going to do it again," John declared, panting. "Too much work. Girls are easier."

"I agree with you there," Bond said, raising an eyebrow.

"You are a dirty whore," John determined, moving slowly in, and in some more.

"So I've been told," Bond replied smoothly, gazing up at him with placid caribbean eyes.

"This what they train you for in the Secret Service?" John asked, pulling back halfway and sliding in again, quick and neat.

"Among other things." Bond shifted one more time, getting comfortable, and closed his eyes. "Mmhn. Fuck, Watson. Get to work."

"Yes sir," John replied, rocking forward as forcefully as he dared. This part was easy; it was automatic. And just tucking himself perfectly over and over into that slick tight heat of another person felt amazing.

Bond picked his head up once or twice, chin to his chest, muscles tightening everywhere.

"Good enough?" John asked offhand.

"Perfect," Bond answered, and then twisted his head to look back at Sherlock again. "Jealous yet?"

Sherlock delivered his most scathing glare, full of loathing and disdain, but Bond just chuckled and looked away. "I believe your flatmate is offended," he informed John.

"He's just sulking," John explained. "He'll get over it."

Bond breathed, involuntarily picked his head up again, abs contracting, and then forced himself to lay back and relax. "Mmhn. Not sure I will," he murmured.

"You trying to flatter me, James?" John asked. "Let me know where that gets you."

Bond tried to guide John's hand down onto his cock. "Hopefully it gets me at least this much."

But John pulled his hand away. "Do it yourself," he huffed, annoyed.

"Selfish." It was hard to tell if Bond was praising that attribute, dismissing it, or complaining about it. Either way, he was pouting beautifully—or at least, he was doing whatever passed for pouting with that amused, tight little mouth of his, watching John through half-closed eyes, his entire body daring John to move harder, to hurt him. Even on his back with his legs spread, he was dangerous, threatening to use John up and leave him quivering with each wet little smack of flesh on flesh.

"More," Bond whispered at last. "Come on." It was a challenge. Or a plea. Under the circumstances, John didn't give a fuck which one.

"Nope," he said simply, driving on at his own pace.

Anger flashed across Bond's face then, a brief visible symptom of the hot-headedness that had frequently promised to end his career. He wasn't accustomed to being denied what he wanted, especially in bed. And if John Watson really thought he was in control of their present situation, he was in for a rude awakening.

Bond would get what he needed, even if he had to take it by force—which in this case meant fighting ruthlessly for more friction, more pressure, more force. He tucked his legs up out of the way and grabbed John by the hips, pulling him forward, slamming him in whether John wanted it or not.

John knew instantly that there was no point in trying to escape; even being on top as he was, Bond's grip on him was so strong John knew he wouldn't be able to pull away enough to get clear of that rock-hard body. With nothing to do except hold on, John's thoughts quickly sped from oh yes to too rough, ow! and then right through to ohgod stop—and he came so suddenly he didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of containing his reaction.

It was more beautifully violent than anything Irene had seen in a long time, probably because it was so raw, so unprepared for. In Irene's experience, most people needed asphyxiation or electrostimulation to get their body to shudder like that; and as for that delicious whimper of his, Irene knew she'd be treasuring that sound in her audio-memory forever, specially reserved for any time she needed a little help getting off herself.

Bond grumbled disapprovingly as he wrung the last trembles of climax out of John's body, and then reluctantly let him go. John dropped onto the bed, spent, struggling to find his way back to the real world, while Bond looked over at Irene, awaiting further instructions.

She didn't keep him waiting for long. "James, slap his face," she commanded, her icy voice bringing John around. He propped himself up on his elbow and turned his head to look at her, scandalized. Bond blinked a few times. "He finished too soon," Irene declared with a sigh. "I'm angry at him. Slap him for me."

Bond made an is-this-really-necessary face, then looked at John, chillingly resolute. "You could have been a bit more accommodating," Bond remarked, and made sure his palm made a loud crack as it swiped across John's cheek.

"Ah—what!" John cried out, startled more than hurt, but with his eyes tearing up from the sting.

"Compliments of her majesty's secret service," Bond murmured as John glared at him, bright red handprint surfacing on his face.

That little dollop of punishment seemed to soften Irene's attitude, because her voice and demeanor shifted, becoming somewhat consolatory. "That was exquisite, John," she complimented. "Once again, I'm impressed."

"You said you were angry," John accused, rubbing his cheek.

"Can't I be both? And I wonder what our dear detective thought of your performance—shall we ask him?" She gave the still bound-and-gagged Sherlock a vicious look, which Sherlock met with a steady gaze. "Hhm," Irene pouted. "He seems so…unaffected. Such a pity."

John couldn't bring himself to acknowledge Sherlock's presence. "Look, is this little porn show over, or what?" he demanded. "Because I'd like to go clean up, if that's all right by you."

"Oh, go on," Irene said, shooing him away. "I need a minute with James, anyway."

As soon as John had gathered his clothes and shuffled out of the room, Bond smirked at the laptop. "Did you get what you needed?" he asked.

"No, not yet," said the woman on the screen. "I still want you to bring Sherlock off as nicely as you did John. Why don't you try—"

"Wasn't talking to you," Bond said smoothly, cutting her off, and a new box popped up on the laptop screen, displaying the text:

YES, got everything. Please untie my brother and take a shower.

It took her a minute—she couldn't see the new dialogue box from her end, but she saw Bond's eyes flick as if reading a line of text, and all of a sudden she realized what had happened. Her face went white, her eyes aflame. She'd been played. Betrayed. They'd wanted her laptop all along; the one on her end, that she'd been watching on. So they'd hacked the laptop that she'd given to John, and through it, hacked the video link back to Irene's.

"Just tell me one thing," Irene said, swallowing. "Who is he? On your side. Your friend in the car from earlier today; your hacker. I'll need a bargaining chip—give me something."

"Tell you what," Bond offered. "You put on your best frock and meet me somewhere for dinner. After that, we'll find a nice hotel and I'll let you try your very best to persuade me to 'give you something'."

Irene's face was a mask of horror and fury, hot with the promise of vengeance as Bond closed the screen, flipped the laptop upside down and extracted the battery from it.

He then scanned the room, requisitioned one of Sherlock's pillowcases for use as a towel, and finally, almost as an afterthought, he cut the zip-ties from Sherlock's wrists and ankles.

Sherlock wasted no time pulling the tape off his mouth. "So that's what happens when a misogynist meets a dominatrix."

"Yes, someone gets fucked," Bond mused, gathering up his suit.

"Usually not you, though." Sherlock pursed his lips, as if unsure whether to continue with what he'd been planning to say.

"Wondering why John got the special privilege then? Don't bother. Q needed time, and I figured Watson would cooperate if given the chance. Better him than you; Irene's obsession with you was beginning to be a bit of a turn-off anyway."

"Pardon the idiom, but 'the woman' isn't going to take this lying down," Sherlock warned.

Bond quirked an eyebrow. "Oh, I'm sure she'll take it any number of ways," he quipped. "That's what I like about her. And, no, I see what you're thinking. For the record, I don't actually hate women."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "A claim which is about as relevant as the fact that John isn't gay."

"Hm," Bond smiled faintly at that, as of course John returned to the room, cheek still red where he'd been slapped, and once again the only one in the room wearing clothes.

John looked back and forth between Sherlock and Bond, noted the weirdly pleased smile on Sherlock's face, and the laptop separated from its battery on the bed.

John sighed. "All right, what did I miss?"

Suit over his arm, Bond moved past John out into the hall, giving him a comradely pat on the shoulder as he left.

"…Well?" John asked Sherlock, after they were alone for a handful of seconds. Down the hall, there was the sound of the shower turning on.

Sherlock took a breath, and stretched one long arm across his chest, stretching his shoulder. "Congratulations, John, you've just been an unwitting pawn in one of the most scandalous information heists in the history of espionage."

"…I what?"

"And, as such, I suppose you've earned the right to a full explanation," Sherlock continued, sounding bored, stretching his other shoulder now.

"I bloody well hope so," John huffed.

Sherlock smiled at him again, and tipped his head side to side, stretching his neck. "Apparently MI6 had a need of something stored on Miss Adler's personal laptop."

"This laptop?" John asked, pointing at it.

"No, the one on her end. But, because this one was conveniently connected to that one, by way of a live video feed, a certain person was able to hack this device and ride the wireless highway directly into the jackpot."

"…Your brother," John realized, and then his face clouded. "But hold on; this video business was Irene's idea in the first place. How'd your brother even know about it?"

"Simple," Sherlock said. "I suspect Bond wrote him a note, and stuffed it in his shirt when he tossed him out of the flat. Remember?"

John did recall something about Bond man-handling the youngest Holmes; shoving him out the door. A text or a call might have been intercepted, even from the most encrypted phone, and the flat was definitely under surveillance so a conversation might have been overheard—but a hand written note would have been foolproof. John shook his head. "Incredible," he remarked, thoroughly awed.

"You aren't upset? James Bond did just use you, you know, to keep Irene distracted while my brother did his work."

John made a that-may-be-so face, and swung his head side to side. "Yeah, well, I've been used plenty of worse ways than that. And at least you didn't get raped just now, I don't think. I mean, did you?"

"No."

"Good."

They stared at each other for a minute, until Bond reappeared in the doorway, hair wet and half-dressed. "You two finished making out in here?" he asked casually, buttoning up his shirt. John rolled his eyes up and to the left; Sherlock rolled his eyes up and to the right. The corner of Bond's mouth twitched in a little expression of 'ugh'. "Q's got a location for Moriarty, says he's in the city."

"Ah," Sherlock said brightly, clapping his hands together. "Well, in that case, I wish you a successful assassination. Goodbye."

"You're to come along," Bond informed him. "Orders."

"If Sherlock's going, I'm coming too," said John.

Bond looked at him up and down, cocked his head. "Thought you came already."

"Oh, ha ha. If I was about thirteen that'd be hilarious."

"You have a gun," Bond stated rather than asked, blinking as he changed the subject.

"Upstairs, yes," John admitted.

"Bring it. Might be useful."

Bond turned his attention back to Sherlock, and his face twitched in impatience. "I did say, in the city," he snapped.

Sherlock sighed and finally swung his legs over the edge of the bed, so he could reach down and find his clothes. "And you expect me to associate proximity with urgency, I presume?"

"No, I expect you to associate urgency with the unchecked havoc of a super-criminal cyber-terrorist," Bond retorted. "Irene's probably already warned him that we're on our way. We'll be lucky to get there before the trail goes cold." He looked down at his phone, then back up. "Q's outside with the car. Let's go."

"Is my brother going with us?" Sherlock asked, scrunching up his face in annoyance.

"Yes, it appears we're now a four-man team. Detective, hacker, soldier, spy. Very John le Carré."

Sherlock looked confused. "Sounds familiar…where have I heard that?"

"Movie. Based on a spy novel," John informed him, ever his flatmate's resource for the interpretation of media and pop-culture references.

"You boys ready yet?" Bond asked.

Sherlock was just slipping on his shoes. "Lead on," he said, and looked to John, who found that Bond was looking at him too.

John took a breath. "Right. Guess I'll get my gun."

A/N: to be continued, of course.

Confession time: what the heck is it called when you kiss the air in a person's direction? Not "blowing a kiss", that involves kissing your hand and blowing it, I mean the one where you just make the little kiss-motion with your lips while making eye contact with the intended recipient. I don't know why, but that's one of the most provocative things I can think of. And the mental imagine of James Bond making that aggressive little kiss motion, directed at John Watson, is what actually got me onto this whole bondlock kick in the first place.

Sorry this chapter was so long!