John winces and tamps down the “Guys, be careful” that wants to bubble up in his throat. Mrs. Hudson is away for the weekend; they wouldn’t have scheduled this for any time when she were in the flat. So they can be as loud as they want. He swallows, leaning back against the door where he’s closed it behind the three of them to watch.

Sherlock and Mary are grappling in the cramped space in between the bed and dresser. Sherlock is taller, but Mary is (surprisingly) stronger and (unsurprisingly) better trained, and Sherlock is losing.

But then, Sherlock always loses. It’s difficult to tell if this is because Mary is genuinely the better fighter, or if Sherlock is simply eager to get on with things. Perhaps it doesn’t matter.

He certainly isn’t going easily, though, John recognizes as he watches Sherlock attempt to throw a punch only to have his entire arm captured. Sherlock never holds back, not when it’s Mary. It’s why she’s the one socking him in the stomach and then wrestling him to the ground with his hands behind his back, and John is the one watching with an erection pressing insistently against the inside of his trousers.

Mary has zip ties in her pocket, and once Sherlock is on the ground, she quickly secures his wrists together. They dig cruelly into the flesh, but John forces himself to look away from the welts forming on Sherlock’s wrists and back to his face; mashed into the carpet, distorted, aroused, gorgeous.

“Hmm,” Mary hums, low and dangerous. “You’re going to want to start settling down, now, or this is going to go badly for you.”

Sherlock’s cheek will have the imprint of carpet fibres on it. The skin of his face is weirdly distorted as he mutters, “Judging by the ropes, lubricant, and my evident lack of influence in their application, it seems that this is going to go badly for me in any case.”

Mary laughs and hauls him up, throwing him bodily onto the bed. Sherlock allows himself to fall backwards onto the mattress, but once he’s there he makes her work for it; thrashing and kicking despite his hands being useless and the awkward angle of his shoulders.

John steps forward to help, but Mary shakes her head. “Your job is to fuck him,” she says sharply, “And mine is to handle him.”

Oh god. John steps back, his erection now definitely too uncomfortable to remain clothed. Sherlock looks feral, and the idea of being able to claim this wild creature makes John weak in the knees. Luckily, Mary has trapped Sherlock’s legs beneath her own and is undoing the button and zip on his trousers and starting to yank them down his legs, so John doesn’t feel too alone when he steps pulls off his own trousers and pants. Sherlock allows himself to be undressed, but redoubles his efforts to kick Mary off the instant his lower body is naked. He catches Mary with a solid kick in the side, but she doesn’t seem to mind. John follows her movements for a moment– clearly not in too much pain, just a bruise, not anything broken, of course Sherlock wouldn’t have broken anything– before returning his eyes to Sherlock.

Mary gets on top of him and captures his thighs again, and Sherlock’s cock is visible in between her legs: hard, curved up and slightly to the right to press against his belly as he lies back in the early stages of his inevitable defeat.

Mary places on knee on Sherlock’s sternum, and even the pain of a light press to his chest is enough to keep him in line. She leans back on the other knee to capture one long, half-heartedly kicking leg and force him to bend it at the knee until she can wrap the rope around his thigh and calf together. They’re tight, John can see the rope digging in and pulling at the delicate skin, but Mary just snarls “Keep this up and the next one will hurt more.”

Sherlock doesn’t stop, but he doesn’t escalate– not much for him to do, anyway, with his hands behind his back and one leg already bound. Mary yanks his other leg up roughly and ties it calf-to-thigh, giving the rope another pass around the bound limbs and typing it tight. Sherlock whimpers, eyes screwed up in pain, and Mary grins and climbs off.

Sherlock is entirely bound and helpless now, and John finishes yanking off his shirt, feeling flushed and nearly beside himself with lust. Mary climbs off, stepping back to present Sherlock to John like an offering. John climbs onto the bed.

“So gorgeous,” he mutters, running a hand up Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock snaps his legs together, but it’s the only movement he’s capable of, and John only brushes his hot, dripping cock with the back of his fingers before traveling up Sherlock’s chest. He’s still wearing a shirt, but the hardness of his nipples is evident even through the fabric, so John pinches them one after the other and watches Sherlock arch up off the bed and whine.

Their eyes meet, and John can’t help but smile fondly a little. He quickly schools his expression back into something possessive and imperious, but Sherlock noticed, and as if in answer, or in reassurance, he sinks back into the mattress and relaxes a little. John turns to Mary and says, “Get the rest off of him,” and steps back.

Mary steps in with scissors, and easily pushes Sherlock over until he’s lying on his front. She holds down his wrists with one hand as she cuts the zip tie, but it’s unnecessary; Sherlock lets her pull off his shirt with minimal struggle. She tosses it to the side, then pushes on his shoulders to get him back on his back.

Sherlock glances up at Mary above him, and even from across the room John can see the reverence in his eyes.

John hasn’t hit Sherlock since that day at the morgue, and he doubts he ever will. Sherlock is too precious, and John has hurt him too much already. But after taking a bullet and nearly dying for him, Mary has no such hangups, and Sherlock adores her for it.

That part of the proceedings is done now, though. Mary cups Sherlock’s face, his eyes closing in bliss when she says, “I see you’re ready to be good for me now. Let’s get you ready for John, then.”

Sherlock nods, and his unwieldy bound legs spread minutely. Mary scrambles over to the bedside table and takes the tube of lube. She beckons John over and pours a dollop in his hand, gesturing for John to touch himself. He gladly complies, perching on the edge of the bed to watch what Mary is doing to Sherlock as he takes himself in hand.

Mary is efficient, almost clinical as she coats her index finger with slick and trails it down from Sherlock’s balls, over his perineum, to his hole. She doesn’t tease, just slips it in firmly, and John’s arse clenches in sympathetic arousal at the sight of her slim digit disappearing inside him and the tiny, almost surprised moan that it draws from Sherlock. He can’t tear his eyes away from the movement of her hand, the way Sherlock’s muscles clench with each gentle thrust, the way they’re shortly going to be clenching around him.

“I want to see you take his cock nicely,” Mary murmurs after a while. “No struggling. Can you do that for me?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer, and Mary chooses that moment to add a second finger. She twists the two fingers around each other, visibly stretching Sherlock’s hole, and he moans and arches off the bed. John tries not to speed up the strokes on his own cock, but it’s becoming bloody difficult with this tableau laid out before him.

Mary tuts, fingers moving quickly now. “Apparently not,” she says. She withdraws unceremoniously, looking down at Sherlock critically, like an inconvenient pet that she needs to decide what to do with.

She clambers back overtop of his head, then says sharply, “Arms.” Sherlock raises them, his delicate hands coming to rest in a T shape above his head. Mary nods, businesslike, then grabs his shoulders and pushes him down into the mattress.

“Come fuck him hard,” she says to John. “I’ll keep him still for you.”

There’s no way John could ignore any order from her when it’s issued in that tone– let alone the order to sink his aching cock into the stunning, powerless Sherlock Holmes. He climbs back up on the bed fully, meeting Mary’s eyes and grinning at her, letting her see his arousal and anticipation. She’s stony-faced and vicious, which is a pretty good indicator that she’s also so aroused as to be soaking through her panties.

John presses Sherlock’s knees back, which under the circumstances has the effect of tipping his entire pelvis up slightly. John lines up his cock, teasing at the entrance, and Sherlock moans and wriggles as much as he is able, which makes John’s member slip off to the side slightly.

Mary lets go of one shoulder to slap his cheek, lightly, like swatting a child’s hand away from a plate of cookies. “Still,” she says, and Sherlock obeys.

John sinks in to the hilt, and the tightness and heat is so sudden and so good it’s nearly painful. He slumps forward until his head is resting on Mary’s shoulder, where he can smell cinnamon and antiseptic and sweat, waiting to gain some sort of basic control over his body. He can feel Sherlock practically vibrating around him and underneath him, the movement dampened by the ropes binding his legs and the hands pushing down on his shoulders.

Sherlock finally moans breathily, and Mary glances down at him; for a moment John thinks she’s going to hit him again, but instead she pushes John gently upright. “Alright, take pity on the poor thing,” she murmurs.

John huffs a laugh, but can’t disguise the shiver the phrase sends through him: poor thing. He loves Sherlock like this; God, he loves him. John starts to move, slowly, the slick drag of his cock catching on the outer ring of muscle like Sherlock’s body wants to keep him inside once he’s there.

John could keep making love to the exquisite creature underneath him for quite a while, but Mary apparently has other plans. “Too easy,” she growls. “Make him take it. Come on.” She shifts back so that she’s bracing Sherlock more than holding him down, pushing forward slightly on the tops of his shoulders. Readying him to be brutally fucked. Sherlock’s head is tipped back and his eyes are closed, like he’s both checked-out and, in some more important ways, completely present.

John grabs his hips and starts pummeling into him. Mary meets him; she pushes Sherlock forward slightly with every thrust, so that it’s more like he’s being tossed between them, a shared object of use and pleasure and worship, than just John fucking him. It’s transcendent, and John never wants it to end.

But he can only take so long of quick tight wet heat, staring into Mary’s eyes while the two of them utterly control Sherlock, before the pleasure overtakes him. John grabs on to Sherlock’s thighs hard enough to bruise as his orgasm approaches, hard enough that Sherlock’s eyes fly open at the sensation. Mary lets go of his shoulders entirely to hold his head, running manicured fingers through sweat-matted curls and leaning down to murmur in his ear. John hears … taking it so well, you made John feel so good, I’m so proud of you before he doesn’t hear anything at all, because he’s coming so hard the rest of the world seems to blur and distort.

Mary is holding him up again when John regains the power of thought and speech, and he glances down at Sherlock lying trapped underneath the two of them.

He’s sweaty and wrecked and gorgeous. “My legs hurt,” Sherlock says plaintively.

John licks his lips, considering. Sherlock won’t ask again if John wants him to stay tied up, but he also wouldn’t have mentioned it unless the pain were tipping over into the unsexy kind. “Alright,” says John gruffly, pushing himself up and back to reach for the ropes. “I’ll untie you, but you’re going to stay right where you are. And you’re not getting yours until you’ve thanked Mary properly for holding you still.” Sherlock nods eagerly.

John works the knots loose and gently helps Sherlock extend his long legs fully. Once he’s laid out on the bed– still hard, but docile and pliant as always after a good fuck– Sherlock tips his chin up slightly, his lips parted.

John lies down on the mattress beside Sherlock, his head beside Sherlock’s belly, so he can watch Mary stripping and positioning herself above Sherlock’s mouth. John can’t resist reaching up and trailing a finger over her wetness, causing Mary to gasp at the unexpected sensation and Sherlock to turn his head, pouting.

“Sorry, love,” John smirks at him. “All yours.”

Mary lowers herself down, and Sherlock extends his tongue up obscenely, and John can’t help but grin when Sherlock has Mary gasping and grinding helplessly into his face in a matter of minutes.

For a man who still resolutely insists that women are not his area of expertise, Sherlock had picked up the knack of cunnilingus extremely quickly. Mary had been uneasy with it at first, and had made floundering attempts to address it– you know you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, right, Sherlock?-- enough times that one evening he had simply raised his head in the middle of the act, mouth slick, and snapped “Do you trust your not-gay husband to be capable of choosing whether he would like to suck my cock? Could you, then, extend me the same courtesy?”

It turns out there are very few sexual acts Sherlock won’t enthusiastically partake in, especially when presented with a veneer of being forced. A specialty in which Mary excels.

If John hadn’t just had a spectacular orgasm, the sight of Sherlock being practically smothered in Mary’s pursuit of pleasure would have him hard again. As it is, Sherlock’s is the agonizingly neglected cock, and John takes pity on him even as Sherlock works his tongue dutifully in and out of Mary’s entrance. Grabbing a fresh fistful of lube, John reaches over to touch him.

He starts by circling his fingers around Sherlock’s hole, where John’s come is still oozing obscenely down his cheeks and onto the sheets. Sherlock jumps a little when he makes contact, his breathing almost hitching but not quite able to in his current position. Mary laughs at his exertion, but it’s a desperate, broken sound, and John smiles: because even having been beaten and tied up and held down and taken, Sherlock can still get the upper hand in this one last way. Mary is absolutely frantic, and it is Sherlock’s doing.

Mary grabs onto Sherlock’s hair and tugs as she comes– first pushing him into her body, then abruptly pulling him off. John lets his fingertips start sliding lightly up and down Sherlock’s cock teasingly as he watches her, glowing, transcendently beautiful in the throes of pleasure, until she finally sighs and collapses back to sit above Sherlock again, pulling his head into her lap as she relaxes back against the headboard contentedly.

Sherlock nuzzles his head back in between her legs, regardless of the fact that he’ll probably end up with her wetness in his hair, staring up at her as if for permission.

Actually for permission, as it turns out. “You did so well,” she croons, hands immediately stroking through his hair. She glances down at John, and says, “You can make him come now.”

John immediately takes Sherlock’s member in hand properly, firmy, and Sherlock practically curls up with long-delayed pleasure. Mary smooths a hand down his cheek and neck to his chest, making small soothing sounds and rubbing at his nipples.

John just watches Sherlock’s face. His eyes are open now, flickering between Mary and John but languidly, with no observation or judgement at all behind his gaze. He’s simply accepting them, taking everything the two of them can give him.

Mary can give him fear and struggle and submission, and then tenderness and reassurance and safety. And John can give him– well, what John’s always had to give him, the only thing that he really has. Just devotion.

John leans down to take Sherlock in his mouth as he feels his thighs clenching towards orgasm– because Sherlock likes to be inside John’s body, and also because Sherlock is a spoiled brat who refuses to sleep on a wet spot, so it’s easier to just avoid creating one in the first place.

After, there is just silence, the kind of silence that is all the quieter for three pairs of lungs drawing in air.

Eventually John gets a flannel, gives all three of them a perfunctory wipe with it. He sits back down on the bed to run his fingers over the rope burns on Sherlock’s legs, partway between sensual and medical interest. They’re bright pink, with flecks of deeper red where the grain of the rope caught on his skin. It’s strangely pretty. “You really did a number on him,” he comments to Mary.

She smiles, sharp-toothed, and gives the languid Sherlock a gentle kiss on the forehead. “That little shit deserved it.”

Sherlock just snuggles backwards into Mary’s body, clearly too sated and sleepy to comment. John flicks off the light and lies down. “He did,” he agrees, slinging an arm over the bodies of his two lovers. You both deserve everything you ever wanted, he doesn’t say out loud, and maybe I do, too. And we can spend the rest of our lives giving it to each other.