Obedience

by thedogsofdoomarehowlingmore

Summary:

Sherlock, who has become accustomed to ignoring sexual need before, suddenly finds himself with completely irrepressible submissive fantasies. He decides to admit them to John, seeing little point in wasting his energies in suppressing something so nagging. The good doctor, surprised to find himself turned on by the idea, agrees to assist Sherlock with what he needs. This is a love story buried in near-plotless kinky smut.

Notes:

This story is also posted on fanfiction.net. I will update this story until I've caught up to where I am on that site, and then I will update both sites at my convenience.

I have some small amount of experience with BDSM, so I hope this story maintains at least a bit of realism, but who knows. I'm a babbler. I may just babble in this story and have it suddenly turn out as a bunch of gibberish! Seems likely.

Chapter 1: The First Step

Sherlock's fantasy for total submission had been an intense discovery.

It had come to Sherlock first when John, former army doctor, had pulled rank during their case at Baskerville. At the moment in question, Sherlock had felt himself grow mildly hard. He had shaken it off with a deep breath and filed the indiscretion away into a dark corner of his mind, feeling irritated by the momentary distraction.

The desire never left him. It itched at the back of his mind like a bug under his skin, like the craving he used to get before he’d honed his detective skills, the cravings for something to ease his mind, like cocaine. It was weeks of this; weeks of glancing up to see John’s eyes on him and immediately feeling the urge to be taken suddenly and roughly.

Maybe three weeks after his initial fantasy, his mind began to escalate. He had a most peculiar dream one night. It had been the first good night’s sleep he’d gotten in over a week, and he was crawling deep in his unconscious when he finally passed out, fully clothed, upon his bed. In Sherlock’s mind, John was standing over him. Sherlock lay asleep in his bed, apparently more unconscious than a normal person should be, and John began to touch him. He moaned in his sleep. He begged for more. John began to hit him, over and over again. Sherlock’s face split in two and he had a fierce orgasm as his own body tore into pieces.

Sherlock awoke from that dream in a violent sweat, and with a maddening erection, which he ignored.

For weeks after that, he found his mind wandering. Mid case he’d imagine John’s strong arm tight on his throat, or gripping a belt against his skin. He noticed himself pushing his friend's buttons, trying to get him to take charge again, or to look at him the way dream-John looked at him. It never seemed to work. John was too passive, too quick to bite his tongue at Sherlock's daring quips and glares.

Professionally, Sherlock was as extroverted and dominant as could be, and never listened to John, so that made sense. At home, however, when there was no case to be had, sometimes all he wanted was to have John yell at him, hurt him, and possess him in any way possible. He didn't just want it-- he started craving it.

Another dream took him, some weeks later. John had him tied up with his legs spread wide, whipping him mercilessly for hours before fucking him into impossible thoughtlessness. He went mad as he lay there, screaming and sobbing and morphing into some kind of weird animal—some weird, happy, placated animal.

Sherlock had lived nearly his whole life without a physical desire like this, and suddenly he could not repress the need.

A morning came when he found his thoughts drifting towards that fantasy again, while they were out at a crime scene. He was kneeling over a bloodied corpse, and suddenly it hit him. He actually forgot what he was doing for a moment. He cursed, furious with himself for experiencing this level of distraction. He had been in the process of explaining an obvious deduction to his simpler-minded friends when he had glanced at John. A terrible idea, he realized. The doctor's eyes were alight with admiration, and a surprising flame erupted in the pit of Sherlock's stomach. A flash from his dreams came to him suddenly—John's sweat-drenched chest, pulling his arm back to deal another blow to Sherlock’s desperate skin.

Sherlock swallowed, having completely lost his train of thought. The fantasy image was sticking. Not good. Very not good. John stared at him concernedly. "Sherlock?"

"Er..." He cleared his throat, and with a fantastic rush and a sigh of relief, it all came back to him. Thank goodness. "Yes. Right." He switched back into deduction mode, and let the explanations fall quickly as he repressed his threatening erection.

That evening, when the case was solved and the two men had nothing to work on, Sherlock's mind wandered back to his cravings. John was seated in his armchair, and Sherlock was standing by the desk, tapping his fingers on its surface thoughtfully. John looked stunning. Masterful. His arms were thick with muscle never lost from Afghanistan, and his chest was hard. His legs were strong. He looked a real captain, Sherlock thought, even just sitting there, drinking tea with his brow furrowed.

Then, with a breath of hesitation, Sherlock spoke.

"John," he said in a low warning voice.

"Mm?" John sipped his tea quietly. So unsuspecting.

"I have this fantasy, John."

“Er… okay.” John went pink. Sherlock wondered if he thought it was about him. He must. Why else would he be blushing so fiercely Was this a good reaction? One of fear and dread? He could not tell. There was only one way to know.

“It is a fantasy that you will control me, John.”

The doctor coughed and sputtered, setting his teacup down with trembling fingers that fumbled as though unsure of what to do with themselves. "Er... what?!" Excuse me?" He wiped his chin free of spilt tea.

Sherlock approached John's armchair, looking ominous as he hovered over the crimson man. "You heard me perfectly, John." He smoothed out his shirt, and placed his hands on his hips, trying to appear serious. He witnessed John's pupils dilate a little, and heard his breath hitch. Those were good signs, at least. "Since Baskerville I cannot stop re-envisioning the way you pulled rank on the men there, taking charge like that."  At the very thought, Sherlock's mouth began to water. "You are quite captivating that way. I started imagining what you could do as a superior officer. Then I started imagining you as… my superior officer. I imagined myself calling you 'Sir,' and I found myself... surprisingly excited by that."

John stood suddenly, a little clumsily as though he didn’t know what to do with his limbs. He seemed a little dazed. "Er... I didn't... I had no idea." He swallowed. "I didn't even know that you had... feelings... like that. For me, or... even... at all!"

"Neither did I," Sherlock admitted with a slight shift in his stance. "Since these feelings have come up, however, I have decided not to chaff them. There is little point to being dishonest or secretive, after all. It only distracts from the outcome and the work, which it has already begun to do. I thought it best that I put this desire out in the open so I might return to my normal state of affairs without the constant nagging fantasies."

The doctor's face was turning magnificent hues. He was bordering on violet. "Oh," he said lamely. "Sherlock, this is..."

"Unexpected," Sherlock offered.

"Well, yeah."

"Unwanted?"

John looked uncomfortable. "Not... necessarily." Sherlock straightened his posture a little, giving his shorter friend an insufferably contemplative glare, attempting to deduce what he could from him.

"Tell me," said Sherlock, slipping as close to his friend as possible. He wanted to push him to the edge, to test his limits and see what would make him tick. This, already, was making John's heart rate increase. Sherlock could infer it simply from this closeness. His pupils were blown wide, and the sight made Sherlock smirk. "In what way is this not unwanted? I want to know, John. I want to know everything." He made his voice as low and husky as could be.

His friend opened his mouth, but nothing came out. A very good sign. He cleared his throat, and then tried again. "I... god, Sherlock, I... I've always thought you... y'know..." He swallowed. “I… I mean, I’ve had thoughts of… I do have a thing for domination, but it’s never… I mean, I’ve never… I’ve only read, and seen, but I… but for you… Jesus, I never would have thought…”

Sherlock's eyes flitted to John's mouth as he spoke, the longing in his gut building faster with every word. "Tell me. Please," he growled, leaning intimidating close to his friend with the hope that John would claim him. "Tell me what you want from me."

John didn't seem to have a verbal response. An inhuman sound escaped his throat, and he moved forward, catching Sherlock's mouth hungrily in his own for their first kiss.

The detective melted.

He knew, then; he knew what his body was really meant for. He felt his power leave him at this simple gesture. His mind went blank, and that was when he realized he was simply made to serve this man, to be used and owned by John completely. He accepted the doctor's tongue openly. His entire stance was emanating submission, and he hoped that John would catch on. Indeed, John took his face in his hands, and pressed him close, his fingers telling plainly that he wanted the control as much as Sherlock wanted him to have it. Through that touch, Sherlock could feel John's elevated pulse, and that excited him. John's tongue had dominance in Sherlock's willing mouth. The detective's body was reacting to all this--reacting in new and exciting ways.

"What would you do for me?" John asked in a low whisper into Sherlock's parted lips.

"Anything," Sherlock croaked. "You may hurt me. Own me. I'll be yours." His eyes gleamed.

John gulped. "You want me to hurt you?"

"Pain would always be most appreciated; yes."

John’s breathing was heavier than ever.

"You are serious," John said quietly, all things seeming to click in his mind at last. "You really want me... to hurt you."

Sherlock nodded once. "I do. I imagine you'd be good at it. I have thought about suffering pain since the case of The Woman, you see. Then, at Baskerville, you outdid yourself by pulling dominant rank. The two incidents seemed to mesh in my mind, and I have barely been unable to shake the thought of enjoying pain at your hand."

He narrowed his eyes, holding his ground on the subject. His voice dropped to its deepest and most desperate baritone. "I wish to be hurt by you, John. I wish to become yours. Please. Hurt me. You’ll find I have a remarkably high pain threshold." His gaze was begging silently.

Sweet, hesitant John let his fingers slide into Sherlock's hair, took a fistful of the curls into his palm, and tugged gently. Sherlock closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply.

"Oh, much harder than that, John," he said gently, and the tremor of his voice held the perfect balance of submission and insistence. The man knew how to get what he wanted.

John’s grip tightened, and he then pulled hard so Sherlock's head was forced back. His throat was completely exposed, vulnerable and wanting. He could feel John's hot breath on the soft spot beneath his chin, and it was sending shivers down his spine. The twinge on his scalp felt wonderful. He wanted more. He emitted a small murmur of approval to encourage John to continue, and his doctor understood.

John's tongue was hot and wet on his neck. He licked the length of it from collar to chin, and Sherlock clung to John's sleeves with a gasp as excitement flooded him. "So," John sighed against his skin. "So... you want to submit to me." It was a statement, and there was enough lust in the tone that Sherlock could tell John was not at all averse to this idea. Sherlock swallowed, and nodded almost imperceptibly. "You want me to... own your body, do you?" He pressed his lips to the nape of Sherlock's neck, and the detective's breath caught.

A rush of warm need flooded him, pooling in his lower belly. "John, I will be yours," he blurted out before he could stop himself. His fantasies were crowding his brain, and he didn't quite care about taking this slowly anymore. He dropped to his knees with a shocking thud that reverberated in the sitting room.

"Shit," John swore, looking mortified. "Sherlock, not here."

But Sherlock's hands were fumbling with his friend's belt already. John's trousers were tight over his cock, which was aching, begging release towards Sherlock's face. "Please," he breathed.

John suddenly took him by the hair, and tore him away from his crotch. Sherlock stumbled backwards to the floor, looking up at his sweet army doctor with curious eyes, deducing his next actions. John would go for the shirt collar next. And he did. John bent to take Sherlock's shirt collar in his fist, and tugged him upward so their faces were close. "I said, 'not here,' Sherlock. Don't you listen?" His tone was dangerous, and Sherlock loved it. He grinned mischievously up at him, watching his friend carefully, waiting for the next move. With his free hand, John began to slide his undone belt from its loops, and clutched it threateningly in his hand. His breath had grown heavily into a state of panting. Sherlock licked his lips at the sight.

"Yes, Sir," Sherlock said a little weakly.

John growled. "Ooh, I like that," he muttered. "God, Sherlock, this is so..."

"Perfect," Sherlock hissed.

"Yes. Surprisingly natural." John's hand tightened at the already-tight collar at Sherlock's throat so that his breathing was slightly restricted. He watched Sherlock's cheeks turn pink and his breathing pick up as he struggled a bit for his air. At the same time, the corners of Sherlock's lips curled up in a satisfied grin. John's groin felt an eager pulse at this.

Sherlock placed a large, spidery hand on John's.

"You always said breathing was boring, didn't you?" John squinted. Sherlock arched with longing, nodding but not saying a word. The submissive detective's eyes were gleaming. "I may want to play with that some time, then, if you’ll let me. Go to your bedroom."

Sherlock made to stand up, but John kept him down with a forceful hand. "No," he said, and Sherlock stared at him with wide eyes. This he had not expected, but he certainly was loving it. John's dominance--that was what he wanted. But what was he playing at? He let go of Sherlock's shirt collar so the kneeling man breathed deep again. John put up his hand in a gesture that told him quite plainly Stay. Like a dog. That thought made Sherlock's stomach churn with arousal. "Crawl," he ordered. Sherlock smirked to himself. He could tell John was pushing his buttons now, testing the waters just a little. He was curious as to how much power he could exercise, and how much Sherlock could take. But Sherlock needed more than this. He needed to shut his brain off. Only the work and the occasional cocaine had ever been enough, but kissing John and feeling powerless at John's hand were certainly doing wonders for the time being.

He knelt in an affirming gesture of submission, and fell to all fours. His obedience was warm and tangible. John looked incredulous, and extremely pleased. Sherlock knew this was working. John enjoyed taking control, and Sherlock was glad. He crawled forward, his cheeks burning with humiliation. This felt stupid, but the fact that John wanted him to do it made him feel obligated. He loved this subservience. It kept him hard. It kept his overactive mind at bay. The floor was cold under his palms. Sherlock, with his impossible-to-turn-off senses, could read everything of their lives from the state of the floorboards.

"Move," John nudged, and Sherlock felt a sharp tap on his rear to encourage him. Oh, this was brilliant. Sherlock needed more.

And John certain gave him more. Sherlock became his plaything. Once they'd reached the bedroom, John took him by the back of his shirt, and dragged him more forcefully than Sherlock could keep up with. His knees skidded on the floorboards a little on his way to the bed before John drudged him upward and bent him face-first over the edge of the mattress. John knelt behind him so Sherlock could feel his warmth and his desperate hardness against his backside. "Sherlock," he said quietly, slinking a soft hand around his friend's throat as he whispered into his ear over his shoulder. "I don't really know what you're okay with."

"Anything."

John groaned, and his hot breath on Sherlock's cheek made his chest tighten excitedly. "I've always wanted... I mean... God, Sherlock, I had no idea, and this is just so..."

"I know," Sherlock cooed. "I really will be yours though, John. Anything you want to do to me. Anything. If it really is too much, you will know. I will make it clear."

"How?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "John. I will never want you to stop. I would like to be yours, always. I would like you to have me under your power and give me no say in what happens to me. If it really comes down to it, however, you may rest assured on our usual lookout signal."

The erection nagging into Sherlock's buttocks was pulsating against him. Sherlock leaned into it, trying to please John. When John let out a gasp, Sherlock tried to turn to face him, but John pinned him down. "Don't fucking move," he hissed suddenly, and the detective's insides gave a nasty throb. How wonderful.

"Yes, sir," growled Sherlock obediently, his tone a little teasing. For that, he received one sharp slap on the rear. He lurched. The sting, while quite insignificant, sent a jolt of pleasure through him nonetheless.

"Don't talk to me like that. Mean it."

Sherlock had to take a deep breath to recover from the arousal that had struck him. "Yes, Sir."

John's hands began to roam the great expanse of Sherlock's back, sliding slowly over the curve of his buttocks so that the submissive man shivered from the delicacy of it. "Sherlock, hearing you say 'yes, Sir' is one of the most beautiful things in the world." He was massaging the muscles of his backside, so Sherlock squirmed under his touch. It was soft, and that bored him, but he held still for John. "So, tell me... this fantasy... it came to you...when?"

"At Baskerville," Sherlock said in a strained voice. "When you pulled rank-- Sir."

"What was it I said, exactly?"

Sherlock hissed through his teeth, blinking fast as John's hand moved between his legs to cup him through the fabric of his trousers. "I, er... I believe you said 'That's an order.' Yes. That was it."

"And that's what you'd like me to do, is it?" John's tongue found the back of Sherlock's neck. He shuddered under its wet heat. "You'd like me to order you around? To make you hurt and tell you it's your duty to oblige me?"

Sherlock actually moaned lowly as his friend's grip tightened on his cock. "Ooh, yes, Sir," he sighed, letting the last word roll off his tongue in an elongated purr. John suddenly let go of him, and Sherlock felt himself ache without that touch. Then, with no warning, his trousers were coming down, pooling around his knees.

Something leather slid over the bare skin of Sherlock's arse, then. He shivered. John's belt. Of course.

He buried his face into the duvet, waiting. He knew John was going to exert his power over him with a blow, and he was ready for it.

When it came, the sting of the leather strap sent a deep pulse through him that seemed to totally eradicate all thought from his head for the first time in his life. He let out a deep sound from the pit of his gut. It was a sound he could not name, but it was something deep and visceral and beautiful, and it reverberated through the room loudly, mingling with the echoing snap of the belt as it whacked him.

John's breath hitched. Sherlock knew that he was admiring the pink that had surely bloomed on his marble-white skin. Indeed, a second later, he felt John's fingertips brush the sore spot lightly. It tickled a little, but Sherlock remained still. "Again?" he requested. "Please," he added and then, as he sensed the tension from John without even looking at him, "Sir."

The sting befell him again. There was another pause before the third whack came down. Three more times John slapped him hard with the leather belt before Sherlock heard the buckle hit the floor with a clunk.

"Did that please you, Sherlock?"

He nodded vigorously into the bunched duvet, just noticing that his knuckles had gone paper-white with the pressure they exerted from clenching his hands into fists. The pain was pulsing in his whole body, and his mind was blissfully blank. He wanted to experience this ecstasy forever. He wanted to remain thoughtless, and keep the pain coming. He wanted to beg for John to give him more, to never stop, but he didn't. He just waited.

"You like the pain. I’ve whipped one girl in the past, but it was never so hard. God, this is… I love the way you love it. Do you want me to continue?"

"Yes, please, Sir," Sherlock croaked.

John swallowed audibly. "Tell me, Sherlock."

"I would very much like to be hit more, John. Sir."

The army doctor reached his hands around Sherlock's torso as though to hug him, but in fact he was just pulling him upright so that they kneeled together with John's erection--still pinned down by his trousers--cradled in the line of Sherlock's reddened arse. He began to undo the buttons of Sherlock's shirt. The brilliant sleuth found himself quite immobilized with lust. It was swelling in his brain like a tumor, and he found it suddenly hard to control his limbs. They hung limply at his sides, and his head felt heavy. He leaned his head back so that his curls enveloped John's face. The shorter man did not seem to mind. In fact, Sherlock heard him breathe deeply in this position as though he was inhaling the smell of his hair. It made Sherlock's heart expand a little.

When his shirt fell away, John pushed him back down so his naked chest enjoyed the softness of his plush bed. His back was exposed, and John thought it was perfect. Vulnerable. Gorgeous. All his.

From where Sherlock lay, ready and aching, he knew John was processing these things. They had certainly rushed this, though he thought it was hardly a bad thing. He had wanted this, and so had John. He could never have known John would agree so quickly, or with such happy fervor. But he was glad that he did. Very glad.

This first night that they explored their new discovery, they did not have sex. It felt unnecessary. They merely explored one another. Mostly, John was testing Sherlock’s pain limits and ordering him to talk him through it, in detail, so John would know exactly what brought Sherlock the deepest joys. John licked the length of Sherlock's spine, causing the detective to arch and shudder, but he went no further. He would not let Sherlock serve his cock yet, because (in John's words) he wanted to "save that for a time when they had gotten their roles down." Sherlock would not really understand what he meant by that until weeks later, but for now, he just wanted to feel what John could do to him, to lose himself in the repetitive blows to his back, buttocks, and thighs.

John hit him, repeatedly, until Sherlock was shaking; until his muscles were forced into compliance and his hair stuck to his face with sweat. Silent tears had gathered in his bright eyes, and a few had actually fallen. The man's flesh had turned violently pink and shiny. Skin was threatening to break open in a number of places, and he was nearly purple there. He was so close to bleeding. There was a thin sheet of sweat coating John's body, as well. He shook his head at the beaten man before him. "You look beautiful this way, Sherlock," he told his submissive detective. His fingertips delighted over the welted areas so Sherlock flinched and stretched out his long limbs like a cat waking up. "God, Sherlock," he sighed huskily. "I could lick you all over."

"Anything, Sir," Sherlock breathed. He said it without even thinking. His usually flawless brain did not seem able to catch up with his mouth. All his feeling resided in the pain of his skin and the pleasure in his lower belly. it was all he could think about. He didn't even remember the cause of death of the victim from his last case. He was so blissfully unaware. All was well.

"That's what I like to hear," John hummed, pressing his fingernails into the raised flesh of one particularly nasty looking welt so that his Sherlock cried out with a roar of pain. "Ah, that as well," said John. He sounded so pleased, and that pleased Sherlock more than anything.

"Here," he said suddenly, and Sherlock heard an unfamiliar chinking sound. Sherlock's brain whirred: A small chain; the quiet sound of it passing over John's hair. His dog tags, Sherlock concluded. Clutching the ornament in a tight fist, John took Sherlock by the hands, and helped him up. He turned him around so they were facing each other again. Standing, Sherlock found, caused the pain on his buttocks to enflame. He winced. "Here," John said again quietly. Sherlock's eyes were piercing his. Lust was heavy on both their eyelids. The little chain slipped over Sherlock's head. The metal of the tags was cold on Sherlock's hot chest. He licked his lips, watching John cautiously. John opened his mouth once or twice as though he was going to explain his action, but he seemed to decide better of it. Sherlock did not press.

He liked wearing the dog tags. The tiny metal pendants were a part of John, and he wore it close to his heart. It made him feel wanted. It made him feel kept, and that thought sent a thrill through him like nothing else in the world.

The rest of the evening was spent in quiet repose. Occasionally Sherlock knelt at John's feet-- as he made more tea, as he made dinner. He was begging with that gesture for another go, another round of euphoric agony. His body throbbed through the night from the pain, and he loved it. He reveled in it.

Sherlock crawled into bed with John that night. He curled into John's chest. His raw, whipped skin burned from the contact, but he didn't care. By focusing on the pain and the warmth of John's arms and the coolness of the dog tags on his chest, Sherlock was able to quiet his mind and actually sleep deeply and dreamlessly and for hours-- for the first time in his memory.

Just before drifting off, Sherlock wondered vaguely what this relationship would become; how dominant John would prove to be, and how intense the relationship might get. For now, though, Sherlock was quite at peace-- totally spent with blissfully mind-numbing pain, and happy to be relaxed in his doctor's inviting embrace.

Chapter 2: The Breath of Life

Sherlock never took off the dog tags. Never.

John's dominance over Sherlock, while it only existed in their alone time, bled through to their every day lives in subtle ways. A brush of nimble fingers on Sherlock's neck when he wasn't expecting it, or when he was trying to concentrate. A sharp tap on Sherlock's back through his shirt, on a spot John knew was still throbbing from a magnificent beating.

After nights when he would take violent thrashings, Sherlock would be able to feel the welts burning as he worked cases. Once, on an unusually hot day in London, Sherlock was bending to examine a body when Lestrade said suddenly, "Sherlock! You're bleeding." Sherlock looked around, confused. The Inspector pointed to his back, his expression concerned. "Are you injured or something?"

A few spots of blood were leaking through his white shirt. Damn it. He should have bandaged that last night. He had not thought the scab would open. "I'm fine," Sherlock said quickly, shrugging off the remark. John, a few feet away, was blushing furiously, but looking quite pleased with himself.

When they were home alone and in the middle of a case, John would enjoy pushing all the buttons he could. On a most particular evening, when Sherlock was working something out silently on the sofa, John had the distinct urge to hover. Their physical relationship, while satisfying in its way, was not as well rounded as John wanted. He had accepted, at first, getting off merely to the sight of Sherlock bent beneath his whip hand; now, however, his sexual frustration had become a permanent ache in his lower belly which begged constantly for release.

On this night, Sherlock looked markedly gorgeous. He was dressed still in the day's clothes, and he wore them like a second skin as usual, somehow making every garment look flawless simply by having them on his person. His hair was gently ruffled around his wan face, which glowed coolly in the dimmed light. His cheekbones looked particularly prominent.

As Sherlock blinked up at him, annoyed, his stiff brow furrowed. "Could you not stand there, please? I need to concentrate."

"No," John said. Sherlock looked taken aback. John could almost see the whirring of his brain as he realized what the doctor had in mind. Sherlock was torn between his inherent obedience (which he loved and begged for, and requested to have beaten into him for good measure) toward his doting John, and the complex case details swimming in his head.

"Please," said Sherlock, and it was clear his resolve was fading quickly. His voice was slightly more timid, but his eyes were still stubborn. He still wanted to work. He always would. John understood, of course, for he knew what Sherlock was, but at this moment what he wanted most was Sherlock's compliance. The relationship they had come to discuss was not one either man entered into lightly. Sherlock's obedience was required of him. That was how the genius wanted it. Over the last several weeks, Sherlock's devotion to John had grown tenfold. When he submitted, he went under hard, and lost himself. He became John's entirely, and the relationship was one based primarily on pain and release. It worked, but John was anxious for more, and he knew, at this stage, that Sherlock would not say no. He couldn't. He made that clear.

"No, Sherlock," he said firmly. The tone of his voice demanded obedience, and it shut his detective up instantly. "Sit up." The man did as he was told, fingering the dog tags around his throat as he lifted himself into an upright position. "Onto the floor, now. On your knees." Sherlock went, gazing up at John wildly.

"John, I need to think. My case..."

"Oh, I'm sure you can think just fine with my cock in your mouth."

The detective suffered a hard pulse in his stomach at the words. "It'll be a distraction," Sherlock pleaded.

"Then you will just have to be distracted for some time, won't you? You will allow yourself to be distracted for me tonight, and you will be here for my pleasure. When it is over, you may return to your thoughts. Who is in charge here, Sherlock?"

Sherlock swallowed, feeling his body tingle with excitement and his back throb from the pain of his recent lashing. "You are," he sighed.

The slap rung loudly in the quiet sitting room. The shock of it caused Sherlock to gasp and touch his stinging cheek with quivering fingers. "Who is in charge here?"

"You are, Sir," Sherlock said diligently, his voice trembling a little. "You... are in charge. Sir."

John tensed with excitement. "That's right," he said quietly. "And you are mine, aren't you?" Sherlock's nod was vigorous, so eager to prove his obedience. "Yes," he said desperately. "Yes, I am yours, Sir."

"Mine," John repeated as he undid his belt. This was the boiling point. John did not ask if it was okay- he knew Sherlock would do anything for him. That was the point their relationship had reached. They were developing a system of rules already, and sex was not on the list of 'won't's. In fact, very little was. When they were alone and the mood struck, Sherlock was not to disobey any direct order from John, or he would be thrashed. He was also only to address John as "Sir" in response to a question or command, or else receive a smack across the face; he would, of course, continue to be smacked until he used the proper address.

Now, John took Sherlock's head in his hands, stroking the sides of his face tenderly, tending to those gorgeous blushing cheeks with lavish affection. Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned in to the touch, trying to wrap his head around the evidence of his current case. Smudges on the backs of the jeans- obvious indication of dragging, yet- But when he heard John's zipper pull, those thoughts suddenly vanished. His mind hit a wall, and he snapped his eyes open just in time to accept John's cock into his mouth. He hadn't known how hungry he had been for it until he felt that nudge at his lips. He kept his devoted eyes fixed intensely on John's. as the ex-army doctor filled up the space between Sherlock's perfect heart lips quite perfectly.

Ah, the taste of John. Oh, to serve him. It was glorious. He felt liberated. He felt perfect. He felt born for this. He sucked at the cock in his mouth greedily, his heart feeling swollen uncomfortably as he went under. He was so pleased to provoke that expression of wonder on John's face simply with a flick of his tongue, and his own cock was stirring at this service.

John's hands found his throat as he sucked. Suddenly Sherlock's head felt heavy and full, and he could not breath. He made a terrible sound like a wounded animal as he choked. His eyes watered. He began to snivel, his hands clutching wildly at John's, begging for air, but John only tightened his grip and thrust himself deeply into Sherlock's throat. Sherlock sputtered, but John held himself steady within him for a long while. His head was spinning. It was a minute later, when he had just started to claw at John's fingers, that his good doctor released him.

A rush of arousal hit him very suddenly, and Sherlock was shocked backward, away from John. He was coughing and moaning, barely able to control himself, but John held his head in place, shushing him and stroking his cheeks tenderly. "It's okay, it's okay," he was saying loudly over the incoherent sounds spewing from Sherlock's loose mouth. "Come on. Again, Sherlock, again. Open."

"Yes, Sir," Sherlock said under obligation, and did so. John's cock entered him completely, and his hands found Sherlock's throat again.

This was wonderful. This was beautiful. As the blood strained to reach Sherlock's head, he felt- as was nearly impossible for him- calm. He could not think. He could not make deductions. He could not remember any piece of evidence from his current case! It was terrifying, but so- relaxing. He let the quiet wash over him, and allowed pain and obedience to take the wheel. A serious flame was building in him, and his hands were starting to wander in the direction of his cock. He wanted release. He was so turned on by John's enjoyment and his own restricted breathing that he didn't know what to do with himself. He had never been so aroused in his memory (although a couple of nights ago when he had enjoyed the flogger to his chest and thighs, he had certainly been close).

His breathing grew shallower and shallower, and at the very second when he didn't think he would ever be able to inhale again, John let go. The rush of air back to his lungs was so intense, he actually keeled backwards onto the ground, his whole body arching as a deep and guttural moan escaped him. It was loud. The room filled with the sound. John laughed.

"Good?" he asked.

"Yes..." Sherlock croaked, "...Sir."

"Good. One more. Come on, now."

He reached down and pulled Sherlock back onto his knees by the hair at his scalp. "That's it. Good boy." He thrust so far, Sherlock gagged fiercely. His throat contracted around John's cock, swallowing him in deeper. This time, however, he was prepared. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, slowly, as John's hands came to find his neck once more.

This was bliss. This was exactly what he was created for. This was what his buzzing mind really needed. It needed distraction- adrenaline, pain, something to focus on, something to devote his energy to. John was all of those things. The mysteries Lestrade presented him with sufficed equally well, and sometimes John actually seemed like the better option, because he was John, oh John, yes, John. There had never been anyone else like John.

The pressure built again. Sherlock breathed shallowly but steadily, reveling his senses in the delights of suffocation. He used his tongue to its fullest, aching to pleasure John more. He wanted John to feel good, to come in him if that's what he desired. His head was swelling with the effort of breathing and then for the third time, just as he thought he couldn't stand it anymore and that he might actually pass out, he was released again.

Ah! The pleasure came over him in waves. He rolled backward in ecstasy, and became momentarily unaware of everything.

Suddenly, he discovered arms around him and a warm breath on his face. A calm voice was warm in his ear. "Sh," John purred in that gentle voice of his. "I've got you. Come." There was a tug on the dog tags, and Sherlock felt himself pulled in an unknown direction. His eyes were still closed. He didn't need eyes, anyway. The sensations of touch and pain and breathing were all enough for him right now. He crawled forward, John leading him like an animal by the chain around his neck. He knew they were going to the bedroom. He knew John was going to hurt him, and his cock was simply aching for it now. He needed it, like nothing else in the world. How absurd.

"Please, Sir," Sherlock whispered as he crawled. It was more to himself than to John, feeling the words on his tongue. He repeated it over and over again the entire way to the bed, his mantra for the journey as though the prayer would bring them to their destination more quickly. John stilled his movements at last, and Sherlock realized the other man was laughing at him a little. He pouted.

"Please, what, Sherlock? What is it?"

"Nothing, Sir. I just... need you." The words tumbled from him with no forethought. When had he become this bumbling thoughtless creature? How had John done this to him? He really was something special to have this effect; to give Sherlock this much pleasure.

"Desperate, hm?" John's soft hands found his face. "Open your eyes, Sherlock." He did as he was told with his obligatory "Yes, Sir." John's sweet face loomed over him, and he swooned, falling forward for a kiss without another thought. His neck ached as he did, but it was worth it. He offered his mouth up to John who took it wholly, hungrily exploring its generous space. He fucked the sleuth's mouth with his tongue just as he had fucked it with his cock a minute before. John tasted Sherlock's tongue with his own, tasted himself on the roof of Sherlock's mouth, he loved it. He loved the depths of that mouth more than a lot of things in life.

Sherlock moaned loudly into John. It still shocked them both when he made sounds like that, for it still seemed new and uncharacteristic to them, yet they both got off on it. They were hard. Sherlock needed to be conquered and he needed it now.

"Please, Sir, Yes," he said again as John ceased kissing him. "Please." The doctor drudged his pliant body onto the mattress with a soft flump. Sherlock lay cradled there comfortably with his head in the pillows as John undid his shirt. With every inch of skin he exposed, John kissed him lightly. Sherlock's breathing was back to normal again, though on every exhale he felt a twinge in his throat, and at every kiss he felt his heart skip a beat. John's hard cock was pressing eagerly between Sherlock's thighs as he disrobed the detective. Sherlock's head was pounding. His body was overwhelmed from head to toe, and his large cock was seriously hurting from the pressure of being held down by his trousers. He began bucking upward to release, rubbing himself on his superior officer in an attempt to get off.

"Stop that," John said, and Sherlock did.

"Stay still," he snarled onto the submissive's lips, and Sherlock did.

John teased the shirt off Sherlock's shoulders, trying deliberately to torture him with the slowness of it. A sound of impatience made its way from Sherlock's throat, and John laughed quietly before throwing the fabric to the side. He moved on to Sherlock's trousers then, releasing his cock so it sprung up. Sherlock's eyes rolled into the back of his head as John's fingers slid down his thighs. That was too much. Too fucking much. The pants were gone, and he was naked. That was when John left him.

"John?" he called out wildly, but he received a smack for it. "Sir?" So good, correcting himself. He was so good, so, so good. It was all he wanted: to be good for John; to give him everything.

"I'll return in a second, Sherlock. Calm down! I'm just getting a few necessities. Wait for me. Don't touch," he added, as Sherlock's hands had begun wandering to his large and aching cock. The naked man groaned, excited by the slap he'd gotten, and aching for John's hands on him again. He waited obediently, however, until John came back. "Close your eyes," he said, and Sherlock did. "Tell me what I'm doing."

Something scratchy found his left wrist and twined around it. "Rope," he said in a low voice. "Cheap rope from the tool shop, as I understand it. Three-strand. Twisted manilla. You're tying me to the bedposts."

"Very good," John whispered. "And what do we say?"

"Sir," Sherlock added quickly.

"And?"

"Thank you, Sir."

"Much better." He did the knot. It was perfectly skillful- tight enough to bite and burn, but not enough to hinder his circulation. Then he moved onto the right arm. When he was finished, he stepped back to admire the bound detective. "You are fucking gorgeous, Sherlock. You should be tied there all the damn time."

Sherlock's stomach flipped. "It would get boring," he said earnestly with a whine in his tone of voice. John laughed. Something soft touched Sherlock's cheek. "Silk," he moaned. "Oh."

"And what's it for, d'ya reckon?"

"Blindfold," Sherlock grunted, as the slippery fabric touched his sensitive eyelid.

"Oh, you do think you're clever," John murmured softly. "But wrong." Sherlock's heart began to drum wickedly. Wrong? "Why would I need a blindfold for you?"

"You wouldn't. I would keep my eyes closed if you asked me. Yes, you're right, Sir, yes, Sir," Sherlock said breathlessly. "I would do anything you ask."

"Precisely."

"Then what..." And suddenly, Sherlock could not speak. The fabric was balled up in his mouth before he could realize what was happening, and his heart began to pound with surprise and trepidation. Not being able to predict things- now that was odd for him. He groaned, feeling the smooth texture on his teeth and tongue, his mouth already starting to water at his incapacitation. He pulsed. He tried to say "Please," but all that resulted was a stifled, incoherent mumble. John seemed to like that.

"God I love it when you're helpless at my mercy," John breathed, letting his hot breath trail on Sherlock's chest. He pressed his lips to the delicate flesh near one of Sherlock's nipples, and began to bite and suck passionately until a dark purple bruise appeared on the snow white flesh. The moans he was eliciting sounded gorgeous muffled through the silk gag. The flesh of John's cock brushed Sherlock's, and they groaned together. "Oh, god, Sherlock," John moaned. "I've got to have you."

Sherlock whined, and clenched his eyes closed hard to restrain from opening them so he could witness John's lust. "Yes," he would have been saying. "Yes, please, Sir. Have me. Take me. I am yours completely, Sir."

The doctor moved. Sherlock sniffled, throwing his head back with impatience as John rustled about. Then he felt John's palm burn hot on the inside of his thigh, prying his legs apart. "Spread," he ordered (in a voice cracking with anticipation that Sherlock, even in this state, could not miss), and the submissive did, attempting but failing to choke out his habitual obedient reply of "Yes, Sir."

The welts on his back were throbbing from the contact of the bed beneath him, but his incessant erection was aching far more than that. Tears were gathering behind his eyelids. His mind felt like it was on fire. Then suddenly John's hand was at his opening. It was very wet and very cold- so cold that Sherlock flinched uncontrollably, and let out a cracking gasp. He was preparing him for entrance. Sherlock was shivering. Every inch of his skin was covered in goose bumps, and his chest was extremely flushed. John thought it was positively the sexiest vision a man could have- to see his subservient friend tied down and gagged, trembling, ready, and eager to be fucked. He moaned from the sight of it as he pressed his fingers into Sherlock's wiling body. "That's it," he cooed, entering him slowly. "You're okay. You're all mine, and you're okay, Sherlock. I've got you. You're safe."

Sherlock writhed as John went the extra mile and curled his fingers inside to stroke him hard. The pleasure befell Sherlock in strong gushes. He wanted more; more than just John's fingers. He wanted to take all of John into him; to be possessed and claimed completely. It wasn't long before John was trembling too, his fingers buried inside his submissive.

Both men were moaning deeply, enjoying the feel of the other as their passion reached a peak. They couldn't take it anymore. Sherlock's deep cries, though muffled, were deafening. Even though his words were incoherent, John knew he was shouting "Please, Sir, please!" and that was enough for him. He removed his fingers sharply, but Sherlock barely had to wait another second before John's cock filled him in their place.

"Yes, Sherlock," he sighed as he buried himself to the hilt. "Ugh, you feel perfect, you dirty, dirty boy." Sherlock's face was screwed up from both pain and pleasure. "You're really mine. Yes." John placed a hand over Sherlock's face. "That's it," he said gently. "That's it. Good boy. Deep breath." Sherlock inhaled dramatically as John pulled almost all the way out pf him and placed his fingers teasingly over the squirming detective's nose. Sherlock knew what was coming.

When John's grip closed over Sherlock's airway, he thrust hard back in with a grunt. Sherlock felt his head swell and his chest tighten. The pleasure was magnificent. The pounding began, fast and intense. It hurt, and in combination with his inability to breathe, it sent waves of bliss through his every nerve. He was bellowing, though with difficulty. John was fucking him, and Sherlock was seeing stars. His eyes were shut as tightly as possible. He was tugging on his restraints, developing a steady line of rope burn around both wrists. His lungs were aching from the pressure exerted on them, and a dull pain was growing in his head. He wanted to beg for John to stop, but he never would. This level of subservience, where nothing was too much for him, felt perfect for them.

Then, very suddenly- when Sherlock's vision had just started to go white- John let go. Sherlock's muffled shours went silent from reaching an impossible peak. Air flooded his nostrils and lungs as he drooled around the gag, and the relief of it was so overwhelming it shot straight to his cock. He thrashed, total slave to his lust. The rabid animal in him completely took over; he was yanking on his bonds so violently that he was drawing blood at his wrists.

Every muscle in his body tensed, and Sherlock came.

It happened in a great rush of indescribable ecstasy. John pounded him roughly as Sherlock's orgasm ripped through him, sullying his own stomach and the front of John's shirt. John did not seem to mind. He would not stop his thrusts for anything. The fucking only got rougher and more painful with time, his fingernails digging into the skin at Sherlock's hips. Sherlock was still suffering the aftershocks of his own orgasm when John reached his. He came wildly and hard into his obedient detective until he had no more left to give. He collapsed onto him in a huff, sweating and trembling from the pleasure and the overwhelmingly good feeling of claiming his friend this way. "Sherlock," he breathed. "You may open your eyes now." He did.

The sight of John lying spent on his filthy stomach was too tender for him to stand. The tears that had built in Sherlock's eyes began to fall silently. John touched his wet cheeks. "Sh," he said, and his eyes were light and caring. "Everything's okay. You're mine, aren't you?" John removed the silk gag so Sherlock could respond.

Sherlock's jaw hurt, and his tongue felt very dry, but he nodded and spoke anyway. "Yes, of course I am yours, Sir," he said in a cracked voice.

"You will trust me to keep you, won't you?"

"Of course, Sir," he said on a painful exhale.

With a smile, John withdrew and undid the knots at Sherlock's wrists. "Ooh," he cooed sadly. "You really hurt yourself here, didn't you?" John shook his head, looking sympathetic. "I'm sorry I used that rope. I'll need to tend to you later."

Sherlock looked. His skin was rubbed totally raw, and dots of blood were oozing in places. He certainly would be needing bandages there. Damn that cheap material. "We should invest in something more sturdy and less damaging, like cuffs," Sherlock said. His sanity was returning. All that lay outside their relationship was starting to flood back into his mind, ebbing in as though the impressive dam that was John had suddenly sprung a leak. Rubbing his wrists, he pushed John off with an apologetic look. "I have a case to work on," he reminded his doctor and his captain. "I'm sorry," he added meekly.

John's grin was gracious. "I understand completely. You are really something, Sherlock, for letting me have this."

"No, John," Sherlock said slyly. "Thank you for indulging my fantasies." He stood, and began cleaning himself off.

John unbuttoned his ruined shirt, and shook his head as he did so. "You talk as though I don't want this, too. Isn't it clear how much I want to own you, Sherlock? How much I love having you be mine?" He approached him, bare chest gleaming with sweat, and pressed himself against his sore submissive. "I love this. I love what we do, and I'm happy we've taken it to this... level." Sherlock smiled passively, feeling thoroughly used and gorgeously content.

"Yes," he sighed, feeling weak in his lover's embrace. "Me too." They kissed, and it was full of passion. Their tongues, dancing in each other's mouths, spoke for them with no words. Sherlock had never felt so satisfied in his life, and in that moment of calm- with John's mouth devouring his own- Sherlock suddenly knew that his case was going to be a breeze. The evidence was already clicking into place for him.

"You're already thinking about your case, aren't you."

"Yes," Sherlock said stiffly, his eyes fogging over as his expression became distant. "Shall I talk you through it in the shower?"

John smiled. Sherlock's brilliance turned him on immensely.

"Oh god, yes."

Chapter 3: A Little Game

The life in 221b thrived. In addition to enjoying the near-daily thrashings he craved with fervor, Sherlock serviced John physically in any way he asked. Going under and becoming slave to his army doctor gave Sherlock the most intense pleasure- a pleasure that blossomed over time and settled in his chest cavity. It stirred constantly when he was in John's presence like a small, purring, living thing.

Sherlock had developed a very skilled tongue over the last few weeks, and an affinity for being flogged while sucking John off. He learned how to stand hours of being beaten and fucked without coming. With practice, Sherlock's muscles also grew accustomed to being tied up in horrendously uncomfortable positions and stuck there until John decided it was time. John could never have expected that the subordinate and domineering consulting detective would be so adapt at the training he put him through; and Sherlock, knowing the ins and outs of John's life and habits, could never have deduced John's love and talent for training him. Though he should have known it, he sometimes thought to himself with a sneer. John's undergone so much training himself, it makes sense he'd love the headspace of a world with strict rules, and living under Sherlock's reign must surely cause him to crave a turn-around.

After their first sexual encounter, the burns on Sherlock's wrists were bandaged well by John, of course, but the following morning, as they flouted about a crime scene with their favorite Detective Inspector, it was difficult to hide. Lestrade had stared shamelessly. "Sherlock," he'd said cautiously. "What on earth happened to you there?"

The sleuth shrugged as he held a tiny fiber up to the light, squinting at it. It was this motion that had shaken his sleeve back to expose the white gauze.

"Don't give me that, Sherlock," Lestrade said, leaning down to kneel beside his colleague. No one else was listening in at that moment, and for that Lestrade was glad. This felt, for whatever reason, like a private conversation. "You're hurt. You're wearing the sort of bandages that suicide-attemptees end up with." Predictable. "Don't tell me-"

Sherlock snorted. "Don't be ridiculous," he said darkly. "What a most boring conclusion."

"Then what is it? Now don't you look at me like I'm some kind of imbecile, Sherlock. I know that's what you think of me, but don't, alright? Just don't. Tell me something real." Sherlock looked at the Inspector, and saw in him, a rare expression of genuine concern and friendship. Sherlock had been informed, in the past, that he was bad at noticing when someone genuinely cared because he had no heart. But despite the conclusion people usually drew about him, Sherlock could tell these things.

"I'm a bit busy, Lestrade. Couldn't we discuss this another time? Or better yet- not at all?" Sherlock put on his most obnoxiously simpering expression to shut the man up.

It was not so easy. "Look, Sherlock, I put up with a lot of shit from you, and you know it. But I was there when you overdosed those years ago, and if it wasn't for me and your brother, you would probably still have a needle in your arm, or you'd be dead. What I see disturbs me. It really looks like..."

"Boring," Sherlock repeated with a great sigh. "Believe me, Inspector. What you see before you is not a man who tried to kill himself, but a man who's recently suffered rope burns. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

"Rope burns? From what?"

Sherlock's mouth became a thin line. His free hand flew instinctively to the chain at his throat, and he tugged it to remind himself of who he belonged to. He suddenly missed John. "I was tied up," he said stiffly. "Obviously."

Lestrade nodded, his gentle eyes narrowing. "During a case?"

Sherlock coughed. "Yes," he lied.

The Inspector's expression lightened considerably. "Well, alright then. I've been worried about you lately, Sherlock. I can't help it. You seem to be injured more frequently than usual, y'know."

Sherlock shrugs this comment off as John enters the room. "Ah!" he exclaims. "John! Kindly tell the good Detective Inspector to stop badgering me while I'm trying to work, will you?" He turned his attention back to the fiber he was twirling between his forefinger and thumb.

John sighed. "What's going on?"

"Lestrade was bothering me. Make him stop."

"Are you twelve?" barked Lestrade. "Seriously? My goodness! I'm gone!" He backed away, hands in the air in surrender but he still lingered in the background of the room, watching closely. Sherlock shook his head at John, who smiled as he knelt beside Sherlock.

The detective gave his companion a wild glare. "The Detective Inspector was inquiring about my wrists," he said in a low voice, raising his eyebrows. John's brow crinkled adorably as he cocked his head in an unsurprised gesture.

"Yes, well, it's not a very inconspicuous place to have an injury, is it?"

"I suppose not." Sherlock pocketed the fiber into a small manila envelope, then bent to examine the floor again. He was on all-fours, sniffing something out.

Before Sherlock could get too absorbed in his observations, John grabbed him by the dog tags, and leaned close to his ear, making sure that at their angle, the forensic team behind them could not tell what he was doing. "Tonight I think I'll have you exactly in the position you're in now, and you'll have a lot more to bandage than rope burns tomorrow." Sherlock had become dumbstruck. He was instantly brought to hardness, and sulked at how quickly John abandoned him in his workspace to join Lestrade in the corner. Sherlock had to shake his head to get thoughts of submission to John out of his head so he could focus. Damn.

The pretense was usually kept well in public, when they were working. He didn't really care if people knew that he was John's slave or that they were even a bit "involved," but he knew it might bother John, so he kept it private for him, as Sherlock would do anything John wished. Sometimes, when they were working, he had to bite his tongue from using the address of "Sir" when speaking to his doctor. It got difficult.

Some weeks later, a severed head lay in the middle of a field. A mop of curly red hair (stained a lush brown in places) on a pearly white head which seemed to be growing right out of the grass. A team of investigators were setting up crime scene tape and huffing in frustration several long yards away, save for three men. Sherlock was crawling around it, scoping out the square feet around the decapitated head. Watching the ghostly man on his hands and knees, John's mind geared uncontrollably to the way Sherlock looked when he was crawling around naked, collared, leashed, and powerless (though they'd only broken out the collar once thus far, they both loved it). He cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly where he stood, trying to subtly dislodge his erection from its uncomfortable position in his trousers. Sherlock noticed him out of the corner of his eye, the way he notices everything. John spotted the almost imperceptible pink bloom in his cheeks, and felt pleased by his such a reaction. He couldn't wait to get Sherlock into the leather cuffs they had procured. He wanted to hang the man by his wrists from the lamp hook on the ceiling, and whip his backside mercilessly 'till he cried. Oh, yes.

Sherlock was staring at him as though he knew exactly what he was thinking (and the truth was, he probably did, for he could read John like an open book most of the time), and he gave John the most delicious smirk of understanding before quickly resuming his deductions.

Lestrade's eyes flitted between the two. "John," he said quietly.

"Mm?" John was a little distracted by Sherlock's backside. He was enraptured by the private knowledge that the glorious arse in the air before them was currently riddled with deep red bite marks and bruises.

"Is there something... happening with... you and Sherlock?"

John was not expecting that. He sputtered awkwardly, shifting his weight from one leg to the other out of nerves. "Er... what? Who said that to you?"

"So something is going on?"

"What- No! What? I mean... what are you talking about, Greg? We're just... who could have possibly said that to you?"

Lestrade chuckled. "No one said it, John," he said with a shake of his head. "It's just the way you and he interact. I was deducing, y'know, like he always does."

"Well... no. We're not... I mean. We're not." John's face was a brilliant shade of pink, and Lestrade raised his eyebrows at him but said nothing. John's eyes turned to Sherlock again, who was now examining the scalp of the severed ginger head with incredible interest.

John wasn't really sure how he'd feel about people finding out about them. It wasn't as though they had a normal relationship. It was bad enough that his mates all find out that he's in a relationship with his flatmate (and such an abnormal one, at that), but imagine if it became knowledge that they weren't "boyfriends," but in fact Sherlock was his slave, and John his Master. If they knew. Oh, if Lestrade knew... God, John couldn't even imagine the man's reaction. In their home life Sherlock called him Sir and knelt for him when he entered a room. He crawled for him, he slept naked with foreign objects in his arse for him. That kind of relationship was not something easily explained to people like Lestrade. What if it was mistaken for an abusive relationship? That he was holding Sherlock against his will? But then, who in their right mind would think Sherlock would do anything against his will?

Still, this was all so strange and new. People were sure to misinterpret their relationship the way it was, but there was no way it was changing. This was how they functioned, now. In the evenings they would arrive home, and sometimes Sherlock would drop to his knees and stay there. They were happy together, and John didn't want that to change by making it public knowledge and possibly destroying their dynamic. Sherlock loved the pain, and loved to serve him, and John loved things the way they were. He...

"John?" The doctor came to, realizing he had been lost in his thoughts.

"Oh..." He cleared his throat. "Yes, hello."

Lestrade gave him a funny look. "You okay?" he asked.

John sighed. "Yes, Greg, I'm quite alright. Yes." He gazed at Sherlock, who he realized was looking back at him. God, he was stunning. The sun illuminated the surface of his pale cheekbones, lighting up that opalescent skin and casting deep shadows down his face. His hair, too, shone a surprisingly light auburn color in this cascade of sunlight. His brow was hard and set with his gaze fixed on John, and he looked perfectly gorgeous.

"John," Sherlock called impatiently. "My tweezers are not in my jacket. Bring them to me, please, Sir."

A little knot caught in John's chest, and he wanted suddenly to sink his head into his hands and groan. Of course, that would draw much more attention than necessary. Instead, he straightened his posture and soldiered up, putting on his stoniest expression.

Lestrade coughed. "I'm sorry," he said, "what did he just call you?"

"Nothing," John said firmly, feeling in his pockets.

"Did he just call you Sir?"

"No." He stomped toward Sherlock in a huff as his searching hand closed around the tweezers in his breast pocket. "Sherlock," he mumbled furiously under his breath as he handed the man his tool. "Do you realize what you just said, Sherlock?"

Sherlock glared, his brow furrowed. "Hm? No."

"You called me Sir, Sherlock."

"Oh." His eyes widened, sparkling colorlessly in the brightness of the day. "Oh. Sorry, Sir."

"Sh- Jesus, Sherlock, not in public!" John lowered his voice to its deepest timbre, making his disappointment evident while letting the words roll sensually onto Sherlock's ears: "I'll really have to hurt you for this, later."

"Sorry, S- Sorry." Sherlock hissed, then he busied himself with a spot on the bloodied scalp of the man with no body.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. Something was definitely happening between the friendly neighborhood sleuth and his live-in army doctor. Around Sherlock Holmes, Greg sometimes felt a bit thick, but he was at least adept enough in seeing when two people liked each other. The interest between Sherlock and John was so obvious sometimes, he was amazed their tension didn't knock him down when he was in the same room with them.

 

***

For using John's private title in public, Sherlock felt guilty, but he was good at washing emotional thoughts from his mind to concentrate on the case at hand.

He was so close to the solution on this one- so close, he could sense the answer just beyond his reach. Now he sat at the microscope in the lab of St. Bart's, his back perfectly straight as he fiddled with the sample on his slide. If this tiny chip was what he thought it was (a particular type of green house paint), then he would know precisely the region (and by process of elimination, the exact address) where the man had been beheaded.

His eyes were pressed to the microscope lenses, and in his state of total focus, he barely heard John move around the table. It was therefore a shock to him when something warm brushed his thigh. He jumped a little in his seat, and looked down. The hand of his army doctor. "John," he said quietly.

John's round face was stern, but his eyes twinkled knowingly. "Ah, ah, ah," he warned, raising his eyebrows pointedly.

"Sir," Sherlock sighed, correcting himself.

"Better." John's hand slid upward, slowly drifting toward the place where Sherlock's impossibly long legs met in between. "You may continue working."

Sherlock swallowed, his heart twanging a familiar beat against his ribs. John's fingers pressed hard on a bruise that was still throbbing on the inside of his thigh. John knew full well it was there. It was he who had planted it there the night before, after all. The doctor chuckled, rubbing the spot deliberately so that Sherlock let out a gasp as the dull ache went right to his head, and he spread his legs a little wider for his captain. Trying to keep from going under, Sherlock reached a trembling hand forward to readjust the crooked slide on the microscope. It was very difficult to concentrate on what he was seeing through the lens, however, when John decided that was the perfect moment to cup Sherlock's crotch in his warm palm. John clutched the detective's cock through his trousers, smiling to himself behind Sherlock's back, and keeping an eye on the door. Sherlock, struggling to keep his twitching erection down, groaned, "It's... hard..."

John couldn't help but laugh, his warm breath tickling Sherlock's ear and brushing some of his hair aside. "Oh, you're telling me." He grabbed Sherlock's cock and squeezed. He squeezed so hard it hurt, and Sherlock's back arched as a wonderful sinking feeling coarsed through him.

The sleuth gave a deep moan. "No," he whispered. "I mean, Sir, that... it's hard to work... like this."

"I don't care," said John carelessly. "You broke our rule, Sherlock. You called me 'Sir' in public. You know I'm not ready for that."

"I'm sorry, Sir," Sherlock breathed. "So sorry, Sir."

"I know you are." His grip tightened, and Sherlock whimpered. "Sh, hey, hey, you're alright, Sherlock." His voice was gentle and calming. He pressed his cheek against Sherlock's, soothing him with this bit of physical affection. "One day," he said, "I may ask that you do address me as 'Sir' in public. When I do, it will be no matter who we're with or where we are. If that ever happens, you will make your servitude public, and then everyone will know what a good slave you really are. But today was not that day. Today, you humiliated me, Sherlock. Remind me, who in this relationship humiliates who?"

"You, Sir. You humiliate me, Sir, if it pleases you, Sir."

John's cock pulsed at those words, scraping uncomfortably against his jeans. "Yes, that's right, Sherlock," he said in a delicate tone. "You are my plaything, you know. If I was to have you stop mid-case to be thrashed, would you do it for me?"

"Anything, Sir." Anything. It meant so much more than just anything;  oh, the word held so much in it. Anything, yes, because you're you, John, because after all this time together I never knew my fantasies were all because of you, because my body needed to serve you, because I needed to belong to you in order to feel whole.

John's cock throbbed. "And if I were to tell you..." He lowered his voice, and trailed his fingers to Sherlock's balls, which he gripped tightly, eliciting a delightful low-pitched squeak. "...That every time Lestrade speaks to you during this case, you are to think about the way it feels to have my cock in your mouth, you'd do it, wouldn't you?"

Sherlock cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I... I would, Sir."

"Then do it," hissed John. He released his constricting grip, and then forced it down Sherlock's trousers. The detective moaned loudly, closing his eyes instinctively as his master's hand circled his hard cock. He began to stroke him. "Every time Lestrade speaks to you. Every time he so much as says your name to call you over," John sighed, "I want you to think about my cock. Think about how it tastes, how it feels in the hollow of your cheek. Think about the fresh welts on your shoulder blades, and how many more you will have when this case is over."

"Yes," Sherlock moaned, "Sir." John stroked him, and it was driving him wild. He was practically melting, a wanton puddle of useless lust in his seat, help upright against John's strong chest. It was good John was there, or he'd be sliding backwards off his stool. He had lost all capability for thought, and his vision was starting to go blurry with excitement.

Then, very suddenly, John withdrew his hand and shuffled to his side, gripping him tightly by the arm to steady his swaying figure. Sherlock gazed at him with a foggy and bewildered expression. "What-"

"Get back to work, Sherlock," John said authoritatively. His stance was proof of his military training, and oh, how Sherlock loved it. The door opened behind him almost instantly to let Molly Hooper into the lab, and John didn't even flinch, for he had been keeping an eye out. Sherlock nearly lept out of his skin, however. He forced himself back to his microscope with such desperation it was hardly inconspicuous. His erection was raging, his face was flushed, and he kept squirming in his seat. John couldn't help but chuckle quietly to himself as he limbered to the other end of the table to examine the autopsy report again.

It was barely a minute later when Sherlock finally calmed down long enough to actually register what he was seeing through his lens.

"Yes!" he cried out suddenly, so John and Molly looked up in surprise. "Yes, John! I was right. Fantastic." His demeanor was normal again- Cold and bitter and overjoyed by his own genius. "Come, John," he demanded, and John followed knowing perfectly well who really gave the orders in their duo.

They left Molly behind them looking stunned by the abrupt departure.

***

The train journey to the countryside was long and frustrating. John's fingers brushed Sherlock's thigh a lot more than necessary, so by the time the train pulled up on the platform, the detective was a desiring wreck. After leaving the train, John pulled Sherlock into the empty and water-stained washroom at the station to tease him just a little bit more.

"John," Sherlock had said in an irritated huff. "There is a man out there who beheaded his own friend. We have to..." But John was tugging Sherlock's shirt collar out of the way to press his lips to the nape of his friend's neck, and the taller man fell silent. Powerless.

The hickey John produced was one that had Sherlock twisting in John's arms. He remained on his feet only because he was so solidly sandwiched between John's hard body and the wall of the moldy room. His neck throbbed. John grinned against the new bruise, and pulled back Sherlock's shirt just a little bit to catch a glimpse of the welts on his back. The mere sight sent a pulse to his groin, and he fantasized eagerly about marring that gorgeous skin more when this case was over. "Don't forget my order, Sherlock," he said pointedly.

"I could never, Sir," Sherlock breathed. "I will do anything you say, Sir. Anything." Those words in his deep baritone purr sent dark chills through John's nervous system.

"Repeat it back to me."

"When Lestrade speaks to me," Sherlock croaked, panting heavily onto John's perfect thin lips, "I am to imagine your cock in my mouth, Sir."

John growled ferally, and swooped up for a short but powerful kiss. He tasted the whole inside of his detective's mouth with a single swipe of his tongue. He then released him suddenly, and Sherlock slid down the wall weakly.

"Get up," he demanded, and Sherlock did so on shaking limbs. "There's a case to be solved, y'know."

Grumbling, Sherlock led the way out of the washroom. He was flustered. The pink bloom on his submissive's cheeks gave John such a pleasure, he could barely contain himself from pulling him back inside the washroom and shagging him hard right there on that disgusting sink, slapping the backside he knew was riddled in whip-marks. But he bit his tongue and did nothing as he followed his detective back onto the platform.

They found the farm house where the murder had taken place with little struggle. They had barely arrived on the property when Sherlock threw himself close to the ground and began examining the grass.

John watched him with awe in his heart. The man was a true genius. He wished to possess that mind- to dig into its depths and hold his brilliance in the palms of his hands. He wanted to kiss whatever it was that made Sherlock what he was, to bury himself in it and become part of it.

Sherlock began to crawl, then. John was already suppressing an erection, and this wasn't helping. He wondered if Sherlock was doing it on purpose, wriggling his arse in the air like that as he went along on his hands and knees. He was crawling toward the farm house, sniffing the dirt every few paces. John watched him longingly as Lestrade approached them from down the hill. "Already at it, is he?"

"Of course," John said. "Y'know him. Doesn't waste a second, that man."

Lestrade opened his mouth to call out, to offer Sherlock a hand, but Sherlock beat him to the punch. "Don't talk to me just yet, Inspector. I'm busy." Lestrade put his hands up in quiet surrender, looking amused. John smirked.

"I hope he can work this one."

"I don't doubt he can."

Lestrade nodded. "If there's one man I'd put my faith in, it's Sherlock Holmes." He glanced at John expectantly, but John stood his ground and kept a stony expression. Perhaps it was a little too stiff, though, because Lestrade seemed to think something of it. He rolled his eyes.

They followed Sherlock's progress all the way up to the farmhouse. They stopped outside the door. "No one will be home," Sherlock insisted, kneeling to pick the lock.

"You don't know that," said Lestrade.

Sherlock stopped, his hands poised with the instruments in the copper lock. He swallowed heartily, and glanced up at John. His face was very red. John flushed as well. A, what a game this was. They were both now thinking about Sherlock taking John's cock into his gorgeous mouth, and each man knew it.

In John's mind, he was seated in his armchair. Fantasy Sherlock was naked, kneeling between his legs, and his arms belted behind his back as he sucked his thick cock obediently. He could practically imagine the unbelievable noises he'd make. Lestrade- the instigator of it all- was sitting across from them in this fantasy, watching approvingly and occasionally barking out suggestions. It was all about Sherlock's humiliation. Oh, how he loved it. How he loved watching his pretty detective serve his order right under the unsuspecting DI's nose. He loved the embarrassed crimson tinge which crept over Sherlock's face, and the unaware expression on Lestrade's. It was all making him so hot.

The lock clicked. They moved on.

The sitting room looked harmless at first glance. "How did you even know this was the right place?" Lestrade questioned.

Silence fell again as the two men sunk into their fantasies.

Sherlock had himself tied up in his imagination, completely immobile and at the mercy of John's cock as it violated his mouth for hours, coming down his throat repeatedly until the sensation was too much even for John to handle. This, he knew, was what John wanted: he wanted to embarrass him by having these thoughts in front of an oblivious friend. He wanted to test the waters of Sherlock's limit for humiliation. But Sherlock would not budge. He would hold out and be humiliated in whatever way would make John happy. When he was serving John's orders, he certainly wasn't bored, that was for sure.

"Er..." Sherlock struggled for words. "Because of the paint." Sherlock sniffed out of annoyance. "Obviously."

"Obviously," repeated Lestrade. He looked disgruntled. "Y'know I'll need more than that for my report."

Sherlock's magnifying glass was out. He was inspecting the window sills diligently, his brow furrowed as he focused but his pallid face, such a cold white in this lighting, was blotchy with color, and John knew why. His power over him was so palpable they were surprised Lestrade could not feel it crushing down on him every time he breathed. The pull of the obedience was so strong, Sherlock found it hard to function without imagining the full feeling in his mouth that could only come from being stuffed with John's cock. He gulped.

"Well," he said, zeroing in on a spot of blood on the splintering floorboards by the heater on the wall, "this is definitely where the initial blow was delivered." Sherlock mimed the action, his face plastered in an intense expression. Then he straightened his posture. "Find the man who lives here, and if he has a limp and carries on him a yellow-handled pocket knife with a bent corkscrew and/or wears a blue sweater, you will have your man." He pursed his lips, glaring as though this would somehow prevent Lestrade from speaking again, but alas...

"Are you sure?" The look Sherlock shot him was a deeply insulted one. "But... where should we find him?"

Sherlock scoffed. "He won't be too far. He's a man of particular habit. Probably a mama's boy, certainly afraid of leaving home, not really one to abandon his quiet country home just because he lost his temper once. He's a drinker, definitely. Check the local pubs."

"What? You're not going to come with me?"

Sherlock sighed dramatically, his eyes shut tightly against the graphic images that were overwhelming him. This only heightened his imagined sensation of swallowing John's come. He shook his head sharply. "Argh! Such self importance, Lestrade. I do have other business to attend to, you know. I am not just your lapdog!"

"Pfft, I know that much-"

"Then you'll suffer with what I've given you. I'm sure your able-enough mind can do with it something, at least." The praise was hasty and anxious. John knew he just wanted to get out of there. John did not mind, though he certainly felt turned on when Sherlock deduced things and acted as though everyone else was handicapped for not getting it. His cock was quite hard at watching this heated interaction between his slave and the Inspector, knowing what was on Sherlock's mind the whole time. He watched the antsy consulting detective run his tongue over his teeth, watched it settle in the hollow of his cheek.

"But, Sherlock..."

"So long, Inspector! Come along, John!" The army doctor sent an apologetic look at Lestrade, who looked overwhelmed and bewildered. A split second glare told John that Lestrade definitely knew something was up, but John could only tear his eyes away and scurry after Sherlock. He did not want to stick around for another inquiry with the Inspector. The heat in his face was on a rise from his combined embarrassment and arousal.

"That was a fast one," John said when they were out of earshot of Lestrade. "Well done, Sherlock. I am impressed by how well you did, especially with the obstacle I know I presented you with. Was it much of a distraction?"

"The work still got done, didn't it?" Sherlock huffed.

"Yes. Amazing."

Sherlock's pleased smirk was obvious. "Well. It's not over yet. But thank you, John." His blue eyes twinkled with something fierce and needy. "I am glad you are pleased with me, Sir," he added for effect in a low voice. Tense desperation was straining in his tone. As they walked, Sherlock's fingers begged at the corner of John's sleeve while his other hand touched the dog tags that were the proof of ownership.

John leaned close to his ear as they trudged down the dirt path away from the farm house. "Oh, Sherlock" he cooed softly. "I promise you, that tonight you will feel just how deep my pride runs. You will feel it in your skin, in every muscle, and in your very bones."

Chapter 4: Yours and Mine

Sherlock's shirt was already halfway unbuttoned by the time they burst through the door to his bedroom. John's hands were under the fabric quickly, pinching his nipples immediately. He would waste no time. He was desperate.

"Oh," Sherlock sighed. He looked a mess: his curls ruffled, his gaunt face flushed, and his eyes shut tight against the pain at each nipple. John grinned smugly against his lover's wanting mouth. "Please, Sir," said Sherlock between hot panting breaths. "Please."

"Please what, Sherlock?" John finished off the rest of Sherlock's buttons and let the shirt hang off his gorgeous pale frame, eyeing his glowing skin excitedly. His chest was rising and falling heavily, and the sight pleased John very much.

"Please hurt me, Sir. I need it, Sir. After today..."

John laughed. "I take it you liked my little game?"

"I think you could do better," Sherlock teased, his eyes narrowing and the corners of his lips curling into a smirk.

The smack came so hard, Sherlock was dizzied. He fell to his knees, panting as he basked in the delight from the hit. John was happy. On his knees was right where he wanted him. He stroked the reddening cheek which was level with his waist. God, that skin was so soft. "What was that, now?"

"Sir," Sherlock pleaded.

"Hm. I could do better, could I? Is that a challenge?"

"It could be... Sir."

"What would you have me do to you?"

"Anything," he choked, and the word was loaded. His near-colorless eyes were gleaming with a high that only came from solving cases and the sting of a good slap and thrashing.

John's cock was aching at the sight of him this way, and the thoughts that suddenly flooded him did not help. "What if I had you crawl for me in public, Sherlock? What if I had you on a leash out there where everyone could see? Would you let me take it that far? What if I told Lestrade? What if he knew? What if I had you suck me off at a crime scene? Would you like that?"

"No, Sir, because I know it's now what you want."

"But would you obey me if I did want it?"

"Of course, Sir." Sherlock's eyes seemed to glow.

John knelt to be on eye-level with his detective. He took the chain of the dog tags into his fist, tight at Sherlock's throat. Sherlock did not budge, though he did lick his lips. "Now that's devotion," John sighed, gazing at his friend and partner admiringly. "You really are something, Sherlock."

Sherlock said nothing, but smiled a little awkwardly. Then he leaned forward, eager for a kiss, but John's grip on the dog tags was steadfast, and Sherlock choked a little. He could not move. He was under John's control, and John wanted their contact to be of his own initiative, not Sherlock's. John held him there for a few seconds- Sherlock looking on the verge of lunging- before moving forward to close the space between their needy lips. He devoured Sherlock's mouth thoroughly, enjoying the taste of the sticky tongue which heeled to him generously. But the taste of that tongue was not enough for him. He wanted to feel it sliding on his cock, and to hear it put to good use with wild screaming. Sherlock moaned openly against John, and that was too much for him. John pulled away for fear of shagging him right then. "Mm," he groaned, standing quickly but keeping Sherlock in his place. He breathed slowly for a few seconds, eyeing Sherlock cautiously, considering his next move. "Hands behind your back."

"Yes, Sir."

"Now, stay."

"Yes, Sir."

John let go of his dog tags. Sherlock was still as a brick, his luminescent skin looking radiant as he sunk under hard. "Good boy," he breathed, and stepped away. He drew from the bedside table the handcuffs they'd bought, and Sherlock's riding crop.

Approaching his detective again, he placed these objects on the floor beside him. He then knelt behind Sherlock, whose breathing picked up simply at this nearness. John inched the shirt from Sherlock's muscular shoulders, slowly teasing the flesh of his arms as it went so that the submissive man quivered with anticipation. As the linen fell away, the beautifully marked-up skin of Sherlock's back was revealed to John's eager eyes, and he was breathless for a second.

There was nothing sexier than the sight of Sherlock's bruised, cut, and beaten back. The striations were shining red and gleamed particularly bright against the perfect whiteness of Sherlock's alabaster skin. He ran his fingers along one particularly nasty welt which ran from the base of his left shoulder blade down to the top of his pelvis. The skin was dark and stretched over its raw surface. When John brushed it lightly, Sherlock's muscles tensed. He heard a sharp intake of breath. The pain he knew he was causing Sherlock made his cock throb anxiously. He was desperate to see Sherlock hurt more, to see him beg and scream for mercy, to punish him for making Lestrade suspicious.

Before he could stop himself, John leaned in and pressed his lips to the gorgeous cut. Sherlock arched, his hands instinctively attempting to swat John away, but John grabbed hold of Sherlock's slender wrists and pinned them down. The pain Sherlock felt as John resumed his one-sided kiss was delightful. He moaned gutturally as John's tongue poked out and lapped at his bruises. It felt warm and wet and wonderful. It was the best kind of pain. A metal click met Sherlock's ears, and the cool texture of the handcuffs settled around his wrists. Ah. Restriction. Perfect.

Then John's touch was suddenly gone, and Sherlock ached for him again. Thankfully, he did not have long to wait. John was in front of him seconds later. He picked up the riding crop, and stood before the vulnerable detective contemplatively. Sherlock thought he looked amazing. His shirt was a little bit tight- just enough that he could see the outlines of John's musculature, shaped from his army training and still a lovely sight to behold. "Ah, Sir," he sighed tenderly, his eyes going soft. That made John laugh.

"Sherlock," he chuckled. "You're starting to sound sentimental. It's unlike you."

"It is my servitude, Sir, nothing more. My devotion." He spoke quickly.

Sometimes John could barely believe this was the same unfeeling genius who solved crimes every day. Here, when he had him alone in his bedroom, Sherlock became a mere puddle of himself- a squirming heap of desire, malleable to John's every word and eager to please. He felt so lucky.

He undid his trousers. They fell softly around his ankles. He was so hard already, and part of him wanted to simply bend Sherlock over and violate his backside with no warning or lubricant, but no- he would not. They both loved the foreplay too much. "Open, Sherlock," he commanded, and his subservient detective did as he was told.

Finally, after the day which had felt like torture for them both, John was able to sheath himself in Sherlock's waiting mouth. The sleuth gagged, but held determinedly still. John took Sherlock by the hair, and held on tight, reigning him in as he pulled back the arm which held the crop. He felt Sherlock's tongue exploring the base of his cock with all its might, and he almost came undone. Sliding himself in a little further, popping into the back of Sherlock's throat, John gathered his wits.

Whack!

The resulting groan Sherlock emitted vibrated around John's cock, and he moaned deeply. Sherlock's body was trembling. His shoulder blade felt like it was on fire. The burning sensation sent jolts of pleasure to his groin. He wanted release already. He felt like he'd been holding it in all day. He was pumping against the air, rubbing himself on the inside of his trousers, desperation running rampant in his blood. "Stop that," John said firmly, and he did, though he still trembled. "You are not allowed to come. Not unless I order you to." He thrust in deep at those words with a wet squelch. "Is that understood?"

Sherlock moaned around his cock, drool starting to ooze from the corners of his lips, clearly attempting the words "Yes, Sir," but only managing a strangled grunt with his mouth stuffed full. John removed him from his cock with a good tug, and Sherlock sputtered.

"What was that, Sherlock? Hmm?"

"Yes, Sir," he gasped, panting deeply.

"Good. Again." He forced the detective back onto his cock, and after three long seconds of standing still in the detective's tight throat, John brought the riding crop down again.

Whack!

Sherlock writhed, struggling against his cuffs. Tears were forming in his eyes. His skin was flushed all over, and the magnificent sputtering noises were an incredible turn on to John.

"What do we say, Sherlock?" The sleuth blinked furiously, looking bewildered. "Come on. What do you say?" He pulled him off his cock again, and stared him right in the eye as he steadied his breathing. "Are you happy I hit you?"

The nod was eager. His pupils were dilated and his expression was obedient. John could tell how far under Sherlock was. He had reached the deep headspace from which he could not come back without an order to. "Yes, Sir."

"Well then, what do you say?" Sherlock still looked quite bemused. Frustrated, John slapped him. The sound echoed, and the look on Sherlock's face and his suppressed whimpering made John's cock throb. "You thank me, Sherlock," he said. "Thank me when I whip you, and you won't get slapped. Do the best you can at it while I'm fucking your throat, yeah?"

And back he went. Sherlock barely had time to take another breath before he was filled again completely. John was so deep inside him that his pubic hair was actually tickling Sherlock's nose. He was gagging intensely. Seconds passed of stillness, and then-

Whack!

The sting came violently. It shook through his nerves like a shot of something hot and numbing. "Thank you, Sir!" he tried. Really, all he could do was make a funny sound.

"Ooh," John moaned, and Sherlock felt the cock in his throat twitch. "Let me hear that again." He withdrew the detective from him again, and waited.

Coughing, Sherlock gasped: "Thank you, Sir!"

"Ah," John sighed. "Fantastic." Sherlock's face glowed. "More?" he asked, with the air of someone asking if they desired a refill on their tea.

"Yes, Sir."

Without a second thought, John plunged back between those perfect, plump lips which were rosy and swollen from the service. He was hot and wet, and agreeable to every violent thrust. The depth's of Sherlock felt amazing. John was thrusting too sporadically for Sherlock to actually apply proper suction. His mouth was forced as wide as it could go, his shapely lips growing wetter every second from all the saliva which slid down his chin. His eyes were pleading, anxious to feel the next sting.

Whack!

Once again, Sherlock's whole body convulsed. His shuddering cry of pain and his muffled "Thank you, Sir!" reverberated through John's cock so that they both moaned and gasped. Pleasure racked them both. John glanced over Sherlock's shoulder to see the gorgeous red marks blooming freshly on the vast expanse of damaged skin. It was so beautiful, he could not help himself any longer. He had to come.

The orgasm struck John like a knife. The ecstasy spider-webbed its way through his veins, causing him to spasm uncontrollably. His fist balled in Sherlock's hair dragged the man closer so that as he shot down the throat of his slave, Sherlock was forced to choke and sputter. As the storm began to calm, he allowed another whack! of the crop to his detective's back. The force of it was so strong that in combination with the semen jutting down his throat, Sherlock let out an actual sob.

It was a sound so magnificent, John could have ridden his waves into a second orgasm right then and there, but he restrained himself.

When he let go of his sweet detective, the man fell back onto the floor in a heap. His back was throbbing. His jaw was aching as he licked his lips. There was semen and spit running down his chin and staining his perfect neck. He looked excellently debauched. John shivered at the perfect sight of his boy before him. Another moment of disbelief struck him. He could barely understand how he was so lucky to be chosen as the one to distract Sherlock, to please him, to own him.

John knelt, and touched a spot of the fluid on Sherlock's jaw before forcing his fingers into Sherlock's mouth. "Suck, Sherlock," he said. The warm mouth closed obediently around his dirtied fingers, and John felt his heart constrict at the pleasure of Sherlock worshiping him with his tongue. He moaned. "Uhn... Yes, that's right, boy. More." John slid his fingers out from between Sherlock's lips to wipe up more of the spilt semen. "Open up, boy. Open. Take all of it." He fed Sherlock again, and it was the detective's turn to moan this time as he licked John's fingers clean. His face was one of reverence, as though John's fingers, covered in ejaculate, were his deity. "Oh, good boy," John said with a hiss of excitement. "Very good boy. What do you say?"

Sherlock blinked, his breathing heavy and his pupils so wide they nearly obliterated the blue. "Thank you, Sir," he growled in a deep rumble. "Please, Sir, I need to..."

"What?" John stood, dragging his detective up to level with him by the chain around his neck. "You need to what? Do you need to come, boy?"

Sherlock nodded. He was very flushed, and bashfulness was evident in his eyes. John simply laughed adoringly.

"You are not allowed to, Sherlock. You know that. Not until I give the order. And if I choose never to give it, then you don't come at all. Understood?"

Sherlock groaned. He was shaking, but he nodded dutifully all the same. "Yes, Sir," he finally said through gritted teeth.

"Good boy. Now..." John straightened himself, smoothing out his shirt and zipping his trousers. "Today I'll give you the choice: The flogger, the riding crop, or my belt?"

Sherlock gulped, looking dazed.

"It's up to you. I'll just wait until you decide." He led Sherlock by the dog tags to the bed, and sat him on it. Sherlock wincied. John sat back on the pillows, waiting for an answer.

Sherlock was panting a little, his eyes moving quickly in their sockets as he thought.

Finally, with a deep breath he whispered, "Flogger."

John sat up, turned Sherlock to face him, and slapped him hard, feeling the punishment weigh heavy on his chest. He knew Sherlock loved to be punished, but he also loved Sherlock to obey without mistake. "What was that, Sherlock?" he said quietly. The sweetness of his voice and expression never quite suited the roughness of his actions. This relationship was not a cruel one. That was what John was afraid people wouldn't understand. It was one born of pleasure and need.

"I want the flogger, Sir!" he said loudly, putting great emphasis on the last word as though to prove his subservience.

"Very well, boy." John got up to retrieve the toy while Sherlock sat there trembling in silence. When he returned, he stood over Sherlock's seated figure clutching the thing in his hands, stroking its leather tresses and smiling gently at his submissive.

Sherlock purred up at him, his eyes wanting. He licked his lips. The pain of his back was making his whole body hum with desire and relief, and he felt like he was on fire. He could not stop himself from shaking. All he wanted was to be touched, to be hurt, and to come in the midst of a hard whipping. But that was not up to him. That was up to John, his master; that was up to the man who owned his body and heart.

As John took control of him and moved him to his will, Sherlock breathed deeply and slowly, reveling in the fogginess of his sub space. John pressed him down on his stomach, face down on the mattress but with his head tilted slightly so that he could breath. His erect cock hurt badly in this position, but he was quite sure John knew that and did not care.

The army doctor lavished his detective's new wounds with sloppy kisses. He let his tongue soothe the tangy torn flesh, obsessing over Sherlock's moans and the way his arms twisted in their confines. He loved the way Sherlock struggled. He loved the way he submitted himself without doubting John's power for a second. He felt, then, a sudden urge to bite down- hard- onto one of the healing wounds, to open it again, to taste Sherlock's blood. The dark thought made his cock pulsed at the thought, but he would not do it. He pulled himself away, and began to remove Sherlock's trousers. He took care to deliberately brush the head of Sherlock's cock as he tugged the material over his hips so that the poor sleuth writhed and groaned in his position.

The trousers were on the floor, and god, John thought, what an arse Sherlock has. It was round and delicious looking. A plump fruit perfect for squeezing to a pulp. It was riddled with the healing cuts and bruises from their last session, and John was reminded brilliantly of the fact that Sherlock suffered these all the time. Everywhere Sherlock went, he would feel them ache. Especially when he sat.

Humming to himself, feeling blissful in his post-orgasm state, John lightly trailed the instrument over the backs of Sherlock's naked thighs, which quivered in anticipation. He wanted to avoid the back after all the attention it had just received. Now, he focused his energies on the thighs, and with a strong arm, raised the flogger high and let it swing.

The echoing crack! made John's ears ring. Sherlock's thighs went instantly pink, and his body tensed. "Th-thank you, Sir," he said. John's stomach did a somersault in its excitement.

Thwack! Again, the flogger hit Sherlock's thighs. The rosy color rose in the pallid flesh gorgeously. "Thank you, Sir."

"Spread," John ordered. His submissive obeyed.

John whipped the inside of each thigh twice, and was thanked diligently each time. Poor Sherlock was squirming, his cock achingly hard between his belly and the bed. He was thrusting ever so slightly, so desperate for friction. It was terrible.

Thwack! Sherlock cried out in pain as the flogger came down upon his buttocks. The flesh broke out immediately in deep red splotches which formed a perfect pattern. John was tempted to take a picture. "Thank you, Sir," Sherlock moaned. God , he loved this. He waited, eager for the next one to come, but it didn't. "Sir?" He looked around. John had withdrawn. "Sir, what-"

"Ah, Sherlock," John sighed with a smile. "You just lie there for me like a good boy, alright?" John stroked Sherlock's hair. "I will not touch you anymore."

Sherlock's disbelief was more painful than the sting of any whip. He was naked on his stomach with his wrists handcuffed behind his back, and there John was, fully clothed and walking away, paying absolutely no mind to him. "Please, Sir," he began to beg. "Why are you doing this?"

"Isn't it obvious?" said John, not looking back. He did not need to elaborate. Sherlock's mind went into overdrive, and he understood.

"Yes, Sir," he hissed. "You are testing me, Sir."

Why, why was John testing him today? This was horrible. Cruel. He was desperate now. He needed John's touch. He needed to be fucked so hard he'd feel it days later.

He closed his eyes and started to imagine. He considered what it would feel like to have John's lips around his own cock, so watch his master enjoy his taste and suck him in deep. He moaned just thinking about it. John smirked at this as he leaned against the wall by the door, watching his slave wriggle for him.

Sherlock imagined John in his uniform, humping him through the camoflaged fabric, and his cock ached. He imagined John with a knife in his hand, running the blade along Sherlock's inner thigh. He could practically feel the burn on his skin as he pictured the cut, imagining the blood spilling and the pain searing through him. He bit his bottom lip, squirming with a need he could practically taste. "Please, Sir," he growled into the pillow. "Please." But John did not respond. He was leaving him completely to his own devices. Begging wasn't even going to cut it. How long was he going to leave him there?

It was at that thought that John suddenly straightened from his spot on the wall. "Y'know," he said thoughtfully. "I think you'll be fine here on your own, won't you, boy?"

Sherlock groaned. "Wha- What, Sir? What do you mean?" His cock was so sore, he didn't think he'd be fine at all until John let him come.

John chuckled deeply, gazing at Sherlock with an expression of utmost affection. "I want to know that you can really, really obey me. When I say you're not to come, when I say you're to lie there naked for however long I please and not move from that spot... you'll listen. Won't you?"

The sleuth gave a muffled cry into the pillow. "Hm... Yes... Sir..."

"Good." And at that, John left the room, shutting the door behind him. As he walked away, he grinned to himself. This would have Sherlock gagging for it by the time he returned.

Sherlock could have screamed with fury. He wanted to come and he wanted to come now. He was so anxious for release, and so mad with pain, he didn't think he could stand this. "Please," he sighed to the empty room. "Please." But the silence did not respond. If it weren't for the intense pain of his muscles and his newly throbbing whip-marks, Sherlock would have reverted to a bored state. But, as it was, this pleasurable pain, this sexual torment, turned out to be the only thing that could appease him so he did not lose himself in his vast mind with boredom.

It was not long before he was rocking back and forth on the sheets, rubbing himself, disobediently trying to get off. He wanted John here. He wanted the touch of the other man to bring him to climax. It had been too long. Days too long. And after what John had put him through earlier... Well, it's needless to say that Sherlock's lust had certainly been at its height. His hands were immobilized, and John was trusting him not to come, but god it was hard- really hard not to!

His mouth and jaw were still sticky from John's come, and out of pure madness he found himself wildly attempting to lick it up. His tongue strained for it. The muscles of his arms were aching badly from the position he was in. The skin of his back (and thighs) was positively pounding, but somehow all of his discomfort faded to unimportance when his cock was this full, leaking painfully onto the sheets beneath him. He rolled over slightly to give his crotch room to breathe, but the air on him only made him crazier. He was growling, his eyes aflame with intense rage.

Time felt extra slow. He didn't know how long it was that he lay there, crying. It might have been an hour. It might have been a day.

He restrained from shouting until the very last second- until he though there was no possible way he could hold himself back any longer. "John!" he started shouting. "Come back, John! Please! I can't! Please, Sir, fuck me, please! Fuck me 'til I die, just please, please, please! Fuck me 'til I'm worn and useless, just please, fuck me now, Sir! Now!"

The whole world seemed to go deadly quiet following his outburst. The door creaked open slowly. John stood silhouetted in the doorway, his arms crossed. "It's only been forty-five minutes," he said quietly, and Sherlock cringed. "Not very good, Sherlock. Not good at all."

"Then hurt me for my failure, Sir," he moaned. He was loud and unabashed, now. His need had reached an insatiable level. "Punish me, Sir, John, my master, just don't leave me here a second longer. I have to come. I have to. Please. Please. Please."

John's adoring grin did not escape Sherlock's notice, and in fact only egged the detective on. He begged as diligently as he could, knowing how John loved to hear his desperation voiced. "Please, Sir!" he repeated over and over again. "Please. I'm begging you." John's tall erection strained towards the frazzled writhing figure handcuffed on his bed, but he did not undo his trousers yet. No. He had a better idea. "Please, Sir. Please, master, Sir, I'm begging you. I'll do anything. Please have me as yours, Sir."

"No," said John. Sherlock whined.

John approached his poor slave, and stroked his back lovingly, tenderly, the way one pets an animal to calm them. "Better idea. Here." He carefully removed the handcuffs. The skin there was very red from where the metal had cut into him a little. Sherlock rolled onto his back immediately, and as his shoulders came forward, Sherlock moaned with relief. After a second, he scrambled forward, clawing at John desperately, begging to be fucked. But John drew away from him. "Touch yourself," he said, taking a seat on the opposite end of the bed. He crossed his legs, folded his hands in his lap, and waited.

Sherlock's eyes widened. He shook his head, though his hands were already inching unconsciously towards his purpling cock. John glared deviously. "That's an order."

The resulting moan was such a deep baritone it made John grin. Sherlock could never resist a direct order. His long white hand wrapped gently around his cock, and the very instant of his touch elicited a gratuitous grunt from him. John sat back, watching with definite interest as Sherlock's enormous hand began to move, slowly up and down his cock. The motion was slow and steady at first, but they quickly became more active. His breathing was sporadic. "Faster, Sherlock," he demanded.

"Yes, Sir." The submissive pumped himself harder. The tip of his cock was growing redder and wetter with every motion. John was quite certain the man wouldn't last long, and he was right.

"Please," he panted. "May I, Sir?"

John licked his lips. His cock twitched at the question. "Yes," he breathed. "Come for me, Sherlock."

Sherlock came hard, soiling his chest and the comforter beneath them (though it was certainly not the first time that had happened). His filthy moans rang in John's ears. John's cock was aching now. He needed it so badly.

John was on him so fast, he didn't even remember making the decision to grab Sherlock round the waist and flip him onto his stomach again. Sherlock just looked so good, weak and sweating and drowning in the bliss of his orgasm. That thick cock looked fucking delicious, and his own body was betraying him. He wanted to be inside Sherlock more than he wanted to keep breathing at the moment. His trousers were undone and the lubricant was on his hands before he knew it. John pushed his wet fingers inside the detective, who growled in a total daze as the shocks of his orgasm still tingled through him.

Sherlock's voice was languid now as calm washed over him, but that did not prevent him from begging properly. He still wanted to be fucked. "God, John, yes, Sir, oh, fuck me, yes, Sir, there, harder, please, please go deeper, please, hurt me, Sir, I need it, I need your cock, it's all I need, Sir."

The stream of words did not cease. John had half a mind to gag the man, but Sherlock's words in that ethereal voice of his was such a turn-on. He just needed to fuck him.

In one deep thrust, he penetrated Sherlock. The submissive hissed, and went still. His fingers were clenched tightly on the bedspread, braced against the roughness of John's pumps. The doctor was not slow about it. Not even a little. He slammed the submissive detective hard into the mattress until he burst open again, driven to a second orgasm. The tight, hot walls around John's cock spasmed. Both men quivered from the pleasure of it.

With every hard pump, John somehow felt he was digging deeper into Sherlock's mind and soul than ever before, forcing him into an impregnable headspace that would keep him under his ownership forever. The feeling was warm, and it spread through him like a growing light. He found himself growling ferociously, a sound which rumbled through his entire body, and Sherlock could feel it from the inside. As he fucked him, John admired Sherlock's back like a painting to be studied. The skin was a white canvas upon which delicious splashes of red now shined. The fronts of his thighs were repeatedly slamming into the lashes Sherlock donned on the backs of his. It was perfect. John shagged him ruthlessly into yet a third orgasm during which Sherlock bellowed his name, his eyes rolled into the back of his head as the euphoric succession overwhelmed him.

Sherlock collapsed, and the only thing that kept him on his knees was John's strong grip. His hands had Sherlock's waist clutched tight as his cock continued to impale the consulting detective over and over, sliding in and out deliberately and without mercy. "Please, Sir," Sherlock cried out. "Please, Sir!"

"Please... what?" John paused, holding himself deep within Sherlock as though his body was a sheath made only for him.

Sherlock gulped. "I need it, Sir." It was a low, desirous growl.

"What, Sherlock?" He stroked the sleuth's hair coaxingly. "What do you need? Tell me."

"I... need... it."

John slapped Sherlock's hard on the rear. The man flinched and yelped. John started to move again inside him, thrusting hard between each word. "Tell... me... what... you... want."

Sherlock was breathless, and seemed to struggle hard to get out his words. "I want your come in me, Sir."

John couldn't take that. The devotion overwhelmed him, and he came with a deep grunt inside his friend. "Oh... Sherlock..." The name felt good on his lips as he shot hard in Sherlock and held him there, making sure he could feel every spurt. 

"Th- Thank you, Sir."

When he rolled off Sherlock, he shuffled so that he was lying against Sherlock's exhausted form. "Sherlock," he said gently, taking the dog tags in his hand and closing them in his fist. Sherlock's eyes were gleaming. His eyelids were heavy and his pupils were blown wide. He looked totally lust-addled, and ah, John found it endearing. He smiled and kissed Sherlock passionately. "Sherlock," John repeated, muttering the word with his lips still pressed against Sherlock's lovely mouth. "Thank you for everything."

Sherlock laughed deeply. "That's a bit dramatic of you, Sir," he said, but he was smiling warmly in a way that told John he understood.

"I hope..." John began, but then paused. Sherlock looked at him curiously, and reached out to touch his face. John leaned in to Sherlock's palm and inhaled deeply, surroudning himself in the smell of Sherlock's skin and sex. After a moment's hesitation, he went on "I hope that we can have this forever." Sherlock's lips pursed. "I hope we continue to explore new territories of each other every day, and that it never ends. Do you think that's possible?"

Sherlock shrugged, his eyes shifting, looking awkward the way he always did in situations that required honest talk. "I don't see why not," he said thoughtfully, though stiffly. "We work well together, Sir. You please me and I please you. Besides, that's what people do, isn't it? Find someone to be with and stay with them forever? Sir?"

John looked a little miffed. "But people don't usually stay together forever, Sherlock. People get bored."

The detective squinted. "Oh, I see," he said, closing his eyes as he came to the obvious conclusion. "You are afraid I will get bored of you. You are afraid you cannot please me like this forever and that I will abandon you when the next addiction comes along. Is that right, Sir?" John nodded. The submissive's sigh was hot on John's face, and it smelled sour, like semen. "Oh, John," he said sleepily. "There is no other person I'd rather share my life with. Why you are too stupid to realize that is actually beyond me."

The ex- army doctor's heart grew fluttery and meek. He leaned forward instinctually and kissed Sherlock's eyelids. The man purred, and nuzzled him a little. Their foreheads pressed together. "Sherlock," he sghed. "Thank you for being exactly you."

"That is a stupid thing to thank me for. Who else would I be?"

John smacked him playfully. Both men smiled. "I could tie you down to this bed and leave you here, unwashed and smelling like come all damn night, y'know. Don't test me!"

"But you've been testing me all day, Sir. That hardly seems fair."

Those great blue eyes were twinkling with mischief. John smirked, leaning over his submissive intently. "Who said my orders would ever be fair, boy?" He slipped his fingers into Sherlock's mouth, forcing it wide. He gazed into it, admiring every bump on the smooth tongue and the shape of each tooth. It was amazing how pliable Sherlock was to his touch. His very own slave for pleasure, slave to his word and his hand and his cock. "God, I love you," he said without thinking. Sherlock blinked, but otherwise showed no reaction. Then John spit (just a little) into the gaping mouth before him. Mine, he thought. All fucking mine. And he lunged down for another bruising, dizzying kiss. He was fucking the mouth with his tongue, and every few seconds he pulled away to snarl the word: "Mine."

Pretty soon, Sherlock was responding with "Yours" each time, so their wild kissing became a cacophony of "Mine" and "Yours," like a wet, verbal ping-pong match. Then Sherlock winced (and gasped) conspicuously when John put a hand to his chest, pressing his back against the mattress a little harder. The interlude made John stop. He gazed at Sherlock, whose eyes were alight with passion again.

"I..." The detective looked uncomfortable.

"What is it, boy?" John put a hand on his temple, trying to soothe him.

"I think I..." He swallowed, then decided to turn the sentence around. "I do plan on being yours forever, Sir."

John's heart sung, and he kissed him again.

That night they fell asleep together, both souls feeling lighter than before.

Chapter 5: Well Deserved

Sherlock's ears were pounding. His skin felt like it was on fire. He was so happy. All power was relinquished into John's hands, and he delighted in it that freedom. John had never felt so trusted. Sherlock's arms were belted behind his back, so John could not reach the flesh there. Though normally not being able to strike Sherlock's back would annoy him, he did not mind today. He had torn that vast expanse of waxen skin to shreds over the last caseless week. 

After the first time Sherlock accidentally let slip "Sir" at a crime scene, John had more or less let it slide. He punished him mildly, as previously documented, but the second time it happened, John made Sherlock pay grievously. Both men were equally pleased for the opportunity for John to exert his authority.

It had been just last week. Sherlock had just solved their last case, and in a moment of blind joy, he had leapt into the air and exclaimed dramatically, "The man must be a genius! Ah, Sir, this really is most exciting." Lestrade had snorted, and the bizarre expression on Anderson's face caused John to blush. He could say nothing about it, however. All he could do was punish him later. And that he did.

No other cases had come to them over this past week week, and John was quite happy about that. He had kept Sherlock with his hands bound in front of him for most of it. The consulting detective took some of the most vicious beatings of his life. After the first day of punishment, Sherlock had come without permission. John, understanding what would really be a proper punishment, had taken to ignoring Sherlock for an entire day, and denying him orgasm for the rest of the week. The poor detective spent all twenty four hours at John's feet. Some of it was spent in silence as Sherlock bit his tongue to keep from begging. For a large amount of time, Sherlock's desperation got the best of him, and he begged. He clung to John's calves and whimpered while John typed up their latest case on his blog, trying his best to ignore the detective and to suppress his erection. God, the level of Sherlock's devotion was simply overwhelming. It was beyond devotion that Shrelock gave to him, in fact: It was obsession; addiction; physical reliance. To own Sherlock this way? It was a deeper bond than that of most ordinary relationships. It was built on trust and need, and was more meaningful and healing than anything 'normal' because Sherlock's overstimulated brain needed this to function. It was either this for the mad genius, or constant agonizing boredom, tantrums, and cocaine. What they had was good for them, and it was beyond ordinary love. That was what John was afraid people would never understand: that Sherlock needed this. That was why John didn't want to go public just yet.

At the end of that day of silence, John had sighed, and leaned forward on his knees to address Sherlock at last. The look on Sherlock's face, of someone so dazed as if by narcotics, lifted like a fog as their eyes met. His boredom seemed to be raging behind his lust-adled expression.

"Are you going to be good for me, now, Sherlock?"

He nodded eagerly, his startlingly blue eyes shining with tears. "Yes, Sir."

"You are not to orgasm without my permission again. You are under my power, Sherlock, and now you are being punished. You will continue to be punished until I decide. You disobeyed me. You deserve this. Understood?"

Sherlock's breathing hitched. He was panting, fidgeting with the binds around his wrists as he knelt. "Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

That week, Sherlock underwent a painful time. He'd been strapped to their kitchen table and whipped, then abandoned while John ate his supper and watched some telly. When John had finished and unfastened Sherlock from his bonds, he fucked his slave through the night, reminding him between dizzying thrusts that he was not to orgasm. Sherlock had been dangled by his wrists from the lamp hook on their bedroom ceiling and flogged thoroughly, fulfilling a deep-seated fantasy of John's. Sherlock's back was in tatters, but he seemed happier than John could ever remember, practically buzzing with excitement non-stop. He certainly wasn't bored anymore. To ease Sherlock's pain, John bought him painkillers, but the sleuth refused them. He was happy to suffer it out, and upon hearing those words, John buried his cock in Sherlock's throat.

Sherlock's dazed smile throughout the week would have been disconcerting had anyone other than John laid eyes on it. His eyes remained glossy and out of focus as though stoned out of his mind, and in a way, he was. He was sated by the distraction and frustration. Even though he was denied orgasm for so long, Sherlock was constantly blissed out of his mind. John, too, was in a state of indefinable joy in response to the obedience Sherlock granted him.

On this night, however, John was full to his brim with pride. He had decided that the time of punishment was over. He had been so good all week, and John thought the happy submissive deserved it after all he'd taken. So it was that John made a silent vow to keep off Sherlock's overused back. He had been so violently whipped, flogged, and caned in the past week, John really didn't want to open those wounds any more. Tonight, he felt happier with a softer approach; tonight, he wanted to avoid any toys that weren't Sherlock and the belt which bound his arms.

John was seated on the edge of his bed as though it were his throne. He had summoned Sherlock to his side on hands and knees. "Good boy," he muttered encouragingly, as he belted Sherlock's offered forearms. "Very good boy. So obedient. My sweet, sweet Sherlock. All mine."

"Yours, Sir," Sherlock breathed weakly. His bare knees trembled against the hardwood floor beneath them. "Yes, Sir." John's groin twitched instinctively at the gorgeous way Sherlock sank into sub-space, his pupils expanding noticeably and his eyelids drooping.

"Up." Tightly bound, Sherlock crawled onto John's lap, and with some difficult maneuvering, Sherlock settled himself across John's thighs. John was still fully clothed, but it was easy to feel his erection pressing against Sherlock's naked side. He took a deep breath and stroked Sherlock's head encouragingly. "Good boy. Good, good boy."

"Thank you, Sir." Laid across John's lap like this, Sherlock had never felt so safe. The discomfort was not bad, and the anticipation was pleasing. He looked forward to what was coming, whatever it was. He knew John would give him what he needed. John always knew what was best for his body and mind. This was the reason Sherlock submitted to John, and only to John. He could never trust another to understand him so well.

John's hands were soft as they trailed along his scrunched shoulder blades. Sherlock felt a shiver pass over him and instigate goosebumps over the whole surface area of his body. He kept still, though. That was one of John's rules for the week. He was not to move unless directed, or unless John told him he was relieved from duty. (Once, earlier in the week, John had told him he was free from duty for the night, and Sherlock had become crestfallen. He'd dropped to his knees and had not moved. He'd seemed at a loss. He had no experiments going, and no cases to speak of. John had sighed and gone to read his book while Sherlock sat there at his feet, and John absently stroked his submissive's hair as though he were an obedient dog.)

"So still for me. What a good boy." Sherlock smiled to the floor, holding himself steady across John's knees as he felt the pride leap in his heart. "You have been so, so good for me this week, Sherlock." John petted his head and arms again. Sherlock felt wonderfully like a lapdog. "You deserve a reward, I think, for how compliently you accepted this week's punishment.

Sherlock swallowed hard. "Thank you, Sir. Oh, thank you, Sir, thank you." John's delicate fingers ran over the belt that had him trapped, then landed in the palm of Sherlock's hand. For a second, they held on tight to each other, and both felt in their hearts for the slightest moment like an ordinary couple holding hands. But then John withdrew, and Sherlock's warm palm was left wanting. He felt John's sweet touch travel warmly onto his smooth buttocks. He stroked the flesh there. It was barely bruised, and near-flawless. John had been avoiding his backside this week, focusing instead on Sherlock's back and shoulders in sections.

Now, John's attention became zeroed in on Sherlock's arse. Lovely. Round. Taught. Pale. A perfect surface to work on, he thought, as he traced its stunning shape. The urge struck him, and he smacked it hard. The flesh bloomed slightly pink. Ah, John thought. Gorgeous. Sherlock tensed, but kept still, biting his lip to keep from making a sound. Oh, John loved the way the skin grew rosy when he hit it, so he went for it again. He slapped Sherlock's arse with a thwack of his stiff palm, and reveled in the red pattern it left behind. "Oh, Sherlock," he said, stroking his blushing skin lovingly. "You are so good to me, Sherlock. So, so good to me." He hit him again, and Sherlock- though he stayed silent- threw his head back instinctively as the sting befell him. "Sh, sh, sh. You're alright, Sherlock. You're alright. You're perfect." John tangled his fingers into Sherlock's hair and held him still as he raised his arm again. "There, there." Another whack. Sherlock flinched. "There, you see? Isn't that nice?"

Sherlock made an odd sound in the back of his throat. It seemed a cross between a moan and a whine of pain. "Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

His hand came down again, and Sherlock's body squirmed uncontrollably at the hard smack. "There, there," John said soothingly. "You're doing beautifully." The hand in Sherlock's hair let loose its grip to stroke the submissive's scalp. "Aw, there you go. Sh, very good. Good, good boy. My boy."

"Yours," Sherlock said compliantly, sounding completely winded. "Yes, Sir. Always, Sir."

"How many more, Sherlock?"

"Sir?"

John grasped Sherlock at the base of his scalp again, harder this time. Sherlock hissed through his teeth at this light pain. "I asked," John growled, leaning close so that as he spoke, his lips brushed Sherlock's ear, "how many more, Sherlock? How many more times shall I spank you?"

Sherlock shook his head as best he could with his movement firmly in John's control. "I... however many you want to give me, Sir. However many you think I deserve, Sir."

"Are you enjoying this?"

Sherlock let out a breathy sigh. His chest was drumming hard against John's leg. "Yes, Sir."

"Then let me hear you thank me when I grant you another..." He hit him again. "Mm, another good whack. What do you say, love?"

"Hn.. uh... th-thank you, Sir."

"Ah. Very good, Sherlock. Good boy. My dear, obedient boy."

Sherlock whimpered as John spanked him again. "Thank you, Sir," he said, and his words were wrapped around a sly moan which sent a filthy pulse to John's cock. Sherlock could feel it, twitching with need against his naked belly. Sherlock was hard, too, but after the last week he had gotten very good at suppressing his desire in order to survive the orgasm denial. The next whack brought quite a shudder to his cock, though, and oh how badly he wanted to come. "Uhn... th-thank you, Sir!"

"Mm, good boy."

Oh, when John told him he was a good boy it made Sherlock's heart flutter. It made him feel in his place, like he was meant to be John's pet. It made his mind feel safe and loved and cared for. "Thank you, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

John laughed. "Easy, there. I haven't even spanked you yet, and you're already thanking me? Someone's a little desperate."

"Sorry, Sir."

The next spank made Sherlock moan loudly. "Oh! Thank you, Sir!" He was wiggling his legs and curling his toes anxiously without even realizing it.

That was when John became ruthless. He wailed on Sherlock's arse repeatedly, with no rest between each hit, altering between the left and right cheeks with equal vigor. Sherlock was moaning almost ceaselessly through this onslaught, practically yodeling as he tried to slide in a chant of "Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, yes, yes, yes, thank you, yes, Sir!"

John's cock was nagging at Sherlock's side, grinding greedily into him. When John finally stopped this downpour of spanking, he stroked the reddened arse tenderly and both men moaned, positively gagging for complete release. "Oh, god, Sherlock... just the sound of your voice makes me so hot. You are such a good, good boy, Sherlock. Let me give you what you deserve."

Sherlock's voice was nearly a whisper. "Yes, Sir."

"Up, boy." Sherlock was obedient. He stood, on trembling legs. It took all his strength not to collapse to his knees, but for John he'd do anything, so he stayed on his feet. "Good boy." John stood after him and stared him down, sending shivers down Sherlock's spine. "Now," John whispered, his eyes twinkling, "sit on the edge of the bed."

"Yes, Sir." Sherlock did as he was told, following every order with diligence. He sat at rapt attention, his expression so deep in obedient mode that John could barely look at him for fear of being pushed over the edge. Sherlock's shoulders were very sore, and the crinkled wounds on his back were aching, but he ignored it. He focused instead on the enjoyable pinch of leather on skin where the belt was digging into his forearms.

John knelt between his slave's legs. Sherlock looked down at him in surprise. "Sir?"

The smirk on John's face made the corners of Sherlock's mouth twitch. "Sh, Sherlock. You deserve this." John's fingers trailed up Sherlock's hard torso, and the submissive moaned. John laughed at the quivering he could sense under his touch. He grabbed hold of Sherlock's nippes and held them tightly, not quite pinching yet but definitely affirming his power. "Just enjoy it." He lowered his mouth to Sherlock's tall, jutting cock, and placed his lips around the head.

Sherlock threw his head back in a dramatic moan as John trailed his domineering tongue down the length of him. The detective's low growling voice was dripping pleasure. "Uhn! John... John... Oh, yes, Sir. Yes, Sir!" He was stiff, clearly trying to stay still under John's command despite his body's instinct to thrash. He was rolling his shoulders involuntarily, hurting himself as he did. The look on his face was a delicious mixture of pain and ecstasy, and John loved it. Taking Sherlock's cock further into his hot mouth, he tightened his grip on Sherlock's nipples so that the tall man hissed. He twisted them- hard. "Sir!" Sherlock's tone was a loud, uncharacteristic squeal of delighted excitement.

John's cock throbbed. He moaned around Sherlock, and the vibration traveled through Sherlock's veins. John could see it shake through his friend's body from his position, and it pleased him deeply to invoke such a reaction. "Mm." He used his tongue to add pressure to the suction, and licked the length of his submissive.

"Oh, Sir," Sherlock cried. There were tears in his eyes, and bliss plastered his face. "Oh, Sir. Yes. Yes, Sir, yes!"

The cock in John's mouth slipped out with an obscene, wet pop. "You are doing splendidly, Sherlock," he told him, twisting the submissive's nipples in the opposite direction. "Fantastic. Yes. Good boy."

Sherlock let out a strangled cry. "I am! I am good, for you, Sir, I am yours, and I will always be good for you, Sir!"

"Mm, my good boy." John brought his mouth down to Sherlock's testicles, and took them into his mouth. Sherlock's legs were writhing, his thighs clamping around John's shoulders. The enjoyment John got from watching Sherlock this close to the edge made him wish to go further. He trailed his tongue down, tasting the tangy perineum, then taking the final step. He licked Sherlock's entrance.

The detective let out a yowl like a furious cat. John chuckled against Sherlock's skin, then plunged ahead.

The sensations washed over Sherlock, ensnaring his mind in a cacoon of thoughtless bliss. The tickling pleasure was building quickly in him as his master fucked him rhythmically with his slick and skillful tongue. "Sir... John... Sir, my... Oh, John... Oh, yes, Sir... please...hnn..." The pleasure fused gorgeously with the searing pain of his nipples and the hot stinging of his back. It was all too much. "I might... I think I... oh, Sir, I can't... I have to..."

John forced himself to stop. He knew what was about to happen, and he wanted to feel that from the inside. He let go of Sherlock's nipples, and stood quickly. "Stay."

"Yes, Sir." Sherlock's voice was high-pitched and positively hysterical. He bit his lip and squirmed uncontrollably where he sat. Every inch of him felt like it was on fire. He felt anxious and desperate without John's touch.

On his way to the bedside table for the lubricant, John undid his trousers with fumbling fingers. His desire to be inside of Sherlock was intense and it was clouding his mind, making it hard to concentrate on the simple task of retrieving the necessary lubricant from his drawer. As quickly as he could, he slicked his cock, and with a drop of it on a couple of fingers, he returned to Sherlock. He stretched his friend wide until Sherlock was an absolute mess- a melted wreck of his former self beneath John's steady hands. "Ah, ah, ah! Yes! Good boy, Sherlock. Good boy. That's it. You can take it. Come on." He fucked him hard with his fingers for a minute, until Sherlock's moaning reached an all-time low.

Guttural and rasping, his obsessive gasps of "Yes, Sir!" were barely coherent beneath his throaty moans. It wasn't long before John couldn't stand it a second longer.

He entered Sherlock slowly and gently, which was unusual for them. Sherlock arched, and the belt around his arms strained hard against the force of it. He was hurting, but the unbelievable care with which John pushed into him was undeniably a distraction from the ache.

It was this- this perfect blend of pleasure and pain that caused Sherlock to cry to the heavens in a rhythmic chant of John's title. And it was this chant which gave John the thought to fuck Sherlock as slowly as possible.

John slid in, inch by inch, agonizingly slow. And then out, in a tantalizingly slow motion that sent Sherlock reeling. The submissive's head lolled back. His eyes were rolling. His lips were mouthing John's name silently, for he had been reduced to speechlessness as his pleasure reached a blinding peak.

Sherlock's orgasm tore through him like a dagger, slicing from his groin to his heart and winding through his veins in electric shocks of ecstasy. He came everywhere with a massive bellow, ruining John's shirt. Not that John minded. He was just pleased to see Sherlock finally come in this dramatic wave, riding the pulsing euphoria for an impressively long time. His silent scream occasionally cracked and he would let out a short piercing cry of pleasure.

Ah, watching Sherlock go through this- was there anything better? This most delectable sight could really only be rivaled in John's mind by the pale landscape of Sherlock's back interrupted with red welts.

Watching Sherlock come onto him in such a quantity sent John over the edge. The great detective was still feeling his full-body orgasm when John shuddered and poured his own pleasure into his friend. He moaned heartily, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's restricted torso to hold him close as he fucked him into the mattress. He pounded roughly all the way through his orgasm, seeing spots of light burst before his eyes, and Sherlock's breathy sighs against his ear were an incredible addition.

When the storm passed, he slowed back down. He found himself shaking and sweating, clutching Sherlock against him for dear life, the way a child would to a blanket when lightning struck. "Sherlock," he sighed, nuzzling into Sherlock's neck.

"God, I love you." His heart lurched. He didn't mean to say it. He didn't know if Sherlock was ready to hear it. "I'm sorry," he said quickly as he withdrew from his friend and rolled to his side. "I... I really shouldn't have said that. You don't have to respond to that until you're ready."

Sherlock nodded, looking weak and dazed.

John reached out a hand and Sherlock flinched a little instinctually, but then he looked ashamed as it dawned on him that John was just going to stroke his cheek. John laughed at this. "Sherlock," he said. "You have done so brilliantly this week. You are an amazing man, and an amazing detective. I am so proud to call you mine." He smiled, and Sherlock thought the whole room was brighter. "Sometimes I wish the whole world could know how you belong to me."

"If that was what you wanted, Sir," Sherlock said, his face still flushed from orgasm but growing even pinker with every word John spoke. "I am happy to be yours, and it would never bother me to have others know it."

With a wide smile, John pulled Sherlock to his trembling feet. "You are quite relieved from punishment, Sherlock." He turned his friend around and unbuckled the belt from Sherlock's stiff arms. There was a vivid pink stain on Sherlock's white skin where the leather had pulled taught around him. John smiled at the mark, and ran his thumb over it admiringly. Sherlock turned to face him again, rolling his sore shoulders around. "For now, you are also absolutely relieved from duty if you wish." Sherlock cringed a little, and smiled uncomfortably. John had a strong impression that Sherlock did not know how to come out of his role at the moment. Sometimes John actually worried that Sherlock would disintegrate without his sub-space to fall back on. "I said if you wish, Sherlock," he repeated sleepily. "I'm going to make us some supper. Would you like that?"

Sherlock fell to his knees, gazing up at John with wide, wet eyes. John stroked his hair lovingly, shaking his head a little sadly at Sherlock's instantaneous servitude.

"Yes, Sir." He swallowed, and John's heart felt an intense tug. "Thank you," Sherlock sighed, looking more sincere and relieved than John could ever remember. "Thank you for taking care of me. For feeding me, hurting me, loving me. I don't know what I'd do without you, John."

John, totally speechless, fell to eye level with his kneeling friend and hugged him. Sherlock returned the embrace wordlessly. They stayed this way for a long time, until it became uncomfortable for both sets of knees. When John pulled away, he found tears on his own cheeks.

"Sir!" Sherlock took John's face in his hands, and licked the salty lines on the army doctor's tan cheeks.

In response, John took a deep breath and kissed Sherlock hard. When he pulled away, John was light-headed and completely breathless. "Why, Sherlock. You're really tempting me, y'know." He shook his head in disbelief. "You make me want so badly to tell the world about us. But most people would never understand what we do here, you know."

"Whatever you wish, Sir."

"I'll be thinking about it."

"That'd be fine, Sir."

John smiled warmly at the gentleness he could bring out in Sherlock. It was a side that only he could see, and he was proud to have that. But he certainly was considering publicity. I mean, people didn't need to know what they really got up to, but if he could show off Sherlock on his arm... if he could shove his tongue down Sherlock's throat in public and see the faces they'd make- Anderson, Donovan, Lestrade, and the like- why, he imagined he'd feel a sense of pride that could stem from no other experience in the world. To show off his devoted Sherlock: now that would be something.

Ignoring the nagging idea for the time being, he helped Sherlock to his feet again.

"Let's get some food in you, shall we?"

"Yes, Sir."

Chapter 6: Keeping Grounded

Notes:

This one's sort of short. Also, the next chapter may take a while because I'm currently working on my senior thesis. But I'll be done with school in a couple of weeks, so no worries!

Shortly after the thought to publicize their relationship crossed John's mind, their plate became packed full of cases.

Sherlock was as happy as ever. His mind was appeased by the mysteries and the science, and John was joyful to follow at his side. They chased a jewel thief halfway across London together. John delighted in pinning a serial murderer against a wall while Sherlock phoned Lestrade triumphantly. The adrenaline rush was fierce and pulsing in their blood. Both men were floating is a state of domestic bliss. They were so well distracted, neither man particularly needed the rush of their private life. Things were so busy, they barely had time to be a couple. Sometimes John doubted that was what they even were. Could he really call himself part of a 'couple' with Sherlock?

Of course, they still craved a little playtime, even in the midst of their fast-paced lives.

Sherlock was pacing. The sitting room was a disaster space, covered in papers and open books. A few of Sherlock's neatly organized files were strewn across the sofa. The only place to sit was the armchair on which John had settled himself. He was watching Sherlock cautiously, completely confident that whatever thoughts were going through his mind would lead them to the bank robber they were tracking through London.

Sherlock was mumbling incoherently to himself. John wasn't sure he was supposed to be listening, because he really couldn't understand Sherlock's muttering anyway. He decided to stay silent.

"John," said Sherlock suddenly, his voice low and on-edge. "I don't know."

"What?" John's brow furrowed. "Er... sorry, what don't you know?"

Sherlock stopped his pacing. "I don't know!" he hissed, wringing his hands. "I don't know!" It was a shout this time. "Damn it. He's good. Really covered his tracks, this bastard."

"Yes, well. You'll figure it out."

"Yes, but what if I can't?" Sherlock's eyes were bloodshot. He hadn't slept in days, and John had barely been able to convince the frail detective to eat more than a couple of bites each day for the last week. He felt a sudden intense protective urge; he wanted to coddle Sherlock and spoon-feed him until he was rested and healthy.

Rubbing his eyes, John put down the file he'd been glancing over. "Sherlock," he said quietly, "you need to relax a little. Take it slower. Go back to the beginning. Go over all the evidence."

"I don't need you to tell me how to do what I'm best at."

John scoffed. "You may be a genius, but you still need to be brought back down to earth sometimes, Sherlock. You can't see the evidence properly when you get too wired, like this."

Sherlock waved off the comment with a sneer. "Ridiculous."

John blinked at him. He could tell Sherlock was tense. He could read it in his body language, having picked up a few simple tricks from his friend over the years they'd known each other. The way he held himself said back pain, and the way his forehead creased said oncoming migraine. Sherlock couldn't work like this. He sighed. "Come here, Sherlock."

Without a second's hesitation, Sherlock came to him, looking down at him warily but with foggy eyes which told John he was still lost in his thoughts. John pointed to the floor at his feet, and Sherlock fell to his knees, scowling but finding it instinctive to obey John when given a direct instruction. He crawled forward, so his knees brushed John's feet as he squeezed between them, and John reached out a hand to stroke Sherlock's hair.

"John," he said, and John could tell by the way Sherlock's voice trembled that he was starting to let go at last. He even seemed to be slipping under already. "John, I... I need..."

"What you need is to relax. You need to sleep, or eat, or something before you go back to the case. Trust me, I always know what you need." He stroked Sherlock's head with authority and confidence, softly and seamlessly dragging Sherlock into his power again. The detective purred. His chin found John's knee, and he sighed.

John could feel Sherlock's tension slipping away under his hand, feel the relaxation of submitting gently washing over him. John smiled to himself, watching his pet melt into becoming his. Ah, that slow incline into submission was a beautiful process to witness, and John was proud to have that privilege. "Good boy, Sherlock." His tone was as loving as could be. "That's it. Sh. Just relax."

"I... John, the evidence is all contradictory. He must be trying to confuse us intentionally. There's no other explanation."

"Mm." John closed his eyes and leaned his head back, trailing his fingertips along the chain of his dog tags around Sherlock's neck. He didn't mind if Sherlock wanted to rattle off his thoughts to him, as long as he could still go under, because he knew that was what Sherlock needed right now to help him focus again.

Sherlock shuddered. "Mm... Sir, please." John opened his eyes again and looked down at his submissive. His title on Sherlock's lips made his cock harden, but he suppressed it. This didn't seem sexual to him. He didn't think that was what Sherlock wanted.

"Please?"

Sherlock's lovely cheekbones were brushed with color: he was slightly flushed. His lips were parted and wet, and his bloodshot eyes were wanting beneath their hooded lids. "Please, Sir. Allow me to get you off. Let me have the privilege of taking your come. Clear my head with your cock, Sir. Please."

"What-" John's cock positively throbbed at his words. "N-no! Not now, Sherlock. I don' t think that's what you need. A nap is what you need right now, not my cock."

"Oh, but Sir..." Sherlock looked suddenly desperate. His fingers clawed up John's leg so the army doctor had to swallow to fight down his own lust. "I always need your cock, Sir." He was inching up John's tensing thighs with his hands, his eyes dancing and lively despite the obvious exhaustion nagging at him.

John opened his mouth to protest, but nothing came out. It was hard to resist his slave offering to get him off. Very hard.

A loud knock on the door rung out, and John jumped. Sherlock gripped John's thighs very tightly in surprise, and just as their landlady swung the door open, the detective leapt to his feet.

"Yoo-hoo!" cried Mrs. Hudson in a sing-song voice. "Oh!" She paused, realizing the position she'd just interrupted. Her face went scarlet. "Oh, I'm so sorry dears, I'll just..."

"No!" John yelped in a cracking voice. "Ehem... no, no, Mrs. Hudson... it's... all fine! What, er... what d'you...?"

Sherlock looked minutely bashful, but only John could have picked up on it. He stood as confidently as ever, his hands clasped behind his back and his expression quite stony.

Mrs. Hudson looked uncomfortable, her eyes flitting between the two men. "Er... oh... I was just here to see how you boys were doing with this case. I know you've been working hard, haven't you? I haven't heard as much, I mean... Er... I'll just go..."

"Wait, wait... what?" John stood quickly. "Excuse me? What do you mean you haven't heard as much... heard... what? What are you talking about?" His neck prickled and felt rather hot.

Mrs. Hudson was looking increasingly awkward and uncomfortable, but Sherlock looked only irritated.

Before she could open her mouth, Sherlock gave a loud sigh and spoke. "Oh, come now, John. Our dear Mrs. Hudson is not daft, and you must not think her so!" In one quick stride, Sherlock made his way to Mrs. Hudson's side, and put a friendly arm around her shoulder. "It's been months, and she does live right below us, after all."

John blushed. "Er... right."

"Oh, it's not to worry, dears. To be honest I'm glad to see you so much brighter all the time, Sherlock. It's a good thing. I'm happy for you both."

Sherlock smiled warmly, though a little stiffly, the way he always did when the smile was not to John or in response to the excitement of a case. He hugged the older woman a little tighter. John grinned a little uncomfortably, running a hand through his hair.

"Er.. thanks, Mrs. Hudson," John finally brought himself to say. "But, er... I would certainly appreciate it if you could, er... keep this... to yourself?"

Mrs. Hudson laughed. "Oh, yes, of course, dear, but I don't see why! It's all a lot more out in the open, now." John smiled a little. Mrs. Hudson was clearly under the assumption that Sherlock and he were in a conventional homosexual relationship. He allowed her that pretense.

"Yes, well..." John shrugged. "Still, I'd... appreciate it. Yes. Thank you." Sherlock gave a soft chuckle. John could tell he was having the same thought that he was.

"Just remember, dears, people like you are getting married, now! No shame in it, here!" Mrs. Hudson patted Sherlock on the cheek tenderly. "I was thinking about putting on some tea; would you like some?"

Sherlock spoke first, clapping his hands together to show his enthusiasm. "Ah! No time, Mrs. Hudson. Cases to be solved. You know."

"Always such busy people, you two. Alright, have at it then. But don't be strangers, boys. I do like to hear from you now and again." She left, shaking her head a little and looking slightly bemused.

When she closed the door behind her, John let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding in. Sherlock fell to his knees immediately, and crawled to John's side. "John," he said weakly, gazing up at John with glazed eyes. "I'm sure she doesn't know the details, Sir, just thinks that we are together, but I am sorry, Sir. I am sorry our life is not as private as you would like. Please, please, let me suffer for that. Release your frustration upon me, Sir."

John could have come right then and there at the sound of Sherlock begging for punishment. It was so hot.

"It's not your fault, Sherlock," John rasped. "It couldn't be helped." He cleared his throat and gazed down at his sweet pet. He smiled. "We do get rather loud, don't we?"

Sherlock swallowed hard, and balled a handful of John's trouser leg into his fist. "Oh, yes, Sir, we do, yes. I love to scream for you, Sir. I love not being able to think and finding my only capability to be moaning your name at the top of my lungs."

The words went straight to John's cock. The electricity that ran through him from the touch at his leg was intense. He badly wanted to come, and Sherlock's eagerness was tempting.

"Oh, fuck this, Sherlock," he groaned shakily. "Come." He made his way to Sherlock's bedroom. Extreme desire was coursing through him. He looked behind him, midway, to see Sherlock hurrying to catch up, crawling on hands and knees. "I said come, boy. Faster. I need you now."

Sherlock's mind was buzzing. He needed John's control to settle his agitated mind. He needed it so that he could concentrate on the details of his case with a clearer head. He needed it badly and he needed it almost all the time. Some part of the back of his mind knew that this was his addictive streak, but he didn't care. He rushed loyally on all fours to John's side with fervor, and kept his pace for the rest of the short walk to the bedroom.

They barely made it across the threshold before John was on top of Sherlock. His teeth found Sherlock's long, pale neck. The detective let out a wild gasp as the bite sunk into him. "Oh!" he cried. "Yes, Sir! Thank you, Sir!"

"Oh, god, Sherlock," John moaned, grinding his bulge against Sherlock's thigh. "God, I'd love to have you on your leash right now, but fuck..." He squirmed, feeling himself pulse angrily between his legs. "I can't wait that long."

Sherlock's moan was gorgeous. "You... you may leash me any time, Sir."

"Imagine," John said, licking the dip in Sherlock's collar bone and feeling the skin heat up under his domineering mouth, "being leashed and paraded for anyone to see. Mrs. Hudson? Mm, can you imagine how she'd look at you?" Sherlock took his bottom lip between his teeth and sucked in a breath. "Or Lestrade? If I took you to a crime scene on a leash? Can you imagine? Think about that for me, Sherlock, while I devour you."

John bit down again, hard, and did not let go. He clung on with his jaw like a rabid animal while his hands tore at Sherlock's buttons, desperate to see his slave's shirt on the ground. That body was his, and he was desperate to see it; to see the fading stripes of color on his skin that he had put there with his strong arm. When the shirt flew open at last and was pushed down Sherlock's shoulders, John rolled over, forcing Sherlock on top of him. Sherlock clung onto him with muscular thighs, biting his lip hard as John's teeth buried in the nape of his neck forced a whine from him. John yanked the shirt from Sherlock, and flung it to the side.

Relieving the detective of his gripping bite at last, John took Sherlock deep into his clutches and kissed him. Passion took control. John fucked Sherlock's mouth hard with his deft tongue, and Sherlock was clearly gagging for it with his body language, pressing against John desperately, snatching at John's cock and thrusting forward with his hips.

Before long, John had Sherlock on his back again. Sherlock winced as his shoulder blades hit the hardwood floor and he had to strain to keep his head up so his skull would not be slammed against it, too.

John moved on to Sherlock's trousers. "Mine," he growled into Sherlock's mouth as he slid the button from its loop.

"Hnn... uh... huh... yes... Sir..." Sherlock panted as he humped John's thigh shamelessly. His light irises were overwhelmed by his black pupils, and his eyes were near slits as his lids drooped in a fantastic blend of lust and exhaustion. The sound of Sherlock's moans made John long for nothing but to flog him senseless, but now was not the time.

At the moment what he wanted was purely a hard raw fuck. But when it was over, then- oh, yes, then he had a brilliant idea in store for his subservient detective. Oh, how his obedient slave would suffer, and oh, how he'd love it.

John shoved his hands under the fabric of Sherlock's trousers and pushed, so the detective's arse was exposed to the air. John's finger teased the shape of each buttock, then slid between his cheeks. Sherlock gasped openly against John's dominating lips, and the doctor chuckled before licking every inch of Sherlock's mouth that he could reach, enjoying what belonged to him while Sherlock stayed poised for his taking. He was so happy to give and to be taken by his master.

They tumbled a little. Sherlock was on top again, then John, then Sherlock again, and then John. But no matter how they rolled on the floor, Sherlock's legs remained open for him, clutched around John's torso like a fearful animal desperate for protection while John possessed his mouth. Hands were flying, and trousers were coming down slowly but surely.

"Uhn," Sherlock groaned in an obscene frenzy. His eyes were completely closed now, but John could see them whirring behind his eyelids. He was completely taken under, and clearly sinking far into the sensations of being manhandled, letting the feeling roll over his consciousness like a drug enhancing his every thought and feeling and mental capacity. Ah, he felt good! He felt perfect! "John... Sir... please..."

"Beg, Sherlock, beg. Beg for what you want." John's cock was finally free against Sherlock's, and he allowed them to stir together gorgeously.

"Huh... Yes, Sir. Please, please, John, please fuck me. Please. I just want to be fucked, John. Fuck me. Please. I'm begging you to fuck me hard, please, Sir."

Desperate- his mind aflame with the need to be inside him- John let out a feral cry which cracked in his throat as it was pressed from him. Throwing Sherlock's legs over his shoulders and spitting into his hand, John prepared the way.

It was all very fast. It seemed to go by in a blinding whirl of senses and vibrations. The taste of Sherlock's lusting and watering mouth was dizzying to him. He felt like he was drowning in it, and he knew the same was true for Sherlock, whose fiery sighs of passion were egging John on. He readied the way with saliva, far too desperate at the moment to consider leaving Sherlock for even a second to get the lubricant. He pressed himself hard against Sherlock's entrance, grinding and teasing for a few long seconds before thrusting his way in. He inched in slowly, enjoying Sherlock's tightness and trembling the whole way. "Sherlock, you feel perfect. Oh, Sherlock..." A bead of sweat rolled down the side of John's face as he buried himself to the hilt with a grunt. Sherlock winced, but his mouth was stretched into a silent O that made John wild.

"Oh I still sometimes can't believe that you're..." He slid out shortly before sheathing himself totally once more. "... All mine."

"But I am, Sir, I am!" Sherlock cried. "Yes, fuck me, Sir, fuck me, please."

John allowed his cock to take command. He slammed Sherlock violently into the floor, pummeling him over and over with an impressively rapid motion. The quick pace of his hips was drawing from Sherlock a most beautiful, delicious sound. A high moan? A scream? It was decadent, whatever it was, and John drank it in eagerly with a sharp inhale.

They shagged deeply and hard. Sherlock took him completely like a diligent slave, rolling his head back, exposing the soft underside of his chin to John as his inhuman noises continued to grace the air. He was mostly being a very good passive slave, but his hands were starting to wander. As flattered and amused as John was, he enjoyed Sherlock's total unquestioning submission too much to allow this to continue.

"No" he said, and pushed Sherlock's hands to the ground. He held his wrists there as he delved back in for more, eliciting all the agonizing pleasure he could from his sweet detective before he came.

Sherlock came hard. John's hands were still at his wrists, and as he felt Sherlock start clench around him violently, he gripped him harder so that Sherlock's long white fingers were strained for circulation. Sherlock moaned harder at this.

So great was Sherlock's euphoria and so obscene was his writhing, John felt sure for a moment that Sherlock had no idea where he was or who he was. This helpless version of Sherlock, torn to shreds in a form nearly unrecognizable to anyone but him, sent John over the edge as well.

As his orgasm struck him to his core, he let go of one of Sherlock's wrists, brought his arm up, and smacked Sherlock across the face with an echoing crack!

The resulting near-breathless gasp of ecstasy was so loud, John actually worried that Sherlock might pass out. He clutched Sherlock's curls to hold him steady as Sherlock spilled fast over his belly and stained John's shirt. Sherlock's pleasure seemed increased tenfold by the sting in his cheek.

John moaned deeply as he shot his pleasure hard into Sherlock's willing body. "Sherlock, oh god," he sighed, and as the waves mellowed out for both of them, John returned to kissing him.

After it was over, and they had been lying in each other's arms panting for a few long seconds, Sherlock spoke. "S-Sir, I... thank you, Sir."

"You're welcome, Sherlock. But it's not over yet."

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. John chuckled, and the sound was a little sinister. "Oh, no," he said, eyes shining with excited amusement. "I have had this lovely idea floating around in my head for a while now. Wait there."

He slipped out of Sherlock with a grunt and a sigh, leaving Sherlock looking a little sad in a crumpled heap on the bedroom floor. Sherlock felt the semen rushing out of him, spilling down his thighs and wetting the floor beneath him, but he ignored the warm trickling. He focused instead on staying still for John.

When John returned, Sherlock's eyes were closed again. "Good. Keep your eyes closed, love." He did as he was told. "Legs up." Sherlock lifted his legs dutifully, trepidation starting to swell in his heart as he did so. What was-?

Oh.

Oh!

Something plastic met his slick opening. He was burning enough already from lack of lubricant, and this was only going to make things worse. Incredibly, he did not really care. The foreign object found its way deep inside him. It was vaguely triangular, but round so as to make the experience smooth and bearable. He groaned as John shoved it up him. "There," John said sweetly. "Beautiful."

"Sir?" Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. He looked wiped.

John laughed and stroked Sherlock's face tenderly. "I'm just plugging up what's mine, Sherlock. Can you feel it?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Does it feel good?"

A slightly simpering nod.

"Good boy. You will keep it there until this case is over. How's that for motivation, Sherlock? Hm?"

Sherlock gaped at him, looking very much like himself wearing such a snarling expression. John laughed.

"Don't look at me like that. You'll do it, and you'll love it, won't you, boy? This is the next step towards the publicity we've been discussing. I want you to burn with humiliation, Sherlock. I want you to feel that as though it were me, inside you all the time. Feel it when you're working. Feel it, and think of the way I own you."

Sherlock looked like he was holding back a moan. His pupils were wide. His flushed chest became dappled in even more crimson as the rosy hue crept up his face and all the way to his scalp. John grinned.

"Now go get yourself cleaned up."

Gritting his teeth furiously, Sherlock got to his feet. The embarrassed scowl he wore was really outstandingly sexy. "Yes, Sir," he hissed. John felt pleased with himself as he watched that perfect arse make its way to the bathroom to wash up.

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed suddenly, just as John was pulling of his soiled t-shirt. "John, I got it! It's... I mean... how could I have missed it? It's so absurdly simple! We have to phone Lestrade, right now, I..." He was running about, looking quite ridiculous: naked with come dripping down his thighs.

Laughing, John approached Sherlock and stilled him with his hands on his shoulders. "Calm down, Sherlock. I thought this might help you, and I'm glad to see you've got your brain working again. Shower first, though. You're a right mess."

Sherlock glanced down at himself. "Yes. Quite right. Yes. Thank you, Sir."

They gazed at each other for a long agonizing minute.

"Join me?" Sherlock smiled bashfully.

"Of course," and John took Sherlock by the hand and led him masterfully into the bathroom for a joint shower.

Chapter 7: Filling

Notes:

Sorry this is taking so long to write. Been struggling to get my depression under control. Still working on it, but getting there.

Sherlock was sweating as he bent over a particularly putrid corpse. An epiphany over a single footprint and a couple of hours bent over a telescope had led them here. It was unusually hot out for a late September afternoon. The sky was as gloomy as a London sky ever was, but the air was maddeningly humid and sticky. Sherlock's tight shirt was stuck to his chest, and John kept tugging at his collar to get some air to his own torso. Coats were left at home today, and sleeves were rolled up. It was that kind of day. Sherlock couldn't help staring at John, whose hair was slightly damp from sweat. John kept tying to shove water under his nose, but Sherlock simply scowled and waved him off as an interruption to his thought process.

"Sherlock, you're going to get dehydrated in this heat."

"It's September. It's not even summer anymore."

"That doesn't mean the heat isn't real, Sherlock. Come on. Drink something."

"Useless."

John rolled his eyes. He knew Sherlock was particularly irritable because of the plug he'd had inside of him for the last several hours, but that wasn't going to stop John from trying to take care of him. The detective was so dismissive of his 'transport,' but John wasn't. John loved that man and wanted to keep his body healthy. "Please," he said, shoving the water bottle in his face. "Drink up, mister. Stay healthy. For me?" Ah, that did it. Sherlock snarled at him, and took the bottle. He chugged a few large gulps resentfully, then thrust it back into John's hands. "Thank you, Sherlock."

Sherlock grunted. Lestrade laughed, and Sherlock shot him a furious look. The smile Lestrade gave him was a wary one. The Inspector turned to John. "I suspect he hasn't been feeding himself either, has he?"

John shook his head. "Not one bit. I've had to shove things right under his nose before he'll consider taking a single bite. It's ridiculous."

"You know, I can hear you."

"Well it's a good thing he's got you to take care of him, innit?" Lestrade grinned, a little teasingly. Sherlock blushed. John knew he was contemplating the plug that was up him, grinding him with a dull ache as he worked the crime scene. The pain did seem to be placating him a little. He was a lot more passive than usual, and far less talkative. Lestrade, of course, didn't notice. He didn't know Sherlock as well as John did, despite knowing him five years longer, and having been there at a time Sherlock had needed a friend most in the days before John had known him. John could never appreciate Lestrade more than he did for holding Sherlock's hand while he lay with a needle in his arm, near-death from overdose. Sometimes, when John thought about it, his heart ached, and he would instinctively reach out to clutch Sherlock's hand, just to make sure he was really there with him, really alive and not strung out on a bathroom floor or unconscious in a hospital bed. The thought brought a pain to John's heart even now, and it was all he could do not to reach out, take Sherlock by his hair, and drag him in for a reassuring kiss.

Lestrade sighed. "Alright, Sherlock, you've been here nearly five minutes. That's really all I can spare, y'know. Help me out. Lay it on me."

Sherlock stood, sighed dramatically, and started to ramble. His cheeks were a little more flushed than they should have been, even in this humidity. John smirked to himself behind Lestrade, whose rapt attention was focused completely on Sherlock. John had to force himself to focus in order to follow along with Sherlock's deductions.

As Sherlock spoke, John thought how difficult it must be to concentrate with a large plug deep inside. He wondered if Sherlock was relating it to the way John's cock felt inside him, but then again, it was Sherlock. The likelihood was, he was suppressing the feeling as best he could John understood. While a case is in motion, nothing else mattered to his Sherlock. Either way, he knew he could elicit any desired reaction he wanted from Sherlock with just a few words, because Sherlock's body could not refuse him. John owned that body, inside and out. He licked his lips, head suddenly flooded by the image of Sherlock gagged and bound in his collar, his arse stuffed full of John's cock and overflowing with his semen. John felt his groin twitch, and he shifted awkwardly, his eyes flickering to Lestrade who stood mere feet from him.  He knew that when this case was over, and Sherlock was relieved of his plug, that he could do as he pleased; that Sherlock would accept any word of his as law.

Oh, dear. His thoughts were starting to overpower his ability to focus. Sherlock was looking at him. John cleared his throat, bouncing on the balls of his feet, reaching the edge of his nerves under his pet's delicious gaze.

Sherlock's discomfort far outweighed John's, however. He was half hard for the rest of the case, and the pressure in his arse made him feel hot, anxious, and needy. He was longing for John's cock even as he went on explaining that the left sleeve of the victim was an obvious indicator of the murderer's profession. "Really... it's quite simple. Even you should be able to grasp that, Lestrade." His heart was pounding as Lestrade glared at him. He was tingling all over, the sensation becoming more and more of a distraction. At first he had enjoyed the grounding feeling, accepted it as an extension of his transport, but now the pain was starting to cloud his head in a way that was tranquilizing, the way it was when he and John were alone together.

"Yeah, well, the rest of us aren't you, Sherlock. Remember that," John chided. 

Sherlock smirked. Even with brimming nerves and an agitated mind, Sherlock was still confident of his powers of deduction. He was above feeling overwhelmed, he told himself. He was the smartest person around, and there was really no denying it. He silently thanked John for reminding him of this.

"That's right, John," he said with a sigh. He turned to Lestrade. "I am sorry, Lestrade. Sometimes I forget that you are such an idiot."

"Hey now, you also seem to have forgotten that you're talking to a police officer and I could have you arrested on the spot for talking to me like that!

"You never have before."

"No... because you're faster and better than anyone on the force, but you can't just take advantage of me like that, Sherlock. I have the power here, y'know." Lestrade seemed to be fed up. Sherlock, though his face was stoic, had a muscle working in his jaw which betrayed his surprise at Lestrade's outburst. "You obviously have some kind of problem with authority-" Sherlock and John glanced at each other. "- but I'm the one who lets you onto crime scenes and let's you at all the confidential information, so you ought to be more grateful! You should be thanking me every day for what I risk just so you can have your fun."

Sherlock tilted his head forward, and when he spoke, his voice was rumblingly low. His eyes were cold. John sensed danger immediately. "How's your divorce coming? Stressful?"

John rolled his eyes. Lestrade blinked. "Yes," he snarled, "now that you mention it." Sherlock smirked, then turned on his heel without another word, and walked away. John stood behind, shaking his head at his friend and slave. "Hey!" Lestrade called after him. "Where are you going?"

"The bank where our killer obviously works, Inspector, whether you're joining me or not!"

"I'm not even surprised anymore," Lestrade sighed.

John smiled at him. "Well. You know Sherlock. Nothing is off limits to him. He thinks the world is his, doesn't he?"

Lestrade let out a breathy laugh, but his expression was still tense. "The man has no discipline. He's lucky he's at least got you."

“ Yeah. Thanks. ”

As they took off after Sherlock, John found his palms sweatier than was normal, even in the heat. His color was rising. Sherlock had John for his discipline, yes. The hard plastic within was training him even now, accustoming him to his permanent ownership. Sherlock had to know that he belonged to him even when they were out in public.

John wondered, as he followed the two men, how the Inspector would react if he were to find out that he and Sherlock were together. He ’ d probably be okay with it. But what if Lestrade were ever to find out how John owned Sherlock in such an unconventional relationship? Now wouldn't that be something? John wondered, as he frequently did, how long it would take before he was comfortable with people knowing. As much as the thought of Sherlock being publicly displayed aroused him, he thought that his own embarrassment would far outweigh the excitement of it, so for now, the fact remained secret.

***

Lestrade had taken the taxi behind them, in order to follow without having to subject himself to whatever rubbish Sherlock was sure to dole out.

Sherlock kept squirming in his seat. John smirked to himself but said nothing, with the assumption that Sherlock would want the silence to think. But minutes passed, and the stuffy air grew tense. John could not help but watch when Sherlock suddenly let out a noncommittal sound of frustration and reached his hands up to readjust his shirt collar. John's lips parted, his eyes drawn to that slender neck, and the perfectly sculpted lines of Sherlock's collarbone, which peaked out from the gap in his shirt. When Sherlock undid his third button, exposing the top of his perfect chest, John felt his cock stir uncontrollably. He cleared his throat as though this would force his lust from his mind, and shifted in his seat. Sherlock, the most observant man on the planet, stared openly. "Are you alright, Sir?"

John glanced at the cabbie, then back at Sherlock. "Yes, I'm fine, Sherlock. You just..." He swallowed, and cocked his head. "You look... positively delicious." Sherlock's newly exposed chest was glistening in the humidity. Mm.

"Do I?" Sherlock's voice sounded strained. "Thank you, Sir, I..." He swallowed, too. "I'm quite... distracted today."

"By what?"

"What do you think?"

John grinned. "Tell me."

"Sir. Public." The cabbie didn't seem to be paying attention, but Sherlock nodded to the back of the driver's head pointedly.

"I don't care right now. Tell me. Describe it to me." John's eyes were twinkling like diamonds in a dimly lit space.

Sherlock let out a shaky sigh, his expression growing obviously lustful. John's dominance was snaking its invisible grip around his heart and groin. Perfect. "I can feel it in me," he said, in a gorgeous low baritone purr. "Filling me. I ’ ve never felt so filled outside of our playtime. When I move even an inch, I feel it pressing on me, tauntingly. It feels like you, John. It feels like you when you bury yourself in me. I have been partially erect since we left the flat. It ’ s like a medical anomaly, and I ’ m finding it particularly hard to suppress in this heat."

John's own erection gave a nasty throb at his words. "Mm, yes," he said, trying to ignore how his pulse was racing. "It really is unnatural for September. Global warming, or something. I don't know."

"What?"

"Global warming?"

"If I knew what that was, it's been deleted by now."

John laughed. "Why am I not surprised? Now, Sherlock," he said, spying his dog tags through the gap in the buttons of Sherlock's shirt. "Unbutton another one." Sherlock's stony brow furrowed slightly. "Go on. Be a good boy for me, Sherlock. Do as I say." Sherlock's mouth fell open a little, and his breath quickened. Just what John liked to see. His fingers went to his shirt again, and slowly, Sherlock undid the next button. John licked his lips. "Another." He did. "Good. Leave it that way."

"All day, Sir?"

"Yes. Except in the bank. It's unprofessional."

Sherlock groaned. "Yes, Sir." His tone was strained with arousal just from following such simple orders. It made John grin to know how much Sherlock loved to be controlled, how much he needed John's word to point his way sometimes. Sherlock was trembling slightly as he turned to gaze out the window. "Yes, Sir," he said again to himself in a soft whisper, just enjoying the taste of the words on his tongue.

John spent the rest of the taxi ride staring shamelessly at Sherlock's chest. Every once in a while, he reached over and parted the folds of his shirt to gaze a little more openly, and let out a groan and a nod of approval. Sherlock simply gulped each time this happened, allowing this objectification with pleasure. Every time, his skin grew a little more flushed, and his stoic face betrayed a subtle hint of pride.

When the cab finally pulled over, and Sherlock paid, John stopped him from getting out at the last second. "Wait," he said, and he reached under Sherlock's flimsy shirt and took one of Sherlock's nipples between his thumb and forefinger. He pinched hard, twisted and tugged. Sherlock made no sound or motion except to freeze and bite his lip. John smiled proudly at this response. "Good boy," he said in a low, gentle sigh. "Now, out." And at that, they exited the cab, leaving their cabbie looking particularly embarrassed as he drove away.

Lestrade was just getting out of his cab behind them while Sherlock composed himself. He was extremely scarlet in the face as the Inspector approached them. "Alright, Sherlock, I hope you're right about th-" Lestrade stopped mid-sentence. "Er..." He cleared his throat. "What's with the get-up?"

Sherlock hardened his expression. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, your shirt, Sherlock." Lestrade's eyebrows were high on his face. He scratched his neck uncomfortably, and John watched his eyes cautiously.

"It's hot," Sherlock said nonchalantly.

"You, er... you may want to button that, before..."

"I plan to." Sherlock shrugged, and that was when Lestrade's eyes widened. Sherlock's swollen nipple was visible, but John couldn't be sure that was what Lestrade was seeing.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said quickly, touching a hand to the detective's shoulder to stop him just as he was about to make his way toward the bank at the end of the block. "Wha- are you..." Then he chortled, "Are you wearing a necklace?"

Sherlock did not answer, but pulled himself free from Lestrade's light grasp a little melodramatically and glided gracefully down the block.

Lestrade turned to John as they followed in his wake. "Does he always wear that?"

John shrugged, but found it hard to wipe the smug expression from his face. He knew he was a bit pink. "I don't know what you're talking about."

The look Lestrade gave him was an incredulous one. "It looked like dog tags to me, or something. You live with him, you don't know if...?" Then he stopped. He stopped walking altogether, as a matter of fact. John could practically see the gears snapping into place in the Inspector's mind as he stopped to wait for Lestrade to catch up.

"What?"

"They're yours."

"What's mine?" John's heart was rather fast.

"The tags."

"What tags?"

"Oh come off it!" Lestrade looked infuriated, but also amused. "You two. You think I'm bleedin' daft or something, don't you? The both of you!"

John struggled to look offended, rather than embarrassed and ashamed. "Of course not!"

"Then there's no reason you should be hiding things from me. I know no one can really be friends with Sherlock Holmes, except maybe you, but I consider you two to be friends of mine, anyway, and I am a DI, so stop keeping things from me. I can deduce too, y'know. Maybe not the way he can, but..." He shook his head. "If you two are... together, or whatever it is. It's fine. I don't know why you'd hide it." He started to walk again not looking back at a deeply ashamed John. He hurried after him in awkward silence to catch up with Sherlock, who was now standing at the door of the bank looking impatient. When they reached him, John reminded the consulting detective to button up again, though he did so a little resentfully.

As Sherlock did up the buttons with fumbling fingers, Lestrade rolled his eyes. "So honestly, you guys are just … not gonna tell me?" The partners looked at him with blank stares, both perhaps a little more crimson than they should be. "Really?"

Sherlock finished his last button, straightened out the front of his shirt, and raised his eyebrows at Lestrade. "Shall we?" And he pushed the door open to the bank.

 ***

Sherlock, diligent pet that he was, undid his buttons again as soon as they left the bank to hail another cab to the murderer's address. Lestrade got in the taxi with them before either man could protest. Lestrade took the front seat beside the cabbie, while the other two sat in the back seat beside each other. The entire ride was spent in uncomfortable silence. Sherlock's thighs were shaking, and Sherlock's knee kept touching John's. John wasn't sure if Sherlock was doing it on purpose, but it didn't bother him either way. The warmth of his leg was pleasant, and he could smell Sherlock's sweat in this proximity, an aphrodisiac to him. He wanted Sherlock bare and across his knee so badly.

As the drive went on, John had the wild fantasy of forcing Sherlock between his legs right there in the cab. He could imagine Sherlock's cheeks running a violent flush as humiliation overtook him, and Lestrade's embarrassed figure shrinking in his seat, trying to pretend he could not hear the obscene slurping noises and the consulting detective's sputters as he got his throat fucked. But that was for fantasy, not for the real world. But just imagine …

Sherlock seemed to know what was going through John ’ s mind. The teasing minx put his hand on John's knee, so the army doctor shivered at the soft touch. Sherlock's fingers danced slowly up his thigh the entire cab ride. When they were nearing the given address, Sherlock's hand actually closed over his slowly twitching cock, and John actually whimpered, turning it quickly and skillfully into a cough. He really hoped Lestrade wasn't suspecting, but as Lestrade wriggled a little upfront and rubbed the back of his blushing neck, John thought there was little hope for that. He felt a crawling sensation run up his spine and over his neck: fear of being caught. It was so arousing, somehow.

When the taxi stopped, and Lestrade paid, Sherlock was the first out of the car. He seemed anxious to get away from John's closeness, and John was in utter agreement. While on a case, he couldn ’ t be this close to Sherlock. A latent desire for performing public humiliation was starting to rise up in his chest like a sleepy animal just clambering into the light. He gulped it down to suppress the urge.

Lestrade was extremely quiet as they approached the correct building. Sherlock's bare chest was heaving. John stared at Sherlock as they rang the bell. "Drinking enough water, Sherlock? Need me to get you water again?" Sherlock glared at him.

"I'm fine, John."

John snorted. "Of course you are." Sherlock did seem to be doing alright, now that he was running on an adrenaline high. Sherlock was focused hard on the lock of the door, but John ’ s mind kept wandering, bewildered that Sherlock was able to keep this up with his arse stuffed.

"You can't break and enter, Sherlock. I ’ m right here, and I'm an officer of the law."

"Mm hmm." Sherlock ignored him, wiggling a pin in the lock.

There was an audible click, and Sherlock swung the door open. Lestrade sighed, but followed.

The flat entered into a narrow hallway. It opened up into a sitting room where a television was blaring. Lestrade ’ s hand was poised on his gun, ready. Sherlock smirked, looking completely collected. Anticipation was pulsing in John ’ s veins, making his head pound angrily and his clenched fists tremble. He glanced at Sherlock, whose expression betrayed nothing.

The grunt of a man ahead of them met their ears, and they froze completely. Lestrade pushed past both of them, his weapon drawn and held steadily before him.

The Inspector motioned to them to follow slowly, and pressed a hand to his lips. Sherlock rolled his eyes, biting back the desire to snap at him. John narrowed his eyes at the detective as if to say, “ If we die, I ’ m really sorry it ’ s my fault that you ’ ll die with a plug up your arse. ” Though, to be honest, John felt they were fairly safe. Lestrade was armed, and John had his gun, too (though he wasn ’ t making it known), and they had the most brilliant mind in the world on their side. John ’ s tension bled away at that thought, feeling safe with Sherlock, with the heat of him pressed to his side in that tiny passageway. He reached out, and touched Sherlock ’ s hand. The detective looked around at him, his eyes gentle, and the men smiled warmly at one another behind Lestrade ’ s back. A tidal wave of love swept over John as Sherlock ’ s brow crinkled sweetly, and the corners of his lips twitched. God, he was beautiful. But he couldn ’ t think about that now. No.

He regained his focus.

They were nearing the end of the dusty hall. The flickering artificial light of the television was casting the shadow of a man in an armchair across the rug in front of them, and a laugh track echoed towards them.

There was suddenly a rustle beyond their line of vision. This was the queue, apparently, for Lestrade swung around the doorway, his gun aimed. “ Freeze! ” he shouted, and behind him John drew his own gun and held it downward, his hands still with his index finger firm on the trigger.

Lestrade ’ s badge was out. He was aiming true, and his face was determined. “ Put down your weapon. Put it down, now, sir, I ’ m not going to tell you again. ”

“ Get the bloody hell out of my house! ”

John and Sherlock crossed the threshold to the sitting room to help.

The man was large, round, and furry with a massive beard and wild black eyes. His shout of rage was more of a growl, and he clutched in his wide hands a rifle, held high, pointed square between Lestrade ’ s eyes. At the appearance of the two other men, however, his gun swung around to face them. John raised his handgun when the long-range weapon found itself aimed at John ’ s ribcage. Lestrade shot, and the man howled in pain as the bullet pierced his thick shoulder. His arm shook, but he did not go down, and in his fury, he took a step back, hoisted his rifle up and shot clumsily in John ’ s direction.

John flinched as the sound crackled the air around him, but he felt no pain. Obviously a miss. Thank goodness.

There was a flurry of movement around him. It took him a second to register what was happening, and when he realized, he had to catch his breath to keep from keeling over. Sherlock had punched the man square in the nose. There was blood everywhere, pouring down his face and chest from both his broken nose and his wound. He was clawing at Sherlock ’ s face as they scuffled, but Lestrade cuffed his hands behind his back before any real damage could be done. “ I ’ ve got it, Sherlock. Let off. I should really arrest you for assaulting someone in front of a police officer, but, ”

“ But you won ’ t, obviously. ” Sherlock was at John ’ s side in two seconds flat, glancing him over. “ Thank goodness you ’ re not hurt, ’ he said, “ or I would have killed him. ” His expression was pulled into a feral snarl as he spoke, and he looked deadly furious.

John laughed. “ Of the two of us, I ’ m the one with the gun, Sherlock. ”

“ One does not need a gun to commit murder, just the right motivation. ”

“ Ha. Good to know. ” They locked eyes again. John swallowed.

Sherlock ’ s expression was cold as ice, but his fiercely blue eyes glowed an oddly warm green in the light of this flat, and John could pick out every speck of brown in them. How could a single man be so beautiful? How could a man like this, so brilliant and beautiful and incredible, give himself so completely to John?

In that moment, John felt unworthy. Unworthy of being served by this man; unworthy of his devotion; certainly unworthy of his love, but he could sense that love, now, as they stared into each other ’ s eyes. He could practically smell it. Sherlock loved him, and he had never felt it so strongly as he did in this moment. Sherlock ’ s lips parted. John ’ s heart throbbed. Say it. Please, say it .

“ I …”

“ John, help me, won ’ t you? This bastard ’ s bleeding out. ”

Glancing around, John realized Lestrade was pressing down on the criminal ’ s gun wound, looking frustrated and bewildered.

“ Oh, ” John piped, “ right, sorry. I got it. You call the ambulance. ”

 ***

Sherlock ’ s fingers twisted anxiously around John ’ s sleeve in the cab, though his face remained impassive. John could spot the teensiest hint of desperation in his eyes, though. He always could, for he knew that face better than anyone. He ’ d seen the way it reacted to every source of stimuli imaginable, every type of pain and pleasure. He loved to make that man tick, to cause and observe every twitch of his lips and eyes and muscles. God, how he loved him, and god, how he loved owning him.

A pale thumb brushed his arm, slowly and sensually. The subtle touch told him that Sherlock could feel him inside, feel the plug as thought it was really John, and that he loved it. John closed his eyes and exhaled sharply when Sherlock ’ s other hand found his knee. “ John, ” he rumbled, a layer of tension in his voice. “ I need you. I need you safe. I need you here. I don ’ t know what I could do without you. I need you, Sir. I need to be yours. ”

John moaned low and quiet at this, his voice breaking in his throat under a swell of desire.

“ God, Sherlock, I …” he breathed, “ am going to tear you open. ” He meant it, too. He wanted to spread the man wide — his body, his mind, his heart — and play with everything he could get his hands on, twist the remnants of Sherlock ’ s sanity until it molded to fit him like a glove, ravish him senseless and render him utterly possessed. John shuddered at his own thoughts. He rolled his head to the side to look at Sherlock again, very slowly, and opened his eyes. Sherlock ’ s looked breathless.

“ And I want you to, ” Sherlock agreed quietly, and as the words fell from him, John saw something new behind his eyes. Something unnamable. “ I ’ m not myself anymore. I ’ m …” He shook his head. He didn ’ t seem to know how to continue.

“ You ’ re still you, Sherlock. ”

“ What I mean, ” he went on, “ is that …” He clutched John ’ s knee tightly with long, pallid fingers, and John covered his hand with his own. Sherlock took a deep breath. “ I feel like half of me is you, now. Like without you I ’ m not really me anymore. The fact that I want you to tear me open … to rip open everything I am, crawl inside and possess me …   that ’ s …” He looked distraught and confused, a look that never quite suited Sherlock Holmes, the most brilliant mind in London (and the world, as far as John was concerned).

John smiled. “ I love you. ”

Sherlock ’ s mouth hung open, his eyes glossing over as he let that sink in again. “ I think … I think I love you, too. I think that might it. ”

John ’ s heart flooded with warmth. “ Come here, you great sod. ” Curling his fingers around the dog tags, John tugged Sherlock close, forcing his head down to his own level. He consumed Sherlock ’ s tongue with an overpowering need, pressing a whine of satisfaction from Sherlock, who was already beginning to sink at John ’ s touch.

The way it is when someone is offered release from bondage, their already adjusted body suddenly caves to the need to be free, and becomes more agitated. Sherlock was squirming, and John knew that was why. He needed the plug out. It was finally starting to bother him. John enjoyed Sherlock ’ s unraveling right there in the backseat of the taxi, going under like a brick beneath John ’ s lips and fingertips. When John paused for a breath, he felt Sherlock shudder, felt his tongue reaching for him as though desperate to still be in John ’ s mouth. John grinned at this, and patted his pet lovingly on the cheek.

“ Sir, ” sighed Sherlock. But he looked lost. He looked totally vacant without John squirreling in his brain. That ’ s how it was when Sherlock Holmes went under: all or nothing. And god, it was perfect.

“ I can hardly wait to get you home, love, ” John whispered. “ My beautiful pet. I ’ ll lay you out before me and take every part of you. If I could fucking absorb you, I would, you gorgeous thing. ”

Sherlock whimpered longingly.

“ Now, tell me about the plug again. ”

“ Sir? ”

The cab driver cleared his throat, and John looked around. They were almost at Baker Street. The driver ’ s face was particularly red, and John smirked at that.

Well, there it was again. That filthy beast in his chest, mewling, rising out of its deep slumber, wanting to practically flay Sherlock right out in the spotlight and let people enjoy the show. He shook his head. Not now, damn it. That was not for now. Not today. No time soon.

When the car pulled up in front of 221b and they ’ d paid and clambered out, the taxi sped off behind them a lot faster than necessary. John laughed. Sherlock was biting back a smirk. John wanted to smack it away, to replace it with a look of ecstasy in pain.

Immediately through the door, Sherlock dropped to his knees.

He didn ’ t do anything after that; he just knelt there, placid and waiting like a cheerful puppy. He gazed up at John with a dull glow in his eyes. John knew that look. It was the look of someone deeply under. To be so consumed already, without an ounce of foreplay, now that was something special.

John wondered, momentarily, if he really was eating Sherlock whole from the inside out, slowly taking him over inch by inch. When Sherlock crawled forward to nuzzle at John ’ s knee, however, he could not bring himself to care. There was a mouth, parted and wanting him, and there was a neck, stretched pleasantly in his direction, a vein throbbing just under the perfect jaw line. A bead of sweat was trailing down that gorgeous jugular, and how could John think about anything other than that?

“ Follow, and stay on your knees, ” John demanded calmly, and snapped his fingers at his side as he made his way to their bedroom. Sherlock crawled, and John reveled in the sound of his pet ’ s knees dragging on the hardwood. When Sherlock crossed the threshold of their room, he chose to give the man a good whack on his thigh with his the side of his foot.

Sherlock barely flinched. Instead, he settled on his shins, hands splayed on his thighs, and looked up expectantly. “ Such a good boy, ” John said, running a hand through Sherlock ’ s hair. Sherlock leaned in to the touch, practically purring. “ Now wait there a second. ”

“ Yes, Sir. ” The words came out on a shaky breath, and Sherlock was completely delighted to feel them on his lips and tongue again. “ God. Yes. ”

A minute passed, and the next thing Sherlock felt was the slide of leather curling around his neck. His collar . He preened, tensing with excitement, and lifted his head up helpfully. When John knelt in front of him to fasten the buckle, Sherlock held his jaw high, a proud smile drifting softly across his face. John tightened the buckle until he saw the tiny flicker in Sherlock ’ s eye to indicate that it was pinching a little, and stopped. He wanted it to be just slightly too tight, so Sherlock was under constant pressure of being a little bit choked. The way Sherlock clenched his teeth and hissed with delight made John ’ s cock stir. God, he loved this part.

Sherlock ’ s eyes were gently closed, his tongue darting out between his teeth to touch his bottom lip as though it were the only thing that would stop him from moaning. He loved the feel of the band gently squeezing his throat, loved the sound of the strap slipping under the metal loop and through its holdings. He loved the way John tugged on it a little, slipping his fingers between the leather and his skin, to test its tightness. When he opened his eyes again, he saw John ’ s lustful expression and nearly gasped.

“ Good boy, ” John breathed. “ Very good. ” A small click, and the leash was well affixed. John ’ s voice dropped nearly a whole octave, lust completely consuming him as he repeated, “ Very … very good, Sherlock. ” He was hard as a rock already, from the simplest action of fastening a buckle. God, there was nothing like the sight of Sherlock on a leash. Really nothing. And nothing could get him aroused more quickly. Wrapping the leash around his hand to hold a tight reign, he leaned back on his heels until he was comfortable, and forced Sherlock ’ s head down.

The subordinate pet opened wide those perfectly shaped lips and John grew instantly a bit light headed. “ Not just yet, ” he chided, rapping Sherlock lightly on the shell of his ear. John imagined Sherlock was gasping to have the thing removed from his arse now, but he knew Sherlock was being the most diligent and subservient slave he could be by holding out until his master thought it was time. God, that was hot . John had the urge to undo his jeans right then and have Sherlock take his cock down his throat, but no; now he wanted it slow. He sat back, and pressed Sherlock face right up against the bulging crotch of his trousers.

“ Worship, ” he said quietly, and though he couldn ’ t see Sherlock ’ s face, he knew the detective was blinking furiously as he wrapped his mind around what was being asked of him. John raised his eyebrows after several moments when Sherlock had still not moved. He jerked the leash up, and Sherlock whined. “ I said, ” he hissed dangerously, “ worship. No hands. Now get to it, pet. If you ’ re respectful enough of my cock, then I will remove the plug from you. ”

Sherlock moaned audibly, not even bothering to hold back anymore. John felt the full body shudder under the grip of his leash and against the crotch of his trousers. “ Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir. Oh god, thank you, Sir. ” Mm, spoken in that deep voice, those words could never sound better.

As a long wet tongue found the shape of his cock through the denim, John felt a rush of adoration sweep through him. He smiled down at the man hunched on his hands and knees before him, lapping at the head of his cock through his trousers, and felt a second wave of unworthiness. He knew Sherlock was made for this, made to serve him, and he knew that he, himself, was made to possess Sherlock inside and out, but he was also completely overwhelmed by the idea that this was really his life now; that Sherlock, such an impossible man and an unbelievable beauty, would want him. It blew his mind.

And ah! — Sherlock ’ s tongue working up the length of him wasn ’ t nearly enough. He wanted contact, but he waited for it. That made it so much better. He loved to watch Sherlock so anxious to lick him, to please him, but unable to reach his skin.

Sherlock ’ s teeth found his zipper, though, and he tugged it down slowly and carefully. John helped him minutely with the tiniest shift of his hips, but that was all he allowed. He enjoyed this too much, watching Sherlock struggle to nose open the button and part the flaps with his tongue. It was gorgeous. It was perfect. When Sherlock ’ s tongue met the flesh of his cock, he hissed. Sherlock began at the base, wrapping his tongue around it lovingly, tenderly, before tracing soft trails up the shaft. He licked lines of pure reverence with the tip of his tongue along every vein, and then went over the entirety with broad laps. John ’ s mouth hung open, watching this stunning process. It really was worship. There was no other word for it. Sherlock was doing his job, and doing it well.

When Sherlock teased John ’ s opening with tiny flicks of his tongue, John couldn ’ t stand it. He moaned loudly, and Sherlock took that as a sign. He slurped the head between his lips, and John cringed as the pleasure bucked through him at the wet warmth. He knew he ’ d been sweating today, so he knew he couldn ’ t taste very good, but there Sherlock went, downing his cock like it was his only source of nutrients. John could have come at the very sight of Sherlock chugging him down so eagerly, but he restrained. He wanted to have Sherlock worship him this way for hours, but today that was clearly not going to happen. If this kept up, John would be coming down Sherlock ’ s throat in a minute, and — no, actually, that sounded beautiful at the moment. It wasn ’ t as though he wouldn ’ t be able to get it up again later. To please Sherlock further, he wouldn ’ t need to, anyway. So he let himself go, for the time being. He wanted release too badly to stop now. “ Ugh, ” John grunted. “ Don ’ t stop, Sherlock. You ’ re being such a good boy for me. Such a good whore, yes, aren ’ t you? ”

A maddened whine, desperate with the need to please and agree, shivered around John ’ s cock, and he tightened his grip on the leash. Sherlock sputtered, and swallowed John down further, until the tip of Johns cock slipped right into the back of his throat and Sherlock gagged. Drool was running down Sherlock ’ s chin and onto John ’ s trousers as the detective choked and coughed. Sherlock ’ s face was red, and there was a thin sheen of sweat on the back of Sherlock ’ s neck, glistening beads running out from underneath the hot leather collar.

With one more lick, John was undone. “ Fuck! ” he cried, and his shouts of various obscenities echoed around the room. Sherlock gasped wetly as the cock slipped out from between his lips with a slippery pop, and his face became suddenly painted with John ’ s semen. John ’ s moans were deafening, and he was holding Sherlock steady so that he could aim for Sherlock ’ s open mouth. Much of it ended up on Sherlock ’ s cheeks and neck, but a good quantity filled Sherlock ’ s mouth in a puddle on his tongue.

John was trembling when he was finished. Sherlock ’ s mouth was still hanging open, his brow knitted with the effort of holding the sour fluid there. John laughed coldly. “ Swallow it, Sherlock. Come on. You ’ ve got this. ” The detective closed his mouth, blinking back tears as the pool slid down his throat and made him almost choke again. “ There, very good. Good boy. Now. Turn around and let me get that thing out of you. ”

The relief on Sherlock ’ s face was nearly orgasmic. John smiled, tugging the detective ’ s posh trousers down his legs. “ Oh, my, ” John breathed. “ Look at you. Gorgeous. Stretched out for me. You ’ re so perfect. ” Sherlock groaned. “ It ’ s a shame I just got off, or I ’ d want to fuck you immediately upon removing this bugger. ” Sherlock squirmed, and John chuckled. “ I ’ m not going to, so don ’ t be like that, pet. ” He stroked Sherlock ’ s back to calm him. “ I don ’ t think I can come again today, but we ’ ll see. You, however …” He paused for dramatic effect, and slid the plug out of Sherlock ’ s arse with one swift tug. Sherlock grunted, and the sound held something of bliss in its tone. “ You are going to come for me. You are going to come when I demand it, and you are going to come hard. But not after a good thrashing, I imagine. Would you like that, boy? To please me by letting me hurt you? ”

Sherlock whimpered as John turned him around on his knees to face him as he answered, “ Yes, please, Sir. Thank you, Sir. ” His voice was low and husky, his eyes blown wide. Sherlock got off on this so much, and that made John grin with pride.

“ Good boy. Now … get on the bed. ”

“ Yes, Sir. ” And the genius sleuth went obediently forth, ready, willing, and waiting to be broken.

Chapter 8: Freaks in Love

Sherlock’s feet were planted on the ground. They led into pale, bare legs, which stretched upward in long columns of taught muscle. A gorgeous round arse was waiting in the air, faded markings from previous beatings now shining with sweat. His back was bent, so he was face down with his cheek to the duvet and his arms strung up behind him in a perfect box tie. John was tugging the last knot into place, and tucking the end of the rope into a loop. Sherlock sighed as the skin of his arms pinched. At the slight motion of his head, his collar pinched at his throat. He flinched. John smiled.

“Are you happy, pet?”

Sherlock purred in response. This often happened when John tied him up. The long process of situating Sherlock into a tie would slowly send Sherlock so far under that he would frequently become almost nonverbal. His only sounds were those of an animal in heat, and two words. Well, two words and his safeword.

“What do you say, Sherlock? I know you know this.” John stroked his lower back soothingly. Sherlock shuddered.

“Yes, Sir.”

John was beaming. “Good boy. So good for your Master, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Sir,” Sherlock breathed.

John smiled warmly. It was so hard not to feel touched every time he heard those words. Every time Sherlock uttered the only two words in his vocabulary at the moment, John felt like Sherlock was reaching deep into his own heart and offering John something raw, honest, and completely himself. He tugged on the finished knots. “So, how does it feel? Too tight?”

Sherlock groaned and shook his head. He loved when it was too tight.

“Alright, boy. Just let me know when you get numb, alright?”

“Yes… Sir…”

“Will you really?”

“Yes, Sir…”

“Still know your safeword?”

“Yes, Sir.”

John trusted that he did. They had been using their private code word that had come from an old case, which meant to duck. When they were alone, it meant to stop altogether. When half the phrase was spoken, it meant to stop that, but not to stop the scene. John knew from experience that, soon enough, Sherlock’s arms would start to go numb. It was normal. Once they did, he would get confused, probably, shocked a little bit out of his subspace, and John would have to calm him before Sherlock understood it was time to use his magic word.

But Sherlock was not numb yet. Now he was limp and squirming with need, excited and desperate for his beating. John stroked Sherlock’s gorgeous arse as though it were precious. “Good,” he said. “Ready, then?”

“Yes, Sir.”

John fetched their flogger. Sherlock remained perfectly still for the short wait, his only motion being the gentle flutter of his eyes and lips. He was extraordinarily patient, even as John stood over him, teasing the tassels through his fingers in contemplation.

When he dealt the first blow, he struck softly. He decided to work lightly until Sherlock complained, and then he’d let him have it. Sherlock hissed despite the gentleness of the blow, for he was all anticipation and excitement, bubbling silently below the surface.

The second blow was slightly tougher; John put a little more back into it. That was the great thing about the flogger, though: It barely stung unless John wanted it to. Right now, he didn’t. He just wanted to bring the blood to the surface of Sherlock’s tender flesh so that by the time he moved onto different instruments, Sherlock’s arse would take it much harder, and he wouldn’t have to hit with nearly as much effort to make it hurt plenty.

John rubbed the blooming pink cheek. It was hot against his palm. Sherlock sighed and rocked his hips back into the touch. “Yes, Sir,” he moaned. “Yes, Sir, yes, Sir, yes, Sir.” When he removed his hand, Sherlock whined. Another whack befell him, and he moaned. Every soft slap of the fluid tendrils over his backside registered as pleasure. His cock was hard and leaking generously onto the pillows under his hips. He was thrusting minutely onto them, completely unable to help himself. He had no control, after all. That was what this headspace was all about for him: for the most in-control man in all London—perhaps in all the world—to give up his capacity for self control. His entire control center was John, now. His mind was John. There existed no feeling more heady than having that much power over someone, and there was certainly nothing more romantic. Sherlock’s submission was the ultimate gift: the gift of Sherlock.

Another whack. Sherlock sighed breathily, and a high squeal came with it. His eyes closed. He rested his head. His muscles were relaxing, accepting this.

Another. John was building the force behind his swings with every hit. Sherlock’s arse was scarlet, and after one more whack, Sherlock started to gurgle. John paused and stroked down his pet’s delicately beaten flesh.

“Sherlock?” he asked quietly, in the tone one might use when speaking to a frightened child. “You okay?”

The detective whined and groaned. His eyes, which had been gently closed a second ago, were now clenched tight. “Sherlock, do you need your magic word? Do you remember it? Come on, love. Talk to me.”

“Vatican,” Sherlock muttered, and he seemed to do so with an incredible amount of effort. Indeed, his fingers were twitching. John went to work immediately on the bindings, unfastening the knots as quickly as his fingers could go. The wrists were loosened first, then the forearms, the upper arms, and the shoulders. As the sleek ropes fell away, Sherlock wriggled a little, and let his arms fall to his sides. John massaged Sherlock’s biceps as they lay limp on the duvet beneath him, and Sherlock groaned in satisfaction. “There you go, love. That’s it. You’re okay.”

Sherlock hummed sweetly, rotating his hips a little to grind back against John who was leaning over him from behind. John felt his cock stir again, and bit his lip. It had taken a long time to secure the ropes, yes, so plenty of time had passed since he’d come into Sherlock’s mouth, but he was sexually drained. He was not as young as he used to be, and could not have expected his cock to respond again so soon. He ignored it, however. Right now, he wanted to give Sherlock a perfect time, and he let his own pleasure fall to the background.

 While Sherlock let the blood rush back to his limbs, John reached around to stroke him gently. As he did, he trailed his other hand to the detective’s pink buttocks, and pinched hard. Sherlock cried out. Oh, what a sound. It rang in the air like a broken bell, shrill with desperation and extremely sexy to John’s ears. He gobbled up the sound with a sharp intake of breath, tasting the excitement in the air on his tongue, and on his dry, cracked lips.

“Tell me, pet,” John hissed as he jerked his palm hard against Sherlock’s cock pulsing in his hand, “are you about ready for the next phase?”

“Yes, Sir,” Sherlock rasped greedily. “Yes, Sir. Yes, Sir. Yes, Sir.”

“You are going to keep your hands over your head, love.” Sherlock’s arms were already sliding upward so he could grasp his wrists and hold them there, accepting John’s word as law without allowing his mind a second’s question. Perfect subspace. “Very good, pet. Next…” John pinched another spot on the man’s aching arse, and moved his other hand to cup Sherlock’s balls, “I will be taking the riding crop to the arse I’ve already beaten. Then, I will move on to my belt, and finish with the flogger, because I know how much you love the way it tickles on your burning, abused skin, don’t you, pet? You filthy little masochistic boy.” Sherlock let out a moan through perfectly rounded lips, and John chuckled. “Excellent.” He withdrew. Sherlock groaned tragically at the lack of contact.

John was gone for less than a minute to switch the flogger out for the riding crop. He tested its flexibility in his hands, and smirked at the way it snapped back into his fingers with a quiet whoosh through the air. It stung, even at so small a level, and he could barely imagine what it must feel like coming down upon an already-sore arse. John shrugged, pulled it back with all his strength, and whacked.

Sherlock’s whole body flinched at the sharp impact. His buttocks shook from the hit, and there was a shining red line already blossoming across his pale skin. Aside from Sherlock’s dramatic inhale, he was silent. His fingers dug hard into the duvet, grounding him. He had once told John that being beaten often gave him the pleasant sensation that he was going to float away and never come back. John massaged the spot. Sherlock’s muscles twitched in response, then he leaned in to the touch as always. He loved John’s touch as though he were being granted an impossible gift by a god he worshiped.

The next whack came harder, and Sherlock bit his lip to stop from moaning or crying out. His cock was hard like a fleshy rock. He wanted to get off by rubbing himself against the pillows propping him up, but he wouldn’t. It was John’s decision when his cock would be touched, and when he’d be allowed to get off.

There was only a short pause between this hit and the next, and John did not touch him this time. It came down like a thick branch being pulled and released, and Sherlock could not hold it in this time. He arched and moaned as the sting shot through his veins: hot, fiery, and splendid.

His arse was throbbing. He could feel the swelling lines which crossed both cheeks, feel them pulsing, burning, acing to be further abused. Sherlock’s body was like a black hole for pain. He craved more every time he was fed a little, and nothing could satiate him. It was lucky that John was a doctor and knew when it was good to stop, or else he might go on and on until Sherlock was permanently damaged, without even realizing it.

John got on his knees and began to lavish Sherlock’s blooming arse cheeks with soft licks. The sensation was overwhelming. Sherlock pressed back onto John’s face, clawing at the duvet for all he was worth, moaning as though he could do nothing else. “Yes, Sir,” he cried. “Yes, Sir, yes, Sir, yes, Sir, yes, Sir, yes, Sir, yes, Sir,” and it went on that way until John pulled back again and the cries turned into sobbing for more attention.

“Sh,” John cooed, stroking Sherlock’s head. “You’re okay. Good boy. That’s it.” When Sherlock had quieted, John trailed a line down the detective’s spine with the crop. Sherlock shivered. Smirking, John moved away, found a good angle, drew the toy back again, and brought it down across Sherlock’s back. He reveled in the way the blood rushed to the surface in a flawless stripe over his upper back. Sherlock writhed, moaning the way a man moans when he’s balls-deep in something warm. The sound made John’s cock throb furiously. He was hard. Damn. He wanted to fuck Sherlock’s mouth all over again—or, even better, to fuck that red, raw arse when it was so sore. Sherlock would love that.

He was moving too much. He didn’t seem able to keep still now, for he was wracked with too much agonizing pleasure. John took the leash in hand and wound it around his palm. “Be still, bitch. I can’t hurt you properly if you won’t be still for me.”

Sherlock went motionless. “Yes, Sir.” His voice was very low, a vibrating rumble of a sound which shook in John’s chest.

“You do want me to hurt you, don’t you?”

“Yes, Sir, yes, Sir, yes, Sir…”

“Say please, boy. Beg me to hurt you again.”

Sherlock whimpered. He didn’t know how. His mind was whirring fast to catch up with John’s request. The doctor yanked his leash, choking Sherlock and pulling him up a little so he could whisper in his ear. “Just say please, Sherlock. That’s all I need from you, now. Just say please and I’ll give you all I’ve got.”

A whine fell from Sherlock’s lips when John traced the shell of Sherlock’s ear with his tongue. “Hnn… please, Sir.” he said at last in a voice strained by the pressure of his tightening collar.

“Good boy.” John released Sherlock, who fell flat to the bed again compliantly like liquid. The riding crop was in the air a second later, and it cracked loudly on its way to meet Sherlock’s back again. The sound of leather on flesh resounded and echoed for a moment in both sets of ears. Sherlock’s resultant moan was sensual and deep, like honey, and John wanted badly to stuff that loud mouth full. He had a ball gag mere feet away in his closet, but right now he was so intently set on that gorgeous landscape of back stretched before him, he couldn’t bring himself to walk away from it.

Gripping the leash tight, he raised the crop again. Down it came with a rush and a thwack! Again. Again. Again. Sherlock’s back was a white sheet riddled with perfect red lines. Beautiful. Art. John’s mind was numb with joy. Sherlock’s body was jellied from pleasure. It was obvious how much effort it was taking him to not buck against the pillows and let himself come. His restraint was admirable. Gorgeous. Breathtaking. John stroked his backside, and Sherlock hissed. “You are doing beautifully, boy. So, so beautifully. Shall I continue?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, Sir,” he moaned breathily.

“What do we say, boy?”

“Please, Sir. Please. Yes, please, Sir.”

John spent another ten minutes on Sherlock’s back with the riding crop. After lash number twenty, he lost count, and that was his own mind’s signal to stop and move on. Sherlock groaned when he saw John put the riding crop down, and John laughed at this. “Want more?” he asked. Sherlock nodded desperately, his pupils blown and his eyelids heavy He was stoned by the adrenaline high, by the pain and the ecstasy that his brain registered it as. John chuckled, and patted Sherlock’s cheek tenderly. “My sweet little pain slut. I’m moving onto my belt, now.”

Sherlock whimpered like a hurt puppy. Excitement was evident in his eyes; in the way he leaned into John’s hand; and in the way he thrust backward against the air, as though he were being fucked. John stroked his back, feeling the welts. Sherlock winced. “You look like you could use a good fuck, pet. What do you think?”

“Yes, Sir.” Sherlock’s voice was tense with greed.

A cold laugh escaped John. He smiled. “Well I’m afraid today I’d like to have you come solely from the pain. I will not be fucking you today, but you are going to come hard for me, won’t you, my pet?”

“Uhn… Yes, Sir.”

“That’s my boy,” said John proudly. His eyes shone with pleasure at Sherlock’s compliance. He planted a firm kiss on Sherlock’s hungry mouth, and enjoyed the detective’s happy wriggle in response. He let go suddenly, leaving Sherlock’s tongue reaching and lonely. He retrieved a stiff leather belt from the closet, and returned a second later with it folded in his fist. He snapped it once for effect, watching Sherlock shiver in anticipation. He planted it softly against Sherlock’s hot, blushing, and swollen buttocks. When Sherlock groaned at the minute contact, John reached around and slipped his thumb into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock suckled on it hungrily, as though it were sweet and holy. He was reverent of the digit. “Oh god, Sherlock,” John moaned, closing his eyes for a minute to enjoy the sensation of Sherlock’s tongue curling around him finger.

A minute was enough. He pinched down on Sherlock’s tongue between his thumb and forefinger, and pulled back the belt, watching Sherlock carefully before actually swinging. He had his fingers poised so Sherlock could not hurt him if he bit down from the pain, for his knuckles were prying Sherlock’s mouth open, acting as a makeshift gag.

When the leather struck him with an audible crack, Sherlock made a horrible noise. John loved it. It was something of a whine, perhaps some kind of moan, and he began to drool around John’s hand. John ignored it. “Was that nice, boy?” Sherlock tried to nod, but couldn’t with the combination of John’s hand and his collar controlling his head. “Want another?”

“Yes, Sir,” but the words came out muffled and ugly. John laughed.

“You’re disgusting, boy, and I still love you.”

Sherlock’s pleased whimper was still somehow delectable, even through the fist in his mouth and the fingers pressing on his tongue. John hissed at the sound, and tried to block out the shock that it sent to his groin. John thwacked the belt against Sherlock very lightly, then drew it back over his head, pinched Sherlock’s tongue harder, and swung his arm down again. The sound echoed, but it held nothing to Sherlock’s pained cries. John allowed another smack to Sherlock’s buttocks, but that was the last one, for John could see that the skin was breaking in some places. Sherlock was drenched in sweat. His cock was purple and wet with slippery pre-come. John knew he couldn’t keep this up much longer.

He was right.

John went for the back, next, and after only one hard stroke, Sherlock was gasping. He made the most bizarre sounds through John’s fingers, and it took John a second to realize he was trying to talk. John let go immediately, switching his grasp instead to the leash. Sherlock’s eyes were wild.

“Please, Sir,” he begged, and John’s cock actually began to hurt as the words came to him. “Please, please, may I come, Sir? I can’t, I can’t, I need to, Sir, please, please, Sir, please, may I?”

“No.” It almost hurt John to say it, but from the way Sherlock’s eyes rolled back in his head, he knew it wasn’t a bad decision. The man loved his restrictions. He let out a shaky sigh, which slid into a deep, tremendous moan as John let another blow befall Sherlock’s upper back. “Shh,” John quieted. “You’re alright, boy. You’re fine, Sherlock. You can do it. Just hold it in. Just a tiny bit longer. A little bit more. Come on. You’ve got this.”

The sting was magnificent. It was beyond a sting at this point, after how sensitive his nerve endings had become. It was a hot burn, and it spread from the point of impact into every nerve in Sherlock’s body. The third slap with the belt came down upon his back, and simultaneously, John yanked the leash so Sherlock’s head was forced back and he coughed, spitting out his lengthy moan in a strangled gasp.

“Please, Sir, please, may I come?” he asked again.

“Not yet.”

Sherlock was sobbing. John hit him one last time with the belt, and then put it down. Sherlock’s choked cries were deafening. John was so turned on he thought he might burst right there, but he held back. One more step to his process. John fumbled distractedly as he reached for the flogger again, but once he found it, he gripped it tight with purpose. He brought it back and slapped it against Sherlock’s arse with a fair amount of strength. Sherlock grunted and growled, like a wild animal. “Please,” he begged once more. “Please, may I, Sir? Please? Please, god, it feels too good, please, stop, please, may I come, Sir?”

John let out his breathy “Yes” in what was basically a moan of pleasure. He whipped Sherlock one more time with the long tassels, and Sherlock lost it.

His whole body seized up, his head still forced back by John’s strong grip on his leash. His eyes were clenched shut, and he was howling, practically bellowing his trembling chant of “Sir, yes, Sir, oh, yes, Sir!” What parts of his flesh were still its usual marble pallor suddenly flushed a wild pink, and he ruptured hard. A vein in his forehead pulsed madly, his hands clung to the duvet as though it were his only anchor to life, and he humped into the air violently as the white fluid shot out upon the pillow. John watched in awe, tugging the leash roughly as his pet’s orgasm tore him open.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he croaked, just as Sherlock’s moans began to dissipate into short squeals of lingering pleasure. Sherlock hummed out the rest of his wave of ecstasy, shaking like a leaf. His toes were slipping on the ground from the sweat that had pooled under his feet. Come was dripping down his thighs. There was drool on his face, and sticky streaks where John’s semen had dried there earlier. “So beautiful.”

Sherlock was beyond words, but he smiled weakly. John immediately reached out to detach the leash from the collar. “Oh, love,” he sighed. “You really are perfect.” He pushed the soiled pillow out from under his pet, and placed it aside. Sherlock winced as his hips came back down to bed level. John lay beside him and pressed a light kiss to Sherlock’s lips. “So perfect,” he said again, and kissed him more deeply. Sherlock purred into John’s mouth, pleased, satiated, and approving of the affection. “Let me get you some ice.”

Out in the kitchen, John paused to take a breath to calm himself down. For a moment, he felt sick. If his family know what he and Sherlock got up to, they would call him a pervert. Disgusting. Lestrade would call it abuse. Or would he? Lestrade was smart. He knew more than he let on, most of the time. It wasn’t abuse. Sherlock loved it. John loved it, too. But for the briefest moment, in the quiet after the passing storm, out here in the kitchen with a cold wet rag and a bag of ice in hand, he was doubting their relationship. Was it wrong to want to possess so much of a person? Was it wrong to reduce a mind like Sherlock’s to this quivering toy for John? Then another voice in John’s head piped up, that sounded remarkably like Sherlock: Of course it isn’t wrong. It is the rawest form of love there is, and truer than most.

Shaking the momentary fear from his mind with the thought of love foremost in his heart, he returned to the bedroom. Sherlock was coming down from his subspace high. “John,” he said. “You were gone too long.” He reached out, his palm outstretched, for the washcloth. John placed it in his hand and let Sherlock clean his face while John held the ice to his buttocks. Sherlock hissed in pain.

“Aw, sorry, Sherlock,” John teased with a chuckle in his tone. “You asked for it.”

The detective laughed, low and deep. His throat sounded scratchy. “Yes,” he agreed with much amusement. “And you performed most admirably, my friend.”

John grinned rather smugly. “Yeah, it was good, wasn’t it?” John switched hands, for his fingers were going numb, and moved the ice to another part of Sherlock’s abused flesh. Sherlock hissed again.

“God, you’re everything, John.”

“What?” John blinked.

“You’re inside me,” Sherlock said quietly. “You’re everything.”

John had no words for that. He could only blink back involuntary tears.

 “Uhm…” He had to clear his throat. Sherlock stared up at him over his shoulder, his collar biting into his jaw as he did. “Here,” he said, standing suddenly. “Get up if you can.” Sherlock looked bewildered, but pushed himself shakily to his feet without hesitation. “Come.” John took his hand. Sherlock’s fingers were slightly unsteady. John gave them a reassuring squeeze, and led his beaten pet slowly out to the bathroom.

In the small tiled room, Sherlock stood behind John, who kept a soft grip on Sherlock’s hand the whole time as he reached for the tap in the bath. He ran the cool water, and plugged up the drain. Sherlock blinked at him. “John?”

“Sh,” John breathed, leaning his forehead against Sherlock’s. “Let me do this for you. Please.”

Sherlock’s eyes were very glossy. He nodded silently. John kissed him. The low rush of water became soft white noise to them as they became lost in one another’s mouths. Sherlock tasted sweet and lovely, and his tongue was soft and malleable to John’s motions. John’s prick, which had fallen quiet again, was starting to stir once more. It was a little uncomfortable. Just as John started to feel lightheaded due to lack of blood and air, Sherlock pulled back, panting. He cleared his throat. John looked around to spot that the tub was almost full to the brim. He hurried to turn the water off, then gestured to the tub.

“Must I sit in it? It’s just…”

John smiled. “No, just go on your stomach. Prop yourself on your elbows though, obviously, so you don’t drown yourself. And… wait…” He removed Sherlock’s collar.

Sherlock clambered in. His face contorted in pain and then relaxed as he settled, allowing the cool water to lap at his hot, red welts. John took the washcloth, which Sherlock had placed on top of the toilet, and brought it into the water. He took the soap in his hands, and with these he massaged Sherlock gently, starting at his shoulders and moving down his bruised back onto his burning buttocks. He washed the lanky detective tenderly, loving every sigh out of Sherlock’s mouth, and reveling the feel of his angular body under his hands in such a delicate moment.

“I love you,” Sherlock breathed. John’s breath caught.

“Really?”

“I already said I do,” Sherlock snapped. “What more do you want?”

John chuckled a little dryly. “No, you said you think you love me. There’s a difference.”

“Well, I do love you.” Sherlock sniffed haughtily. “Really.”

“It’s a strange love we have.”

“Why is it strange?”

John paused for the briefest second as he smoothed the soap over the backs of Sherlock’s thighs. “Well,” he said, as he went on with his task, “our love is sort of… violent, you know?”

“No,” Sherlock spat. “It isn’t violence. It’s possession. It’s need. It’s more powerful than what most people ever get to experience in whole lifetimes. We’re lucky.”

Nodding, John moved to tickle the inside of Sherlock’s knees. “Yes, we’re lucky. Shame most people wouldn’t understand it.”

“Why do you care so much what other people think? I have transformed, John. I have become an entity that needs you in its brain feeding it oxygen in order to live. You’re the voice in my head. You’re my conscience. You’re my heart.”

John’s chest was aching. “That’s…”

“And you’re ashamed of that.”

His heart sank. “What?” John blinked, pausing in his motions. Sherlock turned to look him right in the eye.

His face was pale and dripping. Several thick curls were plastered to his forehead with water. John brushed one away from his eyebrow. Sherlock didn’t even flinch. “You can’t pretend you aren’t ashamed of feeling satisfied in this relationship,” he said, his eyes dark. “You know you can’t hide anything from me. I always know.”

“True.” John bit his lip. “I don’t mean to be, Sherlock. I don’t want to be.” Sherlock’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker in those cold eyes that betrayed how hurt he was. John knew Sherlock wouldn’t admit that he could ever be hurt emotionally like this, but that didn’t mean those feelings weren’t there. “I love you,” John professed sternly. “I love what we have. I love what we do. I don’t think I could live a day without you anymore. Not since we’ve morphed into this… single being so completely. I was raised conservatively, though, Sherlock. I’ve been taught my whole life that if you love someone, you don’t hurt that person. My family would think we’re sick freaks, you know. And who knows what everyone else would think…”

“Everyone else? Who is everyone else? Why do they matter? They’re irrelevant. Everything is irrelevant, John, except our happiness and completion with each other. We’re lucky. Why can’t you be happy with that?”

“Is this because I won’t tell Lestrade yet?”

“This has nothing to do with that.” But Sherlock’s cheeks were a little pink.

“Oh, please. He’s pretty much your only other friend besides me. It makes sense you might want him to be in on it.”

Sherlock swallowed hard. “I…”

“You’re bitter, aren’t you? That’s what this is!” John actually laughed. Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Sherlock Holmes in love. You’re all softened up, now! You’re bitter because you can’t tell your friend that you’re in love with your boyfriend! That’s…”

“No.”

“…Adorable!”

“No.”

“Yes, it is!”

Sherlock splashed him.

“Oh, real mature.”

John swatted Sherlock’s cheek, and in response the detective’s eyes twinkled. John raised his eyebrows. “I know you well enough to know that look,” he said apprehensively, “and I can’t.”

“Oh, please. You can. I saw you got hard during our session. You still have it in you to fuck me. Come on.”

“No,” John insisted with a gentle smile. He stroked Sherlock’s head, and then moved down to clean Sherlock’s feet. They were quiet for a few minutes, and John got lost in his head. Then, when he accidentally made Sherlock twitch by tickling his toe, John laughed, and made a very sudden decision. “Alright,” he said firmly.

“Alright, what?”

“We can tell people.”

“Not ashamed to have me as your boyfriend?”

“Well, sometimes I’m ashamed to be seen with you in public, yeah, but that’s ‘cause you’re a right git, y’know.” Sherlock snorted. “But I don’t regret my decision to be with you, and I could never be ashamed of it. I’ve been silly. I’m being irrational.”

“Yes, you are.”

John slapped the back of his head playfully. “Well, not anymore.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

The doctor sighed at the word. “Still no ‘Sir’ out in public, though.”

“Why not?”

“Because the rest of the world is not like us, Sherlock, and I’d like to be accepted, alright? I’d like to not have people stare at us like we’re freaks.”

“What if we are freaks?”

John laughed. “Well, I already know you’re a freak,” he said, leaning close to the side of Sherlock’s wet head and planting a kiss on his earlobe. “But you’re my freak, and I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Not another word was said on the matter, but they sealed it with a kiss that left both of them breathless and gasping for more. Well, John supposed, perhaps he did have a little bit more left in him, after all.

 

Chapter 9: Mind and Body

Sherlock winced his way through the rest of the evening. While John made them dinner, Sherlock lay face down on the sofa complaining loudly about the fact that he couldn’t move and he was “Bored, John, so bored!”

“You asked for it, you prick!” John laughed, stirring his pasta sauce with a shake of his head.

The complaints continued until the steaming pasta was heaped onto plates and John shoved one under his nose. “I don’t need to eat,” Sherlock snapped, cringing as he sat up on the sofa to take the plate.

John knew Sherlock was in severe pain, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t being an annoying dick. “Sherlock, if you don’t shut up and eat that food, I’m going to bend you over my knee and spank you again. How about that?”

Quite contrary to John’s intention, Sherlock’s eyelids drooped with lust. “Oh,” he purred suggestively, abandoning his plate to nuzzle John’s neck. “Is that a promise, Sir?” John groaned.

“Stop it,” he snapped, swatting the distracted detective away. “Eat.” He decided to alter his threat. “Or I’ll hand-feed you.”

In a huff, Sherlock returned to his food. He chewed dramatically, resent lining his face so he looked completely ridiculous, like a stubborn child furious about being made to eat vegetables. By his third bite, however, Sherlock practically forgot to chew. He was scarfing it down so fast he was practically inhaling the stuff. John watched him with amusement. “At least you’re eating something,” he sighed with a shrug. “That’s always a feat.”

“Well,” Sherlock said, mouth still full of his last hurried bite of pasta, “if you’re not going to play anymore, then I’m going to Bart’s.” He stood, dropping his plate to the floor without a care. John watched it roll a path to his armchair, and spin to a halt.

Sherlock moved, suddenly, like someone who didn’t have welts healing on their backside. “Er… Sherlock? You’re okay to go?”

The man snorted and waved off the comment with an eye roll. “You forget, John, that this body is only transport. It carries me so my mind can work when I need it to.”

John smirked. “When you need it to, being the key words.”

“Yes.” Sherlock squinted, removing his bathrobe right there in the middle of the sitting room. “And?” John had no words. He just bit his tongue and pulled a face, his eyebrows raised. “Oh, I see. You are referring to the fact that you have seen me completely tethered to this body with my mind handed to you on a platter. You are poking fun at me. I see.”

“No, Sherlock. I’m not poking fun at you. I’m just… I think it’s interesting. Your mind is always going, but then…”

“I thrive on the two extremes. Most of the time, I live in my head, and it’s a mad rollercoaster of genius in there.” He allowed himself a moment of self-indulgence. “But you… You give my mind its only rest,” Sherlock whispered. And at that, he turned on his heel and marched out of sight, towards his bedroom. John watched Sherlock’s beaten, red arse walking away, enjoying the way it swayed with the motion of Sherlock’s hips.

It took John’s brain a moment to catch up, but after Sherlock had been gone a few minutes, he realized what a loaded sentiment he’d just been given.

He sat back on the sofa, having completely forgotten about the plate of pasta in his lap. He was lost in thought. His head was pounding with Sherlock’s complex nature. No one could figure that man out. No one. John felt he owned the most special being in all creation. He was literally the luckiest man on earth.

It took John several minutes to regain his cool. He finished his dinner in a daze, barely even tasting it. To be graced by Sherlock’s compliments was the most heady experience imaginable. For a man as unbelievable as Sherlock to view him as special… now that was something to cherish.

Sherlock emerged from his room in a freshly pressed shirt and a clean blazer. John was at the sink, scrubbing his plate clean, when Sherlock passed him on his way out. “Wait,” John said, and Sherlock stopped in his tracks, looking around expectantly with an expression of impatience. John dried his hands quickly and wafted over to the taller man. He looked very smart. John smiled up at him fondly. “I love you,” he said. Sherlock blinked, and his mouth twitched.

“I love you, too, John,” he rumbled, and leaned down for a kiss. John returned the kiss hungrily, letting the warm taste of Sherlock’s mouth sink in.

When he pulled back, Sherlock looked breathless. There was a faint blush around his cheeks. John grinned goofily. “Alright, piss off, you sod. Have fun.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Fun is not the point, John.”

“Yes, yes. Go experiment or whatever it is. Love you.”

“Thank you.”

He left, and John sighed, missing him already.

Two hours later, while the television droned quietly in the background and John was lounging on the sofa and typing up the recent case, his phone received an incoming text from an unknown number.

Lestrade is here. Following up on a case.
SH

Alright … and?

Shall I tell him?
SH

Now? can ’ t this wait?

John did not hear back. Irrational worry gripped him. He knew Sherlock was prone to not respond to his texts, but he was flooded with the strangest vision of Sherlock describing their private life in graphic detail to a mortified Lestrade.

He tried not to think of such things. He sat back, trying to absorb himself in his writing once more, but he was making zero headway. He was rapping his fingers on his lap, staring at his computer screen without really seeing it. Ten minutes passed like this before he gave up completely. He missed Sherlock anyway, and he felt useless here without him. “Damn,” he muttered, feeling a little stupid as he made his decision to gather his things and follow Sherlock to St. Bart’s.

 

***

 

“Why am I not surprised to see you here?” Lestrade’s smile was gentle. He looked tired. Sherlock looked up from the body he was bending over, and observed the intruder.

Lestrade was verging on 48 hours without sleep now. He looked exasperated yet comforted as he locked eyes on Sherlock. He’d gotten take-away for dinner, and had eaten it in his office. Sherlock struggled to deduce how long it had been since Lestrade had last gone home.

“Following up on the last case?” Sherlock asked, flitting his eyes back to the corpse whose finger he was dissecting.

There was a deep sigh from Lestrade. “Not one I worked on with you,” he said.

“It’s amazing you ever complete any case without me.”

Sherlock did not have to look to know that Lestrade was then waving to Molly through the window where she stood in the attached room. Sherlock knew Molly would then wave back demurely in her way, pushing a strand of her hair behind her ear and being stupidly bashful. It was her nature. Or was that only in response to him? Would she even have the same reaction to Lestrade? Would she continue to have that kind of reaction to Sherlock if she knew that he was someone else’s property? Mm. Property. The word sent a pulse of joy through Sherlock’s mind, and he was momentarily distracted.

Regaining himself just as Lestrade pulled back the sheet of his intended subject, Sherlock asked: “Mailman?”

Lestrade looked a little bemused for a second, but with a short glance up at Sherlock again, he gave up even trying to figure it out. “Yes,” he sighed.

“It was, without question, an accident gone awry. A teenage girl, too scared to call the police.”

The Inspector laughed. “True or not, I still need to gather evidence.”

“I don’t see what for.”

“Paperwork. Legal stuff, Sherlock. The stuff you never help me with, remember?”

“Stupid. Irrelevant.”

“Whatever.” Lestrade went back to work, examining the man’s neck.

Sherlock whipped out his most recent disposable mobile, and sent a quick text to his lover, who replied almost immediately.

Shall I tell him?
SH

The response to that made Sherlock frown.

Now? can ’ t this wait?

He supposed it could wait, but why should it? Lestrade was here, and John had agreed. It was so much easier to disobey John when he wasn’t right beside him, infecting his mind with the instinctive need for obedience.

Sherlock looked over. Lestrade was absorbed in the corpse’s collarbone. He cleared his throat, and the Inspector looked up. “What is it?”

John and I are in a relationship, Sherlock thought. John and I fuck like angry rabbits. John owns my body and heart. I am his claimed property. I am his pet. I do his bidding. He is my Master and I am in love with him. What came out of his mouth instead was “John and I.” Then there was silence.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows and straightened his back, pulling himself away from the body on the slab to cross his arms over his chest. He waited a long minute, and when Sherlock still said nothing else, he shrugged, and turned back to the victim. “Finally,” he mumbled.

“What?”

“I mean…” Lestrade chuckled, and looked back up again with a wide grin. “Finally! Really, Sherlock, did you and John think I couldn’t tell you’re together? Do you really think I’m that much of an idiot?”

“Well, you are an idiot.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“You know everyone is, though.”

Lestrade let out a sigh. “Well, of course.” He rolled his eyes. There was a quiet moment between them, and then Lestrade spoke again. “So, go on then. I’m totally exhausted and can barely concentrate anyway.” He sat on a nearby stool, and laced his fingers in his lap. “Out with it. How’d this come about?”

“I… don’t understand the question.”

“Come off it,” Lestrade laughed. “How’d you end up together? I always kind of figured you swung that way, but I didn’t really get that from the good doctor until recently. So, let’s have it. Did he start it all? He must’ve done.”

“No.” Sherlock sniffed, straightening his posture. “It was I who initiated.”

“Really?” Lestrade pulled an expression of great surprise. “Always figured relationships weren’t your area, so it’d have to be him, and then he’d have to practically convince you to give it a go. But that’s just my read. I’ve known you all this time, and I still never feel like I really know you.”

“Normally, relationships are not really my area, no,” Sherlock agreed. “John, however… is not…” He paused, pursing his lips, reminding himself to choose his words carefully. John would want that. John was a very private person. Though it didn’t bother Sherlock to say just how special John was to him, he wouldn’t want John to feel uncomfortable.”

“John’s not normal for you, is he?” Lestrade’s smile took Sherlock aback. He narrowed his eyes, a little confused. How was Lestrade being so observant? That was unusual. “You love him, don’t you?” Sherlock blinked. His dry lips parted. “That’s how it goes, y’know. That’s how you know. When you think you know yourself, and then someone comes along and turns that all upside down. Yeah.” He looked momentarily sad. There was a shadow in his eyes, flickering in the fluorescent lights. “I can tell. You love him.”

Sherlock didn’t know how to respond. He tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. Lestrade laughed heartily. “Well,” he said, “I really can’t picture it, but I’m glad you’re happy. And I’m glad you told me, as well. It’s good. You’re my friend, Sherlock, believe it or not, and it was kind of weird being kept out of the loop when there was clearly something going on.”

“It wasn’t that obvious,” Sherlock spat.

“Ha! Are you kidding? The number of times I caught John staring at your arse, or touching you for way too long? Please. And don’t get me started on the dog tags. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice those? Especially after today!”

“Today?”

“When it was dead hot this afternoon. Your shirt was open, and there they were. Like I wouldn’t see. Please. I swear, you two think I’m some kind of moron.”

“We don’t. John’s just… very private.”

“I don’t see why. I’m your friend. It’s not like I’m homophobic or anything.”

“I don’t really think that was the issue,” Sherlock said, and then he suddenly wished he hadn’t said anything at all.

Lestrade glared. “What was the issue, then? Why would he want to keep it from me? What’s there to hide?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock hissed, all too quickly. He could feel the color rising in his cheeks as he leaned back down to spread the flaps of skin on the corpse’s finger with his tweezers.

“That’s not a ‘nothing’ nothing, Sherlock. That was a ‘something’ nothing.”

“That sentence didn’t make any sense at all.”

Lestrade breathed a tired laugh. “I mean that there’s obviously something you and John want specifically to keep from me.”

“I would have been open about it since the beginning. Blame John.”

“Open about what?” The female voice startled them both. Lestrade stood from his seat and saluted Molly awkwardly. She smiled. “Open about what, you two? What are you talking about?” Her smile was sweet and naive.

Sherlock shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Ah, now, that’s not entirely true,” Lestrade teased. “Really, Sherlock? You weren’t going to tell Molly?”

“I didn’t really think… I mean, I suppose John did give me permission to… I…”

“Permission?” The Inspector raised his eyebrows and tutted. “Wow. Sherlock, he’s really done a number on you. You take orders from no one. Now John gives you ‘permission,’ I mean… wow.”

“Who? What are we talking about?”

“John,” Sherlock said proudly. “He and I are involved, now.”

Molly tilted her head like a curious dog. “Involved? You mean…” Her smile faded. “What… you… and John?”

Lestrade giggled like a giddy schoolboy gossiping. “Sherlock and John are together. Boyfriends, are you? Ha! Sherlock Holmes with a boyfriend!” There was something stiff about his jokes, but Sherlock couldn’t pick up on it.

“Oh,” Molly declared. It was a little loud. “I’ll just be…” She gestured to the door. “I mean, that’s really great for you, Sherlock. And for John, too, I just… I mean, really, I’m so happy for you both. Really. Good. It’s good. Yes. Well.” And she left, leaving the two men behind her.

Sherlock looked confused. Lestrade just sighed sadly. “Ah, the news had to be broken to her eventually. I always thought you had to be gay, I don’t really know why, but poor Molly’s always had a thing for you.”

“And the fact that I’m now with someone has made her… jealous? Hurt? I don’t really understand.”

“Yeah, well, you wouldn’t, would you? Human feelings, Sherlock. You never seem to comprehend those properly, do you?”

“I suppose not,” Sherlock whispered under his breath.

“But you feel love. And that’s something. At least we know you’re human.”

Sherlock didn’t say the fact that love was tearing him open and whisking is insides to make him something totally new. He didn’t say that he was having trouble keeping a firm grasp on his sanity while love made him into a two-headed beast that was Sherlock-and-John, and not just Sherlock. He was not himself anymore. He was a pair. Without John, he was not himself. With John, he was not the self he used to be. Everything was changing so fast.

He missed John desperately all of a sudden. His heart ached for his army doctor. Stupid. He chided himself silently.

“So you guys are… boyfriends, or what? Was I right? Boyfriends? Partners? What is it?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Foolish labels,” he spat, but then he sighed. “I suppose we’re boyfriends, if it will please you to call us that.” He and John had, of course, called each other ‘boyfriends,’ since they’d become romantic, but Sherlock wasn’t about to reveal that much sentiment to Lestrade. The man had no use for his trivial sentiment. It was no business of his, what they called each other in their personal life. For the briefest second, Sherlock imagined saying, Actually, no. John is my Master and I, his pet. I obey him, and he hurts me. How’s that for boyfriends? The thought made him snicker.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.”

Lestrade shook his head. “You and John, always keeping things from me.”

“I was thinking about my sex life with John which is, of course, none of your business. Are you really that keen on knowing the details of my sex life? I had no idea, Lestrade, that you were so interested in the happenings of my bedroom.”

That garnered quite a blush from the DI, who threw his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright.” He licked his lips nervously, turning back to the slab. “Glad you’ve got a sex life, though. I figure it’s making you less… you.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “I feared as much.”

“That’s a good thing, you dolt.”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” Lestrade said firmly with a nod. “You’re more bearable than you used to be. Not that that’s saying much.”

Wrinkling his nose, Sherlock turned back to the finger. Ten minutes later, after much distracting scribbling on a file, Lestrade sighed dramatically. “Alright,” he breathed, stretching. “I think I might actually have time to sleep tonight,” he said. “Here’s hoping I can.”

“In the office again?” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him from over the corpse. Lestrade’s lips twisted.

“I—yes,” he said in a defeated tone. “I still haven’t found a place yet.”

“Pity,” Sherlock said, averting his eyes back to the tangle of veins again. “You look dreadful.”

“I feel dreadful.” A moment’s pause. “Alright, well… I’m off. Thanks again, for… y’know… opening up.”

The morgue was quiet again. Sherlock worked with steady hands, his mind whirring with excitement as he placed a tiny slice of vein on a slide.

He wasn’t sure how long it was before the door to the morgue burst open again. When it did, he looked up, and John’s face was a beacon of light. “John,” he exclaimed joyfully. “You’re here!”

“You never responded to my text, so I just…” He pointed over his shoulder. “I saw Molly out there and she wouldn’t even look at me when I asked where you were. She directed me in here, but god, she looked terrible. Is she…?”

“Jealous of us? Yes.”

John’s arms hung limp. “You told her?”

“Molly. Lestrade. Yes. I believe that covers everyone, except, perhaps, the Yarders. Not that those gits need to know.”

“Uh huh. Great. You didn’t want me to be here when you told people?”

“Why would that be necessary?”

“I don’t know, just…”

Sherlock squinted at him. “Oh,” he said with a nod. “You believe I am tactless enough to spout details of our private life.”

John’s laugh was gentle. He approached Sherlock with open arms. “Aren’t you?” he said playfully, coming up behind Sherlock and slinking his grip around Sherlock’s middle so he was trapped in an embrace. He pressed his cheek upon Sherlock’s upper back, and the detective sighed. He leaned back into John’s touch, satisfied by his closeness. He could feel John’s chest and stomach pressing against his wounds from earlier, and he enjoyed the reminder.

“I would never do that to you,” Sherlock breathed. “It matters not to me if our friends know that I am owned. I don’t care what people think of me. I do, however, care what you think of me, and I know that you are private; that you would be angry with me if I were to spill that kind of information.”

“Mm,” John agreed quietly, nuzzling Sherlock’s shoulder blade. “Although,” he added, “I really think you should know that lately I can’t stop thinking about making it known. I don’t think I actually want to, but god the fantasy is really… really exciting to me.”

Sherlock took hold of John’s hands where they lay across his abdomen. “Is it?” he asked.

“Yes. I imagine making you wear your collar all the time, no matter who you’re around or what you’re doing.” His voice grew quite low and thick with lust just from the thought.

Sherlock moaned, which caused John to chuckle. “I would, Sir,” he breathed. "If you asked it of me, I would wear my collar every day and be proud of the way it shows, and be proud every time someone asked me what it was for.”

“I even imagine marking you. Carving my initials into your hip so that the scar would shine on your skin forever, and you could never forget me.”

“I am proud to have you as my Master, Sir. I feel privileged to be yours. I will bleed for you if you want me to, Sir.”

John laughed hard. “Jesus, Sherlock, are you going under right here? Now?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock was. He was in a daze already, totally engulfed by John’s fantasies. It was that fast, that easy, with John. Amazing.

“Stop that!” John demanded with a giggle. “We can’t. Not here. Not now, Sherlock!” But quite contrary to his words and tone, he ran his hands up Sherlock’s chest, took hold of his nipples and twisted them. Sherlock’s groan was music to his ears. “Stop it, now,” he said again, warningly. “You’re insatiable, but you know we can’t.”

“Then stop touching me. I bend too easily to your touch, Sir. I’m yours.”

John almost did pull away at that, but something stopped him. It was the thought of fucking Sherlock here. Right here, in the morgue. With Molly just a few doors down. The fantasy made him hard. Sherlock’s willingness was also not helping. “What if I were to fuck you, right here?” John asked teasingly, flicking his fingernail over one of Sherlock’s sore nipples. The detective hissed with pleasure before speaking.

“What… here? In public?”

“Yes,” John snapped. “Here. On the floor. Or even…” He craned his neck and licked Sherlock’s earlobe. “…On a slab.”

“Sounds unsanitary, Sir,” Sherlock said, but he spoke through a revealing moan.

“I don’t care.” The thrill of the moment had John harder than he could have expected in such a short time. His body had been too tired before. He had sworn he couldn’t come again for a while. But Sherlock was pliant in his arms despite his aching backside, there was a packet of lubricant in the pocket of his jeans (there always was), and there was an empty slab to their right. It was so exciting, just the idea of it. “God, I want you,” he growled. “I don’t care anymore. That’s it. I’m fucking you.”

“Sir!” Sherlock gasped as John pulled him from his stool and dragged him the several feet to the slab in question. “Sir, I—!”

“You nothing,” John interrupted. “You are mine.” He spun his pet around and pressed his fingers to Sherlock’s temples. “You. Are. Mine. I want to fuck you. Here. Now. Where anyone could find us. Where anyone might walk in and see what a diligent pet you really are for me. Would that embarrass you?” He stroked the gorgeous shape of Sherlock’s pallid face now tinged pink. “Would it humiliate you to have your friends see you with a cock in your arse? To have them see you for the writhing slut you are?”

Sherlock grunted in response to this. His eyes were closed. His cock was straining against John’s, separated by several layers of fabric. “Down,” he ordered, and Sherlock went without an ounce of hesitation. On his knees, Sherlock looked a beautiful wanton thing. John undid his zipper quickly. With his knees planted on the cold morgue floor and his hands holding himself steady on John’s thighs, Sherlock opened his mouth, waiting. Wanting.

John abused the offering lips with overzealous vigor. Sherlock gagged almost immediately, coughing and sputtering. His fingers tightened on John’s trouser legs, grounding him as he tried to regulate his breathing. “Good boy,” John said softly when Sherlock put the tip of his tongue to use. ”God yes, there’s a good boy.” Sherlock’s throat was starting to soften, and John pummeled it with the head of his cock. Sherlock took it, so dutiful and calm.

“That’s enough,” John said suddenly. Sherlock pulled himself off of John with an obscene, wet pop. A string of saliva stretched between his shapely lips and the full cock in front of him. John smiled. “I need to fuck you. Nothing else. I just need to have my cock inside my property, alright? Right in your gorgeous arse. Now.” He tugged Sherlock up by the collar of his blazer and lifted him with impressive strength onto the slab. Sherlock arched and lay back, but John flipped him quickly.

Everything happened in a flurry of desperate motions. It was so fast. So dizzying. John had Sherlock’s trousers around his knees in seconds, and the packet of lube was opened with fumbling fingers. Sherlock was trembling when John crawled on top of him, and the slippery cold substance on his arse made him flinch.

“Oh god, yes, Sir,” the genius moaned, and John hissed at the sound of his title. If anyone could hear way Sherlock cried the word ‘Sir,’ they’d be horrified, it was so lewd.

John pumped his wet fingers inside Sherlock once, twice, three times, and withdrew quickly. Preparation was hardly an issue at the moment. John was so wrapped up in the need of the moment, he wasn’t thinking. It didn’t matter to him that Sherlock would hurt, that he was already sore from the day’s events, or that he wasn’t wearing a condom so it would cause a serious mess. He cared about nothing except fucking Sherlock into breathlessness on this cold metal slab. The door wasn’t even locked. They were totally exposed, and it drove John forward.

His cock was slicked and ready. John entered him in one slow, difficult motion. Sherlock cried out uncontrollably, so John had to lean forward to press his hand over Sherlock’s mouth. The detective’s eyes rolled back into his head. His rapid breaths through his nose were hot and hard against the back of John’s hand. He felt the rumbling moans stifled against his palm when he began his violent pounding, and it was gorgeous.

“Fuck, Sherlock,” John breathed against Sherlock’s neck, ruffling his lovely curls. “God, yes. Fuck.”

John thrust hard. The slab shook. Sherlock was completely pinned and unable to move, though his arms were still free. He gripped the sides of the table so hard that his knuckles went white. John’s hips were relentless and quick, violent in the pace they found. It was brutal. The table made awful screeching whines with every pound, and Sherlock’s cracking screams were quite audible despite his Master’s hand over his mouth.

The doctor came faster than he would have liked, but it was good. It was better this way, in such a setting as this. He grunted with his orgasm, nipping the back of Sherlock’s neck gently between bursts of tingling bliss.

When he released Sherlock’s mouth to pull himself up, the detective whimpered like a beaten dog beneath him. He got to his feet, zipped up, and walked around the slab to stroke Sherlock’s face. “You alright, love?” he panted.

Sherlock swallowed. He looked shaken, but his pupils were thick black plates surrounded by their slim blue halos. His mouth hung open. He was speechless and aching with arousal. When John had determined that he was okay, he laughed. “Good, I take it?” Sherlock nodded dazedly. “In that case, get up. You’re going to drip my come all over the slab, and then Molly will have a right fit.”

The tall, dark beauty slid himself off the surface and into a standing position. His legs shook beneath him as he did up his trousers again. “I’m afraid this may be a particularly sticky ride home,” he said in a strangled yet impassive tone. John laughed, envisioning the ejaculate sliding down Sherlock’s thighs. “I may have to get these trousers dry-cleaned, now.”

John shot him a wide grin. “Worth it, though?”

Sherlock licked his lips, which were plump and pink. “Completely, Sir.”

“Shall we get out of here, then?”

“My experiment,” Sherlock reminded him, gesturing vaguely to the other slab.

“Right. Can’t you put it off?”

“Only if I take this man’s hand home with us.”

“Oy! So it can stay in our fridge for the next week? That’s disgusting!”

“Exciting, you mean.”

“Awful,” John joked. They smiled warmly at each other.

On the way out of the morgue, the couple passed an abashed looking Molly. She grinned awkwardly at them without making eye contact, and her ears were especially pink. John couldn’t tell if it was the mere effect of jealousy, or if she had heard their moans.

Some nasty part of him hoped, for a second, that she’d heard them; hoped she’d heard the man of her dreams calling out John’s title while rammed full of cock.

The dark desire made his pulse race. He forced it back, shaking his head to rid himself of the momentary lapse in judgment. He gave Molly an apologetic smile, which she returned hesitantly.

They left, Sherlock clinging to the plastic-wrapped hand like a child to a Christmas present. The hand did, in fact, end up living with them for a long time, and Sherlock could not have been happier.

The body parts were not the only sick things hiding out in 221b, however. John’s harbored fantasy for public display was growing, and his poor judgment at the morgue haunted him for weeks afterward, only making the shameful desire worse by the day.

Notes:

I kind of hate how this chapter turned out, but whatever. Our boys are starting to lose themselves now. Uh oh. John's getting particularly freaked out, I think.