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Silent Servant

Chapter Text

Sherlock lounged in the back of the cab, smirking as he tapped a message to Mycroft on his mobile.

Remember- you promised that I wouldn't be bored tonight. SH

His brother's response was swift in coming.

Since when are you bored at the Diogenes? MH

But a party, Mycroft! Really? How pedestrian. SH

Mycroft's reply made a delicious mix of fear and pleasure run through him.

Odd choice of words, since you won't be on your feet much. MH

Sherlock grinned broadly and reclined against the seat. Observing that he was almost at his destination, he reached under his coat and squeezed his crotch, not caring whether or not the cabbie noticed. It might be his last chance to touch himself for awhile, so he pressed his palm against his hardening cock and sighed loudly at the resulting pleasure.

The cabbie glanced sharply into the rear view mirror. "You all right, mate?"

Annoyed at the interruption, Sherlock snapped, "Yes. Why?"

"You just sounded like you were going to be ill."

"Well, your breath is somewhat nauseating so it's possible. Now do be quiet and drive."

To Sherlock's surprise, Lestrade opened the door when the glowering cabbie dropped him off at the Diogenes back entrance. The DI was attired like one of the club's regular attendants: black trousers, dark silk shirt, and brilliantly polished shoes with soles that enabled silent movement. One thing he wore was not standard club issue though- the thick leather collar with the platinum tag that marked him as Mycroft's property.

Sherlock's brows rose. He respected the concept of being owned: whenever he visited Mycroft here, needing the firm hand and mental silencing that his brother provided so well, he wore an identical collar. But seeing it on Lestrade engendered the same contrary spirit of competition that made him lock wills with Mycroft so often.

Well, Lestrade, he mused in the regulation 'Diogenes whisper' as he breezed into the foyer. Fancy seeing you here tonight.

Lestrade closed the door before following him. Mycroft wanted me to help get you ready.

That made Sherlock pause and turn slowly around. Get me ready?

That's right. This way. The DI pointed toward a set of double doors. Sherlock knew that they opened onto a corridor that led to the kitchen, employee change rooms, laundry area, and other functional facilities.

The detective smirked. I don't think so. Being an errand runner may be your kink tonight, but it's not mine. Now do stop boring me and tell me where this party is being held.

Lestrade's eyes narrowed. Are you going to come with me, Sherlock, or do I have to drag you?

Sherlock crossed his arms, his obstinate stance belying his climbing arousal. The thought of being bodily seized and forced to comply with Mycroft's agenda excited him, and they both knew it.

I'd like to see you try.

What happened next made Sherlock resolve to never underestimate the older man again. Lestrade smiled slyly before grabbing his wrist, twisting it behind his back, and kicking him behind the knees, forcing him to the ground. Sherlock had no time to even exclaim before four more men surrounded them. Strong but careful fingers prised his jaws apart so that a bit gag could be inserted and fastened in place. A padded leather blindfold slipped over his eyes before his handlers yanked him to his feet.

Lestrade's breath tickled his ear. You're as hard as a rock and dripping like a broken faucet. You like being forced like this, don't you?

Sherlock nodded frantically. His heart rate spiked when a broad palm descended on his arse. His coat and trousers muffled the sound to an acceptable level, but he still felt a burst of pain and deep, delicious after-burn.

When I tell your brother, there'll be more of it, you mouthy little slut.

Sherlock willingly let them haul him down the corridor. Curiousity now surged as strongly as sexual excitement, making him light-headed. He was grateful for the tight hold on his arms as he was guided into a room that the humid air and smell of cooking food identified as the kitchen. He could hear the staff going about their business, never pausing to contemplate the new arrivals.

Hold still, one of the attendants ordered. Sherlock obeyed, trembling in anticipation as they quickly and impersonally divested him of his clothes. Fingers –Lestrade's- gripped his hair and guided him firmly backwards until a wooden table edge bumped against his upper thighs. Then his escorts picked him up bodily, laid him on the hard surface on his back, and held him in place.

You love attention, Sherlock. I picked up on that soon after I met you, Lestrade said. Sherlock shivered and moaned through the gag as he felt the policeman's fingers tease his nipples with too-light pinches. You'll enjoy what Mycroft has planned for you tonight. But first he wants us to prepare you.

When Sherlock felt Lestrade buckle his personal collar in place –he recognized its rich leather scent and the cool weight of the platinum tag with the Holmes family crest- his pleasure gave way to resentment. As far as he was concerned, only Mycroft had the right to put that precious accessory on him. He growled, and was rewarded for the insubordination with a firm nipple pinch.

Shut it. You don't dictate anything tonight.

A drawer underneath the table opened. When Sherlock turned his head toward the sound, two of his escorts gripped his legs and raised them. He felt their silk shirts glide against his skin as they leaned inward, pressing his thighs closer to his chest while spreading them wide. A second later someone's finger, cold and slippery with lube, pressed into him, slicking up his tight channel. When he grunted and clamped down on it reflexively, Lestrade chuckled.

As if you don't love having things up your arse. Mycroft said to tell you that you'll be getting plenty of that tonight.

Those words did nothing to calm Sherlock's excitement. His cock was dripping fluid all over his stomach, and he knew that if his prostate was stimulated now, he'd start spouting like a fire hose. Someone either read his mind or had a perfect sense of timing, for a moment later a cock ring was fitted around his erection's base. His frustrated whine made Lestrade –whose digit now dragged wickedly across his swollen gland- laugh again.

Christ, this is fun. Why can't we get along this well at crime scenes, hmm?

When Lestrade removed his finger, Sherlock grumbled in disappointment, but he wasn't left empty for long. The grip on his legs tightened and a lubricated object that felt like a silicone butt plug pressed into him. He breathed deeply through his nose as its considerable girth relentlessly stretched his sphincter muscle. When his hole finally closed over the narrow base he moaned, feeling its solid weight roll across his sensitive insides.

They gave him a few seconds to adjust. Then his legs were lowered and strong arms lifted him carefully off the table onto his feet. The plug shifted inside him, making him groan again. The pleasure was so intense, yet the cock ring denied him any release. He was ready to moan in frustration, but refused to give Lestrade the satisfaction of seeing him so uncomfortable and needy.

His thoughts were interrupted when someone unbuckled and removed the gag. The cool rim of a water glass nudged his lips, urging him to drink. Grateful for the distraction as well as the refreshment, he complied, letting the water re-moisten his mouth and throat. Thank you, he whispered when the glass was taken away.

Lestrade's whisper was laden with approval. Now that's a better attitude. Open your mouth again.

Sherlock obeyed, and was rewarded by a piece of sushi –unagi eel, with a hint of sweet sauce and sprinkled with sesame seeds- being placed on his tongue. He chewed and swallowed, relishing the salty, warm taste.

Did you like that?

Yes. Thank you.

Here's some more.

This time Lestrade fed him a piece of avocado roll wrapped in fresh ginger. Sherlock ate it with relish, licking his lips as the soya sauce dribbled down his chin.

Fuck, Lestrade groaned softly. Sherlock felt fingers twist in his thick curls again and, knowing what the DI was thinking, opened his mouth widely to indicate consent. He let himself be guided to his knees on the smooth kitchen tiles – he could hear someone with a partial limp stirring a pot of Portobello mushroom bisque a few feet away- and widened his throat just before a fat, moist cockhead pushed past his lips. He remained in place while Lestrade slid forward until coarse pubic hair brushed his nostrils.

Lestrade's hips rocketed against his face at a speed meant to be controlling, but Sherlock did not flinch, choke, or pull away. He rested his palms on his thighs, letting the older man fuck his mouth until accumulated drool spilled past his lips and dripped to the floor. His back remained straight and his expression, even with the blindfold, was triumphant. Topping from the bottom, Mycroft always called it.

Lestrade noticed. That's all right, Sherlock, I'll allow you your pride, he panted as his orgasm neared. But by the end of the night, I swear you'll be begging for mercy. Cocky slut.

Sherlock's upper lip curled back from his teeth in a mild sneer. When Lestrade went rigid and spurted down his throat, he made one more defiant gesture: raising his hands, he clasped the policeman's buttocks and tugged, implying that he could easily have swallowed more. Lestrade slapped his hands away and hissed, Fucking smart little whore. Am I not enough for you? Just wait. Let's see what shape you're in by sunrise. Help me, gents? I believe it's time?

He grabbed one of Sherlock's arms, while an attendant took the other. They yanked the younger Holmes to his feet, led him out of the steaming kitchen, and into yet another corridor. When Sherlock's bare toes sank into deep and luxurious carpet, he knew they were taking him into the club proper now. He listened eagerly for any new voices as Lestrade and the attendants conveyed him up a flight of stairs –the Visitor's Room was on the second floor, he recalled- and into an a silent chamber with an already-stoked fire. Its heat felt marvellous against his cool, naked skin.

They guided him forward until his hips collided with a leather-padded beam of some kind. Someone fixed a leash to his collar's D-ring and tugged down until he was doubled over the device. Curiousity and anticipation kept him still and silent as the other end of the leash was fixed to a floor attachment. He remained compliant as they attached leather cuffs to his wrists and ankles and secured his limbs to what he now recognized as a sawhorse. Lestrade's hand roughly massaged his upturned arse, jostling the plug inside and sending heat flooding through his bound limbs. Sherlock groaned, which was someone's cue to re-apply the gag.

In retrospect, it was perfect timing, for at that moment a leather chair creaked as someone got up. Footsteps approached and a second hand- one he would have recognized anywhere- fondled his other buttock.

Ah, brother-mine. So kind of you to join us.

Chapter Text

Mycroft's palm was smooth and soft: recent visit to the manicurist then. Sherlock willed himself to remain still, but his arse was groped and fondled so skilfully that he shuddered and pressed his stomach against the bar. The leather padding brushed teasingly across the base of his trapped cock and made him whimper.

Always so eager, Sherlock. Tell me, Gregory, was he this tractable when he arrived?

Lestrade's wandering fingers paused and dug in. Not at all, Sir. What were your exact words, slut? 'Being an errand runner may be your kink tonight, but it's not mine'?

Mycroft's hand stopped too. Really? Sherlock, that's completely unacceptable.

He did make it up to me in the kitchen, Sir. Partly. Christ, his mouth is amazing when he's not using it to talk.

A few minutes of silence followed. Mycroft's fingers trailed up Sherlock's hip, crossed his pelvic crest, and finally reached the crack of his upturned arse, where it circled the plug's flared base. You know the rules, little brother. In this club, Gregory is an extension of my will. If you insult him, it's no different than insulting me.

Those words, so full of danger and promise, made Sherlock's heartbeat quicken. Outside the Diogenes, he regarded his older brother with affectionate disdain, indulging in petty quarrels that John and Lestrade dubbed 'Baker Street bitch fights'. But here, in the club's sanctified interior, Mycroft was his Master. A tremor of fear mingled with excitement ran through him.

I have something special planned for you tonight. It shall be-oh, what's the most fitting term- your Evening of Atonement. You're too fast and free with that acid tongue, Sherlock, and for the next few hours you'll be putting it to better use. Mostly on those you have wronged.

Sherlock's brow furrowed. A few hours wouldn't encompass a fraction of the silly fools he'd put in their place recently. Flustered and curious, he waited.

Gregory, have the first guests arrived?

Yes, Sir. They're in the Visitor's Room, having cocktails. Shall I send them in?

Not yet. Ten minutes. Please go and entertain them while I take some corrective action with my cantankerous sibling here. You may remove your collar before you go to the Visitor's Room: you do have to work with these people.

Sherlock's head shot up in surprise. Who….

Mycroft smacked his buttocks. None of your business, you sorry brat. Gregory? Ten minutes.

Yes, Sir.

Sherlock listened to his departing footsteps, which were followed by the opening and closing of a heavy wooden door. Then Mycroft grasped the base of the plug and rocked it slowly, teasingly, inside him. He huffed around the leather bit and squirmed as sensation shot throughout his body.

I'm going to take this out, and fill you with something more appropriate. Unfortunately for you, I have just the thing.

Sherlock's body actually clenched down around the plug when Mycroft tried to remove it. Don't fight me on this, Sherlock, you're in enough trouble as it is, the older Holmes scolded. Now relax, you greedy little slut. You won't be empty for long.

If Sherlock's cock hadn't been imprisoned by the ring, he would have come from that speech alone. Beyond these walls, his older brother was verbally fastidious to the point of being prissy. That made his use of words like "slut" so darkly erotic that Sherlock often recalled past utterances while masturbating.

Long, graceful fingers closed around his shaft and stroked, creating enough of a distraction for his body to reluctantly release the toy. Sweat dampened his curls and dripped down his face, tickling the flushed skin. He listened as Mycroft took five steps away, opened a cupboard, and removed something. Although blindfolded, he instinctively turned his head in that direction, ablaze with curiousity.

Mycroft returned, and a minute later something long and reed-thin threaded into his open arse. He tightened his buttocks, wanting to feel the penetration more keenly, which made Mycroft chuckle and smack him again.

I wouldn't be so eager if I were you.

Sherlock felt lukewarm water fill his bowels, accompanied by a low pumping noise. Pump-style enema apparatus: he'd seen one in John's medical kit. Speaking of John, he needed to have a serious (or not) conversation with him one of these days: the former soldier was being a little too assertive with him lately, ever since he'd visited Mycroft on the pretext of a medical emergency. Neither John nor Mycroft would discuss the visit afterward, but Sherlock had noticed a faint shift in the power dynamic between himself and his flatmate and wondered if possibly….

Then it happened. A muted tingling that rapidly transformed into a low-grade burn in his colon. He sputtered in surprise and discomfort around the gag and writhed against the bar, but the movement only created a hot internal splashing that made his thighs shake. While he contorted and whimpered, Mycroft slid the plastic syringe out and replaced it with the plug.

I promised that you wouldn't be empty for long, little brother. You know how I hate to disappoint you.

Something had been added to the enema solution: red pepper or jalapeno oil judging from the itching heat that consumed his bowels. But as he shifted and grunted, Sherlock felt his cock grow even harder. The warm fullness against his prostate felt so good. It was a near-perfect war of sensation between pleasure and pain. He surrendered to it and arched his back as high as his position would allow, presenting his arse for whatever Mycroft –or his 'guests' wished to do with it.

The hand that caressed his back and flank was gentle and approving. That's better, brother mine. I know it's uncomfortable, but I expect you to take it. Gracefully. Because I want you to.

Sherlock nodded rapidly. The nagging pain weakened his normally iron will, and made him conscious of every tingling nerve, every throbbing muscle, every ounce of blood that maintained his erection. His mind quieted and his flesh spoke to him instead, letting him find peace and freedom in submission.

Are you ready for the first Atonement, Sherlock?

He nodded again.

I doubt either of these guests will want to do anything with this lovely arse except beat it. Mycroft tapped the base of the plug, chuckling again as Sherlock jumped. All the same, show me the safety signal.

The detective crossed the index and middle fingers of his right hand. His heart galloped madly now in anticipation. He was suspended in his own darkness, unable to protest or fight or even move much, but Mycroft was there. No harm would come to him.

You know I'll be watching. You won't be hurt any more than you need to be. The older man's hand drifted down his spine, stroked the sweaty skin around his collar, and rumpled his damp curls.

Before Mycroft could continue, someone knocked on the door. Sherlock lifted his head and listened eagerly as his brother stepped away from him and crossed the carpeted floor. A knob turned, and well-oiled hinges made the softest of noises as the door opened.

"Ah," Mycroft said in a normal speaking voice, which sounded painfully loud in this bastion of silence, "Sergeants Anderson and Donovan. Welcome to the Diogenes."

Chapter Text

Sherlock nearly safeworded (technically safe-gestured) on the spot. Bloody Anderson and Donovan? What the hell? He raised his head and began to unconsciously tug at the wrist cuffs, trying to rise. No, this wasn't on. Both Yarders were ignorant and malicious prats: he would NOT-

Mycroft's footsteps approached again. A warm hand descended onto his lower back. Sherlock stilled despite his anxiety. If Mycroft arranged this, then it had to be all right. He'd never abused his younger brother's trust here before. The younger Holmes relaxed and slumped against the beam, hiding his head between his outstretched arms. His tension abated, but embarrassment and curiousity remained strong.

I'm going to whisper from here on, Mycroft told the newcomers, keeping his palm firmly on Sherlock's skin. Technically, talking aloud is only permitted in the Visitor's Room. I broke protocol a moment ago so that my brother could hear me greet you both.

"Brother?" Sally Donovan echoed in a normal voice. She must have been reproved somehow, for her next words were spoken in the required sotto voce. What the bloody hell?

Sherlock heard another set of footsteps –lighter, quicker than Mycroft's- cross the rug and halt in front him. Although he couldn't see her, he could sense her hovering over him, trying to get a good look at his face. When Mycroft ordered him to raise his head, Sherlock obeyed, biting nervously into the gag.

Fuck me, she breathed. It IS him.

You're serious? Anderson joined her, his stride less confident. Oh, my God. The forensics expert sounded awestruck.

Sherlock kept his chin up, bracing himself to take the anticipated verbal abuse and derision. It wouldn't be fun, but he'd been through ordeals nearly as bad, like the time that Yakuza gangster put his testicles in a vice.

Practically every time the three of you meet, you disparage each other, Mycroft said as he joined them. I wanted you to see what you all had in common. He undid Sherlock's blindfold and slid it off.

The younger Holmes closed his eyes against the soft infusion of light from the gilded lamps and overhead chandelier. When he opened them again he saw Sally Donovan crouched in front of him, staring at him with undisguised fascination.

She wore black leather trousers and a sequined top whose sleeveless design showed off her lightly muscled arms. Her curly hair had been piled on top of her head and secured in place by glittering combs. Her dark eyes scanned him thoroughly before taking in the collar and leash, wrist and ankle cuffs, and the padded sawhorse.

Fuck me, she repeated, shaking her head and rising. This is crazy.

Behind her, Anderson swallowed heavily and remained silent. Like Donovan, he wore black, but his jeans and dress shirt were less showy. The top three buttons of the latter were undone, exposing the thin leather collar around his neck. Sherlock realized with a jolt that Anderson was Donovan's sub and, judging by his lowered eyes and deferential demeanour, had been for awhile now. When their stares met, the Yarder moistened his lips and nodded in nervous acknowledgement.

Sherlock's resentment receded: he was now curious about how long the two officers had been in a D/s relationship. Probably not long, or he would have spotted the signs. Unless he'd been too busy insulting one or the other to pay attention.

All three of you are constantly antagonistic toward each other, Mycroft said. His fingertips drew soothing circles around his brother's buttocks. I allow that Sherlock must shoulder the lion's share of the blame. He insults you both quite liberally, almost as much as he does me, and shows little respect for the protocols that your positions require you to follow. It's my intention to have him make it up to you both now.

Sherlock cast a poisonous glare up at Mycroft. Why should he be the one to grovel? Sally called him Freak and Anderson, in his opinion, should only be allowed to view crime scenes on television. In response, Mycroft dealt his arse a slap that sent the pepper splashing through his gut again. As he squirmed and yelped, the elder Holmes snapped, Because I say so, little brother. That's all you need to concern yourself with.

The door opened again. A liveried butler stepped noiselessly into the room with a tray of hors d'oeuvres and set it on a marble-topped sideboard, next to a crystal bar set. When he left, Mycroft gestured toward a leather-upholstered sofa and said, Sergeants, if you please. My brother will bring you refreshments now.

Donovan and Anderson complied, apparently too overwhelmed by the club –and the sight of a bound and gagged Sherlock- to make small talk. Mycroft undid his restraints and guided him into a standing position, holding his upper arm tightly until he was steady.

Miss Donovan? Mr. Anderson? What may we offer you to drink?

Red wine for me, Donovan answered. Her hand extended to Anderson's knee and clasped it possessively. He'll have a double scotch on ice. She surveyed the room appreciatively. I heard about this club, but thought it was some kind of urban legend.

Like Bigfoot, Anderson supplied. Sherlock's nose wrinkled in disdain.

We're rather secretive, Mycroft admitted. But we're progressing in other ways. Like last month's resolution to approve ladies as members. Some of the Old Guard decry this as heresy. I merely tell them that they've not been properly disciplined by a feminine hand yet.

They don't know what they're missing, Anderson agreed, gazing at his partner with undisguised adoration.

Mycroft poured the requested drinks and held them out to Sherlock. Would you be so kind, brother dear? And on your knees.

Sherlock knelt as ordered and accepted the glasses, but unconsciously pressed his bare shoulder against his brother's trouser leg. He wasn't used to his sensibilities being challenged like this. Neither Yarder appealed to him personally or physically, so he lacked his usual enthusiasm and felt awkward, not submissive or turned on.

Mycroft touched his head. Parce que je le veux, petit frère, he whispered. (Because I want it, little brother.)

Rejuvenated by the subtle command, Sherlock approached the sofa on his knees. The forward movement worked the plug inside him, making his swaying cock twitch and taking the edge off his embarrassment. Anderson accepted the scotch with a timid Thank you while Donovan deliberately brushed the detective's cock with the toe of her spike-heeled sandal. Sherlock jumped, sending half of the wine glass' contents spilling onto the carpet.

An unholy delight brightened her eyes. Look what you did, she chided.

Sherlock protested but the gag kept his response unintelligible. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mycroft glare at his impudence and approach, but Sally was too fast for both of them: she grabbed one of Sherlock's wrists and, with a mighty tug, flung his lean white form across her knees. The younger Holmes grunted in surprise while Mycroft relaxed and settled onto one of the huge leather armchairs next to the fire. The older man steepled his fingertips and licked his lips, watching the unfolding scene so avidly that he didn't blink. Sherlock knew that he was eager to see how his vitriolic sibling would react to being disciplined by a woman- one he'd gratuitously insulted in the past.

Donovan ran her hand over his firm buttocks, exploring the rim of the plug without commenting. When she didn't begin to spank him immediately, Sherlock felt anticipatory tension begin to build. He shifted uncomfortably across her thighs, which were smaller than Mycroft's but impressively strong.

This is your chance to opt out, she whispered. Her wandering fingers stayed away from his cock, keeping sexual connection out of their personal equation. Want to use your safety signal?

Back down? Never! Sherlock shook his head before lowering it to ease the tension in his neck. When she fondled his arse again, he unconsciously arched into the touch. That urgent response surprised both of them: Donovan paused while Sherlock closed his eyes and let his body overpower his mind.

I want to hear him ask for it, she told Mycroft. The elder Holmes nodded once, unable to tear his eyes away from Sherlock's face.

Sherlock felt Anderson's fingers push through his sweaty hair, finding and undoing the gag's buckle. When the bit fell out of his mouth, he rotated his jaw, moistened his lips, and said hoarsely, Please punish me. I was clumsy and spilled your wine.

Yeah. You did, so request granted. Anderson, fetch me that paddle there.

Paddle? Sherlock looked up again. On the marble countertop, next to the hors d'oeuvres, was an assortment of dark objects that he hadn't noticed before. He watched Anderson rise, cross the floor, and pick up a broad paddle. The younger Holmes had been hit with it before, and remembered well the crushing bruises that took days to disappear. Mycroft was the only one who'd ever disciplined him with it, so in a silent plea for more reassurance he gazed over at his brother. Mycroft, face softened by pride and affection, smiled and Sherlock relaxed. When he saw Anderson pass the instrument to Donovan, he closed his eyes and let go.

You're going to get twenty-five, and that's me showing mercy on you, Donovan told him. I want you to count them. Anderson, sit beside me.

When the first blow landed on his white arse, Sherlock jumped at the deep, bruising pain, which was followed by a burst of agonizing pleasure as the toy hammered his prostate and the pepper solution scorched him again. He counted, and was rewarded with another, lighter smack. She initially varied the intervals between strokes as well as the intensity of her blows, intentionally keeping him off-balance. After fifteen she settled into a more even rhythm, alternating between the left and right buttock and pausing long enough between strikes to let pleasure flare up in pain's aftermath.

Sherlock heard a sigh, and saw Mycroft lightly biting his closed fist. At the same time Donovan spread her thighs slightly and Anderson, recognizing the invitation, leaned toward her and began kissing her smooth neck while palming one full breast through the sequined fabric. Sherlock thrust his arse up further as harder smacks rained down on him and he began to freely moan, forgetting how much Donovan had irritated him in the past, and giving himself permission to be turned on, to crave orgasm. He shifted like a shameless slut on her lap after the last blow and stuttered I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry…..

Donovan dropped the paddle and seized Anderson's face. They kissed hungrily, Donovan's mouth devouring her sub's yielding lips. Sherlock felt Anderson's fingers brush his bare waist as they slid past the waistband of her leather trousers. Her slim hips rocked wildly in response and she snarled, Harder.

While the couple started bringing each other off, Mycroft rose abruptly, crossed the floor, and lifted his younger brother off of Sally's undulating lap. He carried Sherlock back to his chair, positioned him so that Sherlock's thighs gripped his waist and arse rested against his knees, and began biting his shoulders and neck.

Sherlock… little brother… Christ, you looked magnificent. Mycroft's strong fingers twisted and pinched his nipples, making him groan and grind his arse against the plug. Such a pain whore….

Yes, yes, YOUR pain whore, Mycroft. Always.

Muffled, satisfied sighs behind them signified the end of the session. Mycroft ceased his ministrations; an impressive demonstration of willpower considering the size and density of the erection that pressed against his zipper. He gently laid Sherlock on the floor and stood. The younger Holmes rolled onto his side, digging his fingers into the carpet fibres to refrain from touching his cock, and watched as his brother spoke quietly to the two Yarders, who were catching their breath and rearranging their clothes. He heard bits of conversation: "membership approval", "must bring my brother to the next session now" and "please stay and have something to eat."

The pain in his buttocks had settled into a tantalizing burn. Sally Donovan was a genius with a paddle: perhaps she did merit more respect than he'd been showing her. She hadn't called him Freak once, which boded well for their future association. As for Anderson, he was a bit too eager in his submission for Sherlock's liking –no fire, no rebellion- but voluntary relinquishment of power took strength, which the detective appreciated. He'd have to see how stupidly they behaved at the next crime scene to determine whether or not he actually respected them now, but for the time being, a mutual truce prevailed.

After shaking hands with both officers, Mycroft picked up the discarded leash and snapped the metal hook back onto Sherlock's collar. Follow me, he ordered. Hands and knees. I'm bringing you to the bathroom to get rid of the enema and then shower. After that you'll be taken to your next meeting.

Sherlock lifted himself onto all fours and crawled beside his brother toward the door leading into the corridor. When Mycroft opened it, Donovan called out softly, Hey, Fr- I mean, Holmes."

Both brothers paused and looked back, but her eyes were on Sherlock. You did good. That's all. Beside her, Anderson inclined his head in agreement.

Sherlock smiled briefly. Then Mycroft patted his head and tugged gently on the leash, compelling him to follow.


Sherlock was left alone in the bathroom to prepare for the next session. Expelling the itchy-hot water had been so intense that his legs shook for several minutes afterward. God damn Mycroft for making pain such an art form, he grumbled silently. Before stepping into the shower, he studied his reflection in the mirror and took note of his nipples, still puffy and pink from their earlier mauling, and the scarlet hue that flourished on his formerly pale arse cheeks. His cock, still trapped by the ring, prodded the air aggressively. In less than an hour he'd been bound, paddled, groped, and had pepper-tainted water poured into his bowels, but he'd rarely felt as exhilarated as he did now.

After the shower, Mycroft came in. Sherlock knelt when directed and let his brother reapply the blindfold and gag. When the older man pressed between his shoulder blades, he obediently lowered his chest to the floor and kept his arse elevated. He heard the soft squish of lube being applied to something just before the plug- which he'd been ordered to clean- was pushed back into his sore hole.

You did very well, Sherlock. Mycroft patted his rear after the toy sank home. I trust you feel somewhat rejuvenated after the shower?

The younger Holmes nodded once.

Good. Because the next person you must make amends to has arrived. Up, please.

Sherlock let his brother help him stand. Then the leash was snapped back on and Mycroft placed a warm arm around his bare shoulders.

Let's go. He's waiting.

Chapter Text

Although he couldn't see, Sherlock knew he'd never been in this part of the club before. Mycroft guided him down a flight of stone steps whose chill was barely suppressed by the Persian rug. When the overall cold made him shiver, his brother drew him closer.

Almost there.

Finally they stopped. Sherlock felt his toes sink into coarser fabric. Mycroft unclipped the leash, moved away, and rummaged in a drawer. While he waited, the younger Holmes inhaled deeply through his nose and analyzed the smells: freshly scrubbed stone, hot beeswax (candles) and recently laundered wool. Cumulatively, they suggested that he was in a candlelit basement. Curiousity now afire, he turned his face in the direction his brother had taken, trying to look quizzical through the blindfold.

Always so impatient, Mycroft scolded lightly. Sherlock heard the whump of two soft items colliding (clothes tossed on a bed, from the sound of it) just before his brother's hand gripped the back of his neck and pressed downward. Bend over.

Sherlock obeyed. The plug was taken out, only to be replaced by a lubricated object that felt cold and cylindrical. He massaged it with his inner walls, trying to determine what it was, but Mycroft's voice interrupted the exploration.

Stand up now. I'm going to dress you.

Dress him? Sherlock let out a muffled exclamation. This night was definitely taking turns he could not anticipate. Consternation crept in, but his cock didn't soften a fraction, and he complied when Mycroft guided his feet through a pair of trouser legs. After the one-piece, long-sleeved garment was zipped up, Mycroft guided him backward until something hit the backs of his knees, making him tumble onto its surface. Bedsprings squealed and his palms pressed against a rough blanket.

Stay there. He'll be here soon. And I'll be watching.

Sherlock nodded, biting the rubber gag as pain from Donovan's paddle skills burned in his arse. He listened to Mycroft walk away. Then steel hinges groaned and a heavy door clicked shut.

He ran his fingers over the fabric of the jumpsuit. It was clean but starchy, and the stiff texture rubbed his cock when he shifted. He wasn't physically restrained, so he could touch himself if he dared, but Sherlock now regarded the night as a series of tests and challenges, and yielding to weakness would be akin to admitting defeat.

The sound of two men approaching interrupted his ruminations. He sat up straighter on the cot and listened carefully. One was heavier and had a confident and purposeful stride. The other moved more tentatively.

Sherlock estimated that they were ten feet away when they stopped. Keys jingled and a lock slid open. The door to his room opened.

See, Ian? He's already in custody, waiting to be processed.

Lestrade. But who was Ian?

Christ, Greg, I thought you were having me on.

Dimmock. The more tractable and annoying of the two DIs. Sherlock was surprised that he was here, apparently willing to participate in or at least witness the night's activities. He'd pegged Dimmock as the type whose sexual preference was limited to hand-in-hand walks through the county fair. After Donovan and Anderson, Sherlock's ability to be embarrassed was nonexistent, so he waited to see how things would play out.

Lestrade's fingers pushed through his hair, undoing first the gag and then the blindfold. When both fell away, Sherlock licked his lips and gazed at his surroundings. They were obviously in the club basement, in a section that had been redecorated to resemble a nineteenth century jail cell. The stone walls were clean but rough-looking, with a haphazard plaster job completing the shoddy effect. A threadbare rug covered most of the floor. Looking down, Sherlock saw that he was sitting on a cot with a military-issue blanket and wearing a bright orange jumpsuit that practically screamed "Imported from American facility".

Drink this. Lestrade held out an open bottle of a popular energy beverage. As he sucked back the contents, Sherlock noticed that the other man had removed his black outfit and now wore 'civilian' clothes, although his collar could be detected above the shirt's neckline. Behind him, Dimmock was similarly attired, and staring at Sherlock with mixed shock and fascination.

This was going to be fun.

Lestrade cleared his throat. The ID in your wallet says 'Sherlock Holmes'.

Sherlock couldn't resist. Oh, is there a script? Show me a copy, please, so I can study my lines.

Dimmock's eyes flew to Lestrade, who flushed before seizing the 'prisoner' by the front of his jumpsuit and hauling him upright.

You want to cut to the chase, you little wanker? Fine by me. Strip.

When Sherlock hesitated, Lestrade shook him. Don't act shy. It's obvious that you like this. You're so hard you're about to poke out of that jumpsuit.

He seized the younger man's imprisoned crotch with his other hand and massaged it until a wet patch covered the heavy fabric. Sherlock moaned and his knees trembled.

Having trouble standing up, are you? Fine, you can kneel.

When he was released Sherlock sank to the stone floor, forehead pressed against the DI's growing bulge. The brief respite rekindled his challenging nature, and with it his determination to top from the bottom. Lestrade wasn't a real Dom as far as he was concerned. He was Mycroft's puppet, and Sherlock was determined to undo him, just to prove that he could.

He raised his chin, caught the DI's zip between his teeth, and tugged it slowly downward, until the man's erection brushed against his cheek with only a thin layer of wet fabric to protect it from the detective's attentions. After winking at both policemen and licking his lips, Sherlock ran his tongue along the entire length before teething lightly on the crown.

Lestrade groaned and his hips jerked. Then, suddenly, Sherlock pulled away, winked at him again, and crawled over to Dimmock, who looked like he was about to faint- likely because so much blood had rushed to his cock. Sherlock smiled wickedly before using his hands to extract the man's prick from his trousers. He took the red, sticky head in his mouth and ran his tongue around the crown before letting it slide smoothly down his throat. Dimmock hissed and seized the back of his head, forcing the younger Holmes to take him deeper.

That's it. Suck him good, Lestrade growled, having finally caught his breath. You owe him after being such a cunt to him. And you now owe me for what you just did. He struck Sherlock's arse, jostling the object inside and making him shiver. Guess how I'll be taking payback?

Sherlock focused on his self-assigned task, which was to take Dimmock apart. He swallowed, relishing the way Dimmock shuddered at his tight throat muscles clamping down, and lightly squeezed the man's balls. When he felt them tightening and the grip on his hair turned painful, he increased his rhythm and kept his eyes locked on Dimmock's. This is almost too easy….

His self-congratulatory train of thought was abruptly derailed when Dimmock pulled out quickly and shot a load of thick ejaculate onto his face. Sherlock gasped in surprise, sending a good portion of the release into his gaping mouth. When he coughed, the policeman whispered gleefully, You really are a slut. Greg was right- you're gagging for cock. Thought a visible reminder was in order.

He released Sherlock's hair, letting the detective fall back onto his heels. Their pressure against his sore arse made him wince. Sperm dripped down his cheekbones and chin and off his curls. Fuck, he thought. I literally never saw that coming.

Okay, cock slut, playtime's over. Down to business. A smirking Lestrade gripped the back of his neck and pulled him to his feet. I already told you to strip once. Don't make me ask again.

Sherlock wanted to wipe away the congealing mess on his face, but refused to give them the satisfaction. After shifting his cool, hostile stare from one to the other, he unzipped the orange jumpsuit and let it pool around his ankles. The dusky light from the wall-mounted candles played on his pale skin, giving it a golden hue.

The two men consumed his slender, naked body with their eyes. Lestrade circled him once and administered a hard spank to his sore but still luscious arse. Once again the object inside him jostled, and he whimpered as it nudged his prostate. Dimmock's eyes narrowed.

Look at him squirm, Greg. I reckon he's got something up his arse.

Licking away some semen that had dripped onto his lips, Sherlock said, How come all your deductions aren't that brilliant?

Lestrade grabbed his chin and forced eye contact. I believe that you're forgetting one thing, Sherlock. You're supposed to be apologizing to Detective Inspector Dimmock, not digging yourself deeper into a hole.

Bloody make me sorry then.

So it's like that, eh? Challenge accepted. Ian, search the little bastard.

Right. Dimmock, all traces of his former shyness gone, dug into his coat pocket and produced a penlight. He strode over to Sherlock and ordered, Open your mouth.

Sherlock obeyed, making sure to stick out his tongue first. That earned him another hard smack from Lestrade. He'd recovered from the groping and surprise facial, and happily engaged in a battle of wills with the Yarders. When Mycroft wasn't in the vicinity, he could be what one Dom called "a nightmare sub."

Dimmock glared but said nothing. He clicked the light on and shone it into Sherlock's mouth. Now, tip your head back.

When the detective complied, he trained the light on Sherlock's nostrils. At the same time, Lestrade pressed against Sherlock's back and rubbed his cloth-covered erection, still damp with the younger man's saliva, between his cheeks.

He's so fucking tight, Ian. Wait until you have a go at this arse.

Me first then. Little slag owes me. Dimmock shone the light in both of Sherlock's ears before seizing his jaw. Isn't that right, Sherlock?

Owe you? You appear to be under the impression that you've given me something besides useless investigation tips.

As he spoke, Sherlock was mildly surprised that Lestrade hadn't gagged him again. Leaving his mouth free like that was an invitation to a healthy dose of verbal abuse, Holmes style. Dimmock glared at him again, and Sherlock instantly clued in: the younger DI was not a natural Dom, and being goaded helped him achieve the anger level necessary to be punitive.

This was turning out to be fun indeed.

Dimmock released his jaw and growled, Shut it. Now raise your arms. When Sherlock did, he peered at the light smattering of hair underneath before turning the light off and re-pocketing it. He produced a pair of latex gloves, pulled them on with a deliberately menacing snap, and grabbed Sherlock's penis. Hold still, he ordered before peeling back the foreskin with his right hand. The fingers of his left slid slowly, maddeningly, up and down the shaft. At the same time, Lestrade dipped his tongue into their prisoner's ear and caressed his nipples. Sherlock's knees shook at the all-points stimulation and he bit back a moan.

Find anything, Ian?

Just a lot of moisture, but from natural causes. There's one more place I have to look, though.

Lestrade planted heavy hands on Sherlock's shoulders and spun him around. On the bed, he ordered. Chest down, arse up.

When Sherlock didn't immediately comply, Lestrade shoved him. He sprawled on the rough blanket, cursing when the fabric rubbed harshly against his penis. The springs went haywire when Lestrade forced him into position and held his wrists behind his back for good measure.

I believe this is police brutality, Detective Inspector.

In my dictionary it's called payback. Now shut it.

Sherlock closed his eyes and bit his lip as Dimmock shoved a knee between his thighs to force them further apart. Strong fingers seized his buttocks and parted them roughly.

He's definitely got something in here, Greg. I see a string hanging.

Really? Take it out, then, so we can put something in.

A warm, lubed finger pressed carefully against his opening until the tight muscle yielded and allowed it to enter. Sherlock held completely still, curiousity temporarily overriding arousal. What had Mycroft stuffed inside him? He could feel Dimmock prod it before tugging on the aforementioned string.

There was a muted click, and a nerve-shattering vibration began. A fucking vibrator, Sherlock realized with horror and excitement. Pulling on the string activated the-

The object shuddered and gyrated against his prostate, smashing all coherent thought. He squirmed and started to scream, but Lestrade's broad palm silenced him. Dimmock laughed at his dilemma and made matters worse- or better- by dealing one spank after another to the sensitive area where his upper thighs and buttocks joined. When his arse muscles tightened against the pain, his rectum closed more firmly around the toy, intensifying the pressure on his sweet spot. He begged to be allowed to come, but Lestrade's hand garbled his appeal.

Look at him squirm, Ian. What a slut. Lestrade leaned over until his cheek brushed Sherlock's feverish face. Want to come, bitch?

Sherlock nodded desperately. He had no more fight or arrogance in him. All his consciousness was focused on his aching prick and over-stimulated arse.

Lestrade released his mouth and wrists. Too bad. Us first.

ME first, Dimmock interrupted hoarsely.

When he felt the younger DI tugging on the vibrator's retrieval apparatus, Sherlock grasped fistfuls of his hair and shook his head back and forth in a mindless rhythm. The scalp pain distracted him from the torturous pressure in his cock, which hung heavily between his legs and threatened to break out of the leather ring keeping it in check. As the vibrator started sliding out, he arched his back even further, whimpering as his erect nipples dragged across the coarse blanket. The extra stimulation made his stomach muscles tighten and his twitching hole clamp down around the string.

Let it go, you greedy little bastard. Lestrade spanked him again.

Sherlock tried to relax, but couldn't. Dimmock resorted to sliding two fingers inside his lube-wet hole, scissoring him open wide so that the toy could be removed. As he closed his eyes and trembled in relief, Sherlock heard the man behind him undo his zip and tear something open- a condom packet?

Look at you, Dimmock grunted. So wet and open. I have to fuck you now. Come on, take my cock, you goddamn prat.

He pushed his substantial length into Sherlock, groaning in bliss when he bottomed out. Sherlock rested his forehead against his arm and welcomed this penetration: the smooth glide was sheer heaven compared to the vibrator's torment. His internal walls were still sensitive enough to feel everything more acutely than normal, but at least his body wasn't holding his mind hostage now.

Dimmock indulged in a few slow, full-length strokes- Sherlock imagined him peering down, entranced by the sight of his cock plunging in and out of their prisoner's well-stretched hole. Finally, the view lost its charms- or more likely, his self-restraint crumbled- and Dimmock seized Sherlock's hips.

You wanted to be stuffed full, did you? Here it comes!

Sherlock spread his legs further and tilted his hips to improve the angle. Before he could concentrate on enjoying the fucking, Lestrade shuffled on the mattress until his knees nudged the detective's lowered head.

You owe me a blow job, Sherlock. He grabbed Sherlock under the arms and raised him until he was on his hands and knees. Holding the younger man's head steady with one hand, he lowered the waistband of his ruined underwear and took out his angry, throbbing prick. Open your mouth. You're going to suck me until I can't spray your gut any more.

Sherlock parted his lips and let Lestrade push inside. The DI wasn't long but he was wide, and Sherlock's jaw ached from the pressure of keeping his throat accessible. When Lestrade's pubes surrounded his nose, he felt the grip on his head tighten, holding him in place.

Look at you. Being spit-roasted by two of Scotland Yard's finest.

Sherlock snorted at that. He couldn't help it. Dimmock responded with a particularly aggressive thrust that shoved him forward and made Lestrade's cock go deeper into his throat.

Don't even talk to him any more, Greg. He's here for us tonight: let's just fuck the shit out of him.

So they did. Sherlock braced himself as they used his mouth and arse without reservation, grunting and spraying their sweat onto his naked back. Dimmock held his hips with such force that he could feel bruises beginning to form. Lestrade fucked his throat so hard that Sherlock could only breathe through his nose, and each inhale was accompanied by the thick scent of male musk. Beneath him, the bed rocked noisily, sending his heavy cock swinging and his own pre-ejaculate sprinkling onto his inner thighs.

Oh, God. Lestrade's hips jerked and trembled, and his grip on Sherlock's hair became so tight that the detective's eyes watered. A split second later, Sherlock felt a viscous stream spraying deep into his throat. Behind him, Dimmock cursed under his breath and made one final, punishing thrust before shooting a load that grossly inflated the condom. If his mouth hadn't been engaged, Sherlock would have been tempted to ask him how long it had been since he'd fucked anything besides the cushions in his office.

When Lestrade slipped his softening prick out, rivulets of drool and sperm escaped from Sherlock's mouth. The younger Holmes felt an identical trickle from his aching arse when Dimmock's withdrawal resulted in overspill. The moment they let go of him, he collapsed onto his side, feeling like he'd run a marathon. He knew without looking that he was a mess of sweat and bruises.

It felt fucking fantastic.

Hey. Lestrade shook his shoulder gently, laboured breathing making his voice hoarse. Nice ride, Sherlock. Well done. Well, Ian, you reckon he's made it up to you for being such an arrogant sod so often?

Yeah. After removing the condom and dropping it in a nearby receptacle, Dimmock flopped back on the bed. For now, anyway. Christ, Greg, why didn't you tell me it would be like this?

Mycroft's voice answered. The element of surprise is essential, Detective Inspector. Without time to rehearse, your actions are guaranteed to be both spontaneous and natural.

The elder Holmes stood in the cell's doorway. The grungy surroundings and bedraggled state of the three men staring at him made him appear even more regal and polished than usual. His scarlet tie and white shirt were an obscenely bright contrast to the shadows and stone walls.

Mr. Holmes. Dimmock rose quickly and pulled up his trousers. I don't know if I should thank you or wonder what you've done to me.

Mycroft smiled. You may do both.

Then thank you.

You're welcome. Gregory, please show Mr. Dimmock the way to the showers, and take one yourself. Leave your clothes in the basket by the door. They'll be laundered and returned to you by the end of the evening.

Yes, Sir. Lestrade's gaze turned toward Sherlock, but Mycroft said, I'll see to my brother. Good evening, gentlemen.

Dimmock looked down at the still-panting figure on the bed. You all right, Holmes?

Sherlock gazed at him through half-closed eyes. Of course, he grumbled.

When the two policemen departed, Mycroft approached the bed. I was watching on the CCTV system, little brother. That was very impressive.

Sherlock raised his head. How many more do I have? Atonements?

Two. But for the next hour, you're going to rest and rejuvenate. You've earned it. I'm very proud of you.

As if on cue, two silent, black-garbed Diogenes attendants entered the cell. One carried a bottle of chilled water, and helped Sherlock sit up to drink it. The other placed a pre-warmed blanket over him. The younger Holmes sighed in relief as its gentle heat sank into his sore and tired muscles.

A bath is being drawn for you upstairs. Do you feel like moving yet?

Yes, of course. Sherlock swung his feet to the floor and stood up carefully, clutching the blanket close to his body. I'm not a porcelain doll, Mycroft.

Naturally not. Dolls don't bruise so prettily. Mycroft surveyed the marks that littered his brother's white skin, his gleaming eyes reflecting pride and hunger.

Sherlock shivered. Then the impossible happened: he grew even harder.

Chapter Text

Sherlock hadn't thought it would be possible to distract him from the aching pressure in his cock and balls. He'd been brought to the brink and denied so many times during the course of the evening that he felt swollen and fragile, like an overripe fruit ready to explode at the lightest touch.

But Mycroft had worked a miracle. The warm bath and strong hands of the Diogenes masseur were so relaxing that the painful urgency abated, and lying on his front was a lazy pleasure instead of an ordeal. The anal plug had been re-inserted to keep him open between sessions, creating a delicious nerve-storm whenever the masseur's fingers worked the muscles in his buttocks and forced it against his prostate.


He opened one eye in mild surprise. Mycroft had left twenty minutes ago to greet the person or people he had to face next. He hadn't heard the elder Holmes come back in.

Is it time?

Ten more minutes. Mycroft sat in a blood-red armchair near the head of the massage table and surveyed his oiled form. You look delicious, brother dear. Speaking of which, nourishment would be advisable.

He picked up a round piece of chocolate from a chilled silver tray on the table beside his chair and held it out. Sherlock raised his head from his folded arms and let his brother place the sweet on his tongue. When he bit down, he tasted fresh cherry nectar underscored by premium dark chocolate.

More? Mycroft asked after he swallowed the morsel.

Sherlock nodded and opened his mouth again. Mycroft fed him piece after piece of chocolate-covered fruit: sliced banana, mango spears, star fruit wedges. The sugar infused him with energy and reawakened his drowsy muscles.

Mycroft checked his pocket watch. It's time. Kneel at my feet, please.

Sherlock rolled slowly off the table, stepped toward his brother, and assumed the position. Mycroft rumpled his freshly washed curls affectionately before coaxing his jaws apart and re-applying the bit gag. Anthony, the harness, please.

The masseur wiped his slick palms on a bruise-blue towel and handed him a velvet bag. Mycroft set it on the table, extracted the harness, and shook it out like it was a freshly laundered shirt instead of a heavy mass of leather and steel buckles. The metal jangled lightly in the silent air, causing Sherlock's pulse to quicken. He'd worn it a few times before, and arranged himself so that Mycroft could easily drop it over his shoulders and tighten the leather straps around his ribcage, below the nipple line, and around his waist.

Sherlock listened to his brother's unsteady breathing as each buckle was secured, and smiled inwardly. He knew that he looked good in that sleek black device, whose straps Mycroft loved to tug on while Sherlock rode him. When Mycroft caressed his back and flank, he leaned into the touch and closed his eyes in contentment.

The snap of the leash hook onto his collar's D-ring broke the spell. Sherlock suppressed a disappointed noise as his brother tugged gently.

Let's go.

Animated by curiousity, Sherlock followed on all fours as Mycroft walked out of the room, turned left, and went down the hall. The ornate carpet cushioned his palms and knees while Sherlock crawled along and wondered who his next atonement was.


No. Not John. The former army doctor didn't belong in the lovely nightmare that was the Diogenes Club. But then again, Sherlock would have once thought the same of Donovan, Anderson, and Dimmock. Was it possible, then, that his faithful blogger and companion was on the premises right now, sipping refreshments and deciding which implement to mark him with first?

The notion was strangely thrilling. He'd often wondered if John had a dark side like most people seemed to. John was a soldier, a man who'd taken lives to protect his country and occasionally Sherlock, but he wasn't deviant unless you counted running red lights and flipping off fans of "the other team" as sinister behaviour. Besides, John always forgave him after their rows, whether he was contrite or not.

So who then?

Sherlock was still pondering the mystery when Mycroft stopped before a closed door next to the upstairs landing. After glancing down at him and whispering Remember- behave, the elder Holmes turned the gilded knob. It yielded with a gentle click and the door swished open wide enough for both men to pass through.

When Mycroft stopped in the center of the floor, Sherlock sank onto his bruised haunches and gazed about. He'd never been in this chamber before. Its scarlet walls had a mottled black pattern that created a marble-like effect. The soft, deep rug had a similar color scheme. The only items of furniture were a leather-padded chair of the type found in dental offices, a huge cherry wood wardrobe, and black leather sofa.

Two women sat on the latter, wearing evening gowns and clutching flutes of champagne. When Sherlock and Mycroft entered, they stopped whispering, lowered their glasses, and sat up straight. Sherlock felt their eyes shoot daggers at him, and instinctively edged closer to his brother.

Dr. Sarah Sawyer cut a lovely yet formidable figure in a tight, gunmetal gray sheath dress. Her long red hair was done up in an elegant chignon and her silver eye shadow made her stare even colder. Sherlock's gaze was drawn to her sinewy arms, which had once brought a steel pipe crashing onto a Chinese gangster's head. A whip or paddle would be a true instrument of torture in her hands. She and Sherlock had been civil to each other in the past, but when Sherlock forced John to cancel too many dates, she'd severed the relationship and threatened to do the same to Sherlock's penis when they met again.

The younger woman beside her was dark-complexioned and wore a black silk cocktail dress with a tight bodice and full skirt. Sherlock winced as he recognized another of John's past girlfriends. Which one was she? Oh, yes- the boring teacher. She'd broken up with John that tumultuous Christmas Eve, after the doctor cancelled their plans in order to rescue Sherlock from another self-induced disaster. He struggled to remember her name. Was it Jane? Jean? No- Jeanette.

Sherlock remembered a saying about hell having no fury like a woman scorned. Two scorned women meant that he was in serious trouble. He didn't want to use his safety signal before the session even started, but when he felt like a zebra in the sights of two hungry she-lions, the prospect was tempting.

Mycroft laid a calming hand on his head. Dr. Sawyer. Miss Walters. I apologize if we kept you waiting long.

Sarah smiled without warmth. You didn't. But thank you anyway. Unlike your younger brother, you're a gentleman.

Besides, Jeanette added, you're not the one who really should apologize.

So I understand. That's why you were both invited here tonight. Sherlock owes you both a proper apology.

Sarah set her glass on the floor and leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. The hem of her dress rode slightly up, revealing stiletto heels that should have required a weapons permit prior to purchase.

That he does. And we understand the rules, Mr. Holmes.

Of course you do. I know you're no stranger to this sort of interaction, Dr. Sawyer. Your requested implements are in the wardrobe.

Sarah's pink tongue traced her scarlet lips. Good.

Sherlock pricked up his ears. Sarah had D/s experience? He wondered who had helped her acquire it. Probably someone she met after her relationship with John ended.

Jeanette regarded her with open admiration and whispered, You promised to show me. I want to make that wanker sorry without risking jail.

Of course, dear.

Although he refused to show it, Sherlock was nervous. Experience with Irene Adler had taught Sherlock that the female of the species could be just as devious and violent as the male, and anyone who forgot that was setting themselves up for a painful awakening. But at the same time, exhilaration at a prospective challenge took root. He knew that Mycroft would never have invited the two women here if they intended to really hurt him. They just wanted to break him down, and he became just as determined to deny them that satisfaction.

Let the games begin then.

He straightened his back and stared coolly at each woman in turn. Jeanette scowled. Sarah's mouth tightened and she stood. When she held out her hand, Mycroft passed over the leash handle and went to stand next to the door.

All right, Sherlock. I see you're not sorry now, but you will be when this is over. Sarah tugged on the chain, forcing him to crawl after her as she strode over to the ominous-looking chair. He thought she would order him into it, but to his amazement she bent down, grasped him under the arms, and bodily tossed him on the seat. He watched as she tipped the upper section back until he was nearly supine, grasped his legs, and draped them over the chair's armrests.

Jeanette, fix those straps over his wrists while I immobilize his legs.

Jeanette set her glass down, jumped up, and hurried to comply. She was so excited that she fumbled with the buckles a few times. When he rolled his eyes at her efforts she glared at him before staring down at the cock ring digging into his flesh.

That looks sore. And frustrating. Now you know how I felt when you kept calling John away at the worst times.

Oh, I'm sure he knew. He just didn't care. He's a self-centered prat. Sarah opened a steel drawer built into the chair's base, took out two thick straps, and used them to secure Sherlock's thighs to the armrests. The position wasn't painful, but it was humiliating. Aren't you, Sherlock?

He didn't answer immediately. She smacked his right buttock and growled, I asked you a question.

He shrugged, trying not to squirm as the spank caused the toy to rotate inside him. Sarah smirked and slapped the other arse cheek, harder. This time he did yelp as pleasure shot up his spine. She grinned in triumph and faced Jeanette.

See, dear? Even Sherlock Holmes knows the meaning of frustration.

Jeanette crossed her arms. I want to see him get the meaning of pain.

Sherlock glared over at his brother, who was visibly amused. He vowed to get even with Mycroft for subjecting him to the predations of these two-

A dark pressure descended onto his eyes without warning, plunging everything into blackness. Sherlock shook his head angrily but Sarah's deft fingers secured the blindfold.

Pain it is, then. Her long nails tweaked his left nipple. Jeanette, be a dear and bring me something nice and sharp from that tray next to the sofa.

Sharp? Sherlock shifted nervously in his bindings. Where on earth did she intend to touch him with something sharp?

That question was answered by a sudden pain that glided smoothly along the center of his scrotum, freezing the breath in his throat. He thrashed and screamed around the gag, panic setting in as he felt something wet trickle down the wrinkled skin. What was she doing? Oh God, she wasn't…. No, Mycroft would never-

I'm disappointed in you, little brother. You've been shot at, knifed, and strangled, yet you flail about like this when a piece of ice touches you?

Ice. Not cold steel. Sherlock silently blessed Mycroft for the lightly disguised intervention. Then Sarah ran the ice along the underside of his cock, which lay thick and leaking against his belly, and his mind and nerves exploded. It HURT, God damn it, but he couldn't let that red-headed she-devil win.

Despite his best efforts, Sherlock realized that she just might. Sarah knew what she was doing. After making his trapped penis spasm from the cold, he felt her bend over him and send a whoosh of hot breath against the chilled skin. The resulting scorch made his hands clench into sweaty fists and toes curl until pain shot up his legs. She was a doctor, and knew how to play his nerves like he played the violin.

You're so good at that, Jeanette marvelled. You should speak at my women's empowerment class.

Sherlock bristled at the trivial comment and garbled his opinion of her and empowerment groups in general. It came out as rubber-muffled nonsense, but he knew she got the point when manicured fingernails clamped his nipples and twisted, making him loudly catch his breath. As he exhaled, Sarah stabbed his belly and sides repeatedly with the ice. He was unable to inhale without his diaphragm spasming due to the cold and forcing the air out.

Suffocation without even touching his throat or airways. He would have admired the ingenuity if he weren't struggling against its effects.

Interrupted and fragmented breathing left him lightheaded. He was floating now, unable to feel the freezing jabs with the same intensity. Sherlock relaxed against the chair's padded surface as a gentle unconsciousness closed in.

Then it stopped. He sucked in air though his flaring nostrils and started shaking, but not from fear. Giddiness and endorphin overload had left him excited and desperately turned on. Although the cock ring now gripped him more cruelly than ever, he was exhilarated. As Sarah's fingers pressed carefully against his pulse, Sherlock wanted to beg her to do it again.

Was that supposed to punish him? Jeanette asked. I think he liked it.

Mycroft spoke. A little pleasure makes denial even crueller.

Exactly, Sarah said. Just as you and I felt, Jeanette, when this self-absorbed prat kept calling John out of our beds at the worst times. Now watch this.

Sherlock felt her fingers burrow between his spread buttocks, grasping the toy and carefully sliding it out. Pass me some gloves and lube from that drawer.

Sherlock tensed, anticipating and dreading what was coming. He heard the crisp snap of latex and felt a towel being tucked under his hips. Then a slender, lube-slick hand massaged his cock and testicles before moving lower and applying a teasing pressure to his perineum and anus. He undulated on the table and moaned when two fingers slid into his hole and pressed upward.

Ah- here it is.

Sherlock arched his back at the brief burst of pain as the swollen gland was expertly stroked. Then pleasure blossomed, making his stomach muscles go tight and his legs quiver nonstop. Sarah pressed his sweet spot relentlessly, and Sherlock's breathing was interspersed with desperate cries and whimpers. If he didn't come soon, he'd go insane. Mycroft would have to carry him out of the Diogenes in a fucking straitjacket.

Sherlock made a low, keening noise when she used her other hand to massage his perineum. Beside him, Jeanette gasped as desperation and arousal made him contort into incredible positions and robbed him of coherency.

Christ, that's hot. Oh, God.

He heard the rustle of silk as she climbed onto the table and squeezed his head between her knees. The gag was undone by shaky fingers and thrown aside.

I'll forgive you if you make me come, you fucking slut, she choked.

If you make her come, I'll forgive you too, Sarah said. And that means one orgasm for you. Is that fair, Mr. Holmes?

Mycroft didn't answer right away. When he did, his breathing was uneven. Very well. Only one.

Sherlock nodded rapidly. He knew from past experience that one orgasm would not be enough when he was this far gone. But it was something, and he needed it NOW, before those professional fingers broke his mind along with his body.

Jeanette seized Sherlock's hair and lowered herself onto his face. She was soaked- excited, no doubt, by his surrender and the sheer headiness of seeing a human being driven mental by pleasure. He had never done this before, but instinct directed him to extend his tongue and flick it against her clit. She hissed and ground against him, filling his mouth and covering his face with her rich, salty juices.

Sherlock tried a variety of manoeuvres, trying to pinpoint what would get her off fast so that he could get relief of his own. She liked everything, it seemed. She moaned under her breath when he slid his tongue through her wet folds, panted and sobbed when he laved across and around her clit, and wailed so sharply that she had to bite her lip when she felt his teeth.

Oh, fuck, he's good… I'm close…

Her slim legs started to jerk and tremble, and her rocking against his face intensified. Then Jeanette shuddered all over and gasped just before Sherlock's mouth was filled with her sweet, hot release.

When she slumped forward and climbed off the table with a soft groan, Sarah snapped the cock ring off, held his shaft firmly at the base, and stroked more aggressively in his arse. Sherlock's breathing disintegrated into a series of chokes and pleas as he writhed. A fine layer of sweat covered his face and body as Sarah tugged on his cock with clinical (diabolical?) precision and kept up the massage.

Sarah, Jeanette, he whimpered, I'm sorry, so sorry, oh fuck, PLEASE….

Mycroft's lips were suddenly on his, silencing his cries as he came so hard that entire galaxies –never mind stars- exploded against the darkness of the blindfold. Shhh, Mycroft whispered as their tongues slid urgently together.

Sherlock felt hot liquid rain thickly onto his belly and coat his ribcage. He could hear and feel himself screaming but he didn't care. His raw desperation caused Mycroft to make a noise that was midway between a growl and a groan and silence him with a large palm. Sherlock felt his brother's breath blast against his arched throat before teeth came down and closed in a possessive bite that crushed and bruised and reminded Sherlock how much he was loved.

Detecting the beginning contractions of another climax, Sherlock rode Sarah's fingers in a desperate bid to hurry it along before he could be denied, but she was too fast. There was a fierce tug on his balls before the cock ring was re-applied, making him kick out in frustration.

Mycroft's mouth moved from his neck to his nipple, which was teased with a warm tongue before another deliciously painful bite pinched the surrounding tissue.

Greedy, Sherlock, his brother whispered. Forever wanting more. You've always been my greatest weakness and biggest challenge.

When he took his hand away from Sherlock's mouth, the younger Holmes breathed, Thank you. He was still hard and uncomfortable, but absurdly grateful for the limited release he'd been allowed.

Sarah's fingers slid out and his cock was released. Sherlock heard her step away and bin the gloves.

I'm satisfied, she declared. He's got an idea of what it's like to get so close, even attain a partial victory, only to have it all stop suddenly. Forgiveness granted.

Miss Walters? Mycroft queried as he pulled the blindfold off.

Sherlock turned his head toward Jeanette, who stood against the wall, breathing heavily and hands clasped. She was still flushed and too distracted from her orgasm to reclaim her white satin knickers, which lay in a discarded heap on the floor.

Yeah, me too, she answered. But he also humiliated the shit out of me in front of guests at John's Christmas party. I want payback for that, and then I'm completely satisfied.

Which is what we want, young lady. Mycroft undid Sherlock's wrist restraints while Sarah slid the straps off his thighs and wiped him off with the towel. What would you like him to do?

Her dark eyes roamed over his harness. I have an idea.


As he raced along the hallway with Jeanette on his back, Sherlock admitted that Miss Walters was creative when it came to dreaming up punishments. His face was as red as his arse now.

She had a fondness for horses, it turned out, and the Diogenes was well-stocked with pony play accessories. After assisting him out of the chair, Mycroft fetched a kit while Sarah easily held Sherlock in place on the floor. When he returned, the two of them positioned the younger Holmes on all fours and outfitted him with a 'bridle' (a rubber-coated U-shaped bit with straps that went around his head and rings for the reins) and a 'tail' that was basically an extra-large butt plug with three feet of glossy black horsehair attached. There was a saddle too: a satin-covered corset with a padded, oval-shaped leather piece that fit over the laces.

Praying that Lestrade and the other Yarders wouldn't see him, Sherlock crawled out of the room after Jeanette 'mounted' him and jerked sharply on the reins. Mycroft and Sarah lingered in the doorway and he felt, rather than saw, their suppressed mirth. If either of them offered him a bucket of oats afterward, he'd dump it over their heads and gladly take the punishment afterward.

Good horsey, Jeanette cooed sarcastically as they neared the landing. When Sherlock garbled a sarcastic response, she reached back and cropped him sharply on the right arse cheek.

Be good. Or you'll go from stallion to gelding really fast.

In a fit of rebellion, Sherlock decided to transform her from rider to roadkill 'really fast'. He pretended to stumble on a carpet wrinkle and rolled to the side, unseating her in a squealing flurry of silk. As he scrambled back onto his hands and knees, footsteps ascended the stairs and he froze. Behind him, Jeanette hauled her skirt over her thighs and Mycroft hurried toward them, probably intending to apologize to the approaching party for the noise.

Hoping he looked suitably contrite, Sherlock lowered his head and prayed that he wasn't about to be confronted with someone he knew.

Apparently whatever deity he prayed to wasn't listening, for John Watson appeared on the landing a moment later.

Chapter Text

For several agonizingly long seconds, no one spoke. Sherlock was silent primarily from awe. He'd never seen John look so stern. Menacing.


Well, this is embarrassing. John stepped off the landing and approached. Sherlock's eyes roamed over his apparel: black trousers, a charcoal gray turtleneck jumper, and tight black jacket. What have you let them do to you, Sherlock?

Mycroft stood in the middle of the corridor, eyes lowered. Jeanette, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, acknowledged John with a nervous hello before jumping up and hurrying to stand behind Sarah. John smiled politely at both women, but his usual affability was absent.

Sherlock felt a nervous flutter in his chest as the man he'd come to think of his predictable and faithful blogger approached him. This was John, who'd borrowed money from him, scrambled to keep up with him during roof-to-roof chases, and made tea on command. John tended to his bruises; surely he was incapable of inflicting new ones.

Wasn't he?

John circled him a few times, while Mycroft and the two women watched silently. Finally he stopped, cupped Sherlock's jaw in his warm hand, and examined his face. Their eyes met: Sherlock wondered if John could see the anxiety and desire he was feeling right now.

I believe you're catching on that I'm not new to this. You never suspected, did you?

The younger Holmes shook his head. His mind flashed back to that day at the pool, when he'd gone to confront Moriarty and been confronted instead- by John. During those torturous seconds before John opened his coat to reveal the explosives strapped to his body, Sherlock's world had been tossed sharply on its axis, leaving him disoriented and breathless.

That was how he felt now as he gazed up at the man he'd been so sure he knew. He shook his head in response to the question. John gave him a small but sincere smile.

You know it's still me, right? I'll always keep you safe.

Sherlock nodded. When John's palm slid out from under his jaw, he impulsively pressed his cheek against it, savouring the warmth. The doctor had washed his hands recently, but he could still smell lotion (Burt's Bees- John's favourite) and chemicals (He cleaned up the remnants of my charcoal experiment this morning when I didn't do it quickly enough to suit him). Sherlock couldn't tell what this short but imposing figure wearing Diogenes black intended to do to him tonight, but whatever it was, he would be safe the entire time. Because it was John.

Sherlock heard Sarah whisper to Jeanette before a door closed. The only spectator now was Mycroft, who had yet to speak. John slipped his hand away from Sherlock's face with obvious reluctance and asked, Is the room ready?

Certainly. Shall we go there now?

Sherlock had never seen Mycroft act so docile around John. He had noticed that during the past month, his older brother had spoken to his flatmate with more deference than usual, but simply assumed that John had done something to merit increased respect. He glanced over his shoulder, saw Mycroft standing with his eyes on the floor and hands clasped in front as if secured by invisible restraints, and immediately guessed what that something was.

Everything now made sense: John's recent assertiveness with him, Mycroft's uncharacteristic reticence, and even Sarah's flawless domination skills. They all confirmed what John had just said: I'm not new to this.

His initial surprise combusted into a fierce and burning lust, which flared from his caged groin outward, tightening his stomach muscles and making his thighs tremble. Their relationship would never be the same after this, he knew. As his body practically vibrated under John's hungry, rapacious gaze, Sherlock realized that it would be better than ever. John was a Dom, he was a sub.

They did belong together, and not just as flatmates any more.

In response to Mycroft's question, John nodded. I've waited for this long enough. But get that costume off of him. The girls may have had a giggle at his expense, but it does nothing for me.

The elder Holmes opened a panel in the wall and pressed a silent buzzer. A moment later two Diogenes attendants trudged dutifully up the stairs. After Mycroft instructed them, they opened a closet, took out a canvas bag designated for worn apparel and used toys, and divested Sherlock of the bridle, harness, saddle-corset, and tail plug. The latter's widest point was especially broad, and took some effort to coax out. Sherlock, whose cheek and shoulders were pressed against the carpet, grunted in discomfort, something John noticed.

I want to examine him before we proceed. He looks like he needs a good trip through the sheep dip.

Of course, John, Mycroft murmured. He dropped a red silk robe over Sherlock's shoulders and helped his brother rise. John eyed them both thoughtfully before striding over to the elder Holmes, pulling him away from Sherlock, and pushing him roughly against the wall.

Sherlock's mouth opened. He'd never seen anyone (anyone who wasn't made an unwilling guest of the British government afterward) tackle his omnipotent older brother like that. With a speed that would have done his army instructors proud, John grasped Mycroft's upper arms and tugged down until the taller man's knees were slightly bent and their faces were level.

Don't move.

No, John, Mycroft whispered.

Sherlock watched those sturdy fingers, which prepared his tea, dressed his wounds, and typed glorifying blog entries, now glide down Mycroft's forearms until their hands joined. John pressed forward, using his body to pin Mycroft to the wall, and slid one thigh between the other man's legs.

You're so fucking hard, he hissed as he rotated his hip to apply pressure. I assume you obeyed me in every respect.

Yes, John.

You didn't touch yourself for the entire week?

No, John.


John's mouth caught Mycroft's in a kiss that bruised the soft lip tissue and wrenched a desperate moan from someplace deep inside that rarely admitted to this kind of need.

Sherlock was mesmerized, temporarily forgetting his own desperate arousal. He wasn't surprised to see Mycroft yield to another Dom: power and responsibility were easier to handle when they could be periodically laid aside. But this was John making his older brother -the most powerful man in Britain- submit to punitive caresses and answer questions like an obedient schoolboy. John, whose laptop was a goldmine of decidedly heterosexual porn, was driving another man crazy with lust.

When dark spots appeared in his vision, Sherlock realised that he had forgotten to breathe. Watching John dominate his regal brother reminded him why he loved the forbidden so much: the only rules and restrictions were those that the players chose. Polite society had no words, let alone guidelines, for what the 'deviant element' did. There was no established protocol for seducing one's brother: he and Mycroft had acted on their lust for pain and each other via instinct alone. Now, a similar instinct drove him toward John, who'd always been untouchable for a myriad of reasons.

He wanted John so badly that he bit his lip. His need tasted salty and warm.

Suddenly John released Mycroft, who slumped against the wall, knees quivering and gasping for breath, and turned toward Sherlock. The flatmates stared at each other for one electrifying moment. Then Sherlock sank to his knees as if by gravity, unable and unwilling to stand in the face of such aggressive dominance.

John caught him around the middle and held him upright. Sherlock, he murmured against the detective's cheek. Are you ready for this? I think you are, but I want to hear you say it.

Sherlock swallowed once before letting go completely. His already-deep voice dropped to a cavernous, desperate baritone.

John, I want you to use me. I want you to make me feel pain, make me beg, let me come only when you say so. Please. I know you find me infuriating to live with, but I want to try to make it up to you.

John couldn't answer right away. When he did, his voice was ragged with desire. I understand that's why you're here tonight. To do just that. All right then.

He positioned Sherlock against the wall, beside Mycroft, and caressed his heaving chest before grasping his nipples and pinching lightly. Sherlock closed his eyes, whimpering when his cock brushed against the cold metal of John's belt buckle, and begged, Harder, please.

Mycroft's hand found his and squeezed tightly, silently transmitting warmth and reassurance.

When John's grip intensified, sending bolts of pain shooting through his chest, Sherlock threw his head back, dark curls gliding smoothly against the polished wood of the wall. He felt his friend's heated breath on his now-exposed throat, and choked back a groan when teeth clamped down, next to the livid bite mark Mycroft had given him.

So, John purred as his tongue soothed newly-bruised skin, you'd like me to do whatever I want to you tonight. Is that right? Treat you like royalty or use you like a cheap whore, whatever suits me?

Yes, John. Fuck, please.

When his nipples were released, Sherlock released his brother's hand, slid to his knees, and fumbled eagerly with John's belt. He'd seen his friend naked before- his penchant for barging into John's room without warning had left no physical secrets between them. But now he ached to smell, touch, and taste. The one orgasm Sarah and Mycroft had allowed him didn't take the edge off: it made it sharper.

Before he could slip the belt free of its buckle, John grabbed his wrists. Did I say you could do that?

No, John. As he spoke, Sherlock noticed that Mycroft was watching them avidly. The elder Holmes was so hard that the silhouette of his tailored trousers was misshapen at the crotch. Sweat actually beaded his high forehead.

You're always so impatient. I guess that means I'll never run out of reasons to punish you. Strong fingers grasped his hair and dragged him to his feet. Mycroft, let's go to that room. Now.

The elder Holmes stood up straight and rearranged his suit. Of course, John. This way.

John's hand fell from Sherlock's hair to his collar. He stroked the soft leather with one finger before gathering what little slack existed and drawing it tight, restricting the younger man's breathing. Sherlock tried to remain passive, but the need to breathe took priority and he struggled slightly. He gripped John's wrist, but did not try to pull it away.

John's own breath, so free and effortless, tickled his gasping lips. Good boy, Sherlock. You know I'd never harm you. He let go, leaving Sherlock coughing and gulping and grateful.

The room John had referred to was on the next floor. Sherlock let his flatmate place a strong arm around his shoulders and lead him up the stairs. I want to examine you so I can see how much more you can take, the doctor whispered. I'm betting you can do as well as your brother.

Mycroft, who was leading the way, hesitated for a split second, but otherwise he gave no indication of having heard.

You and Mycroft, Sherlock said drowsily, still reeling from the breath play. How often?

Only a few times. He doesn't need it as regularly as you appear to. John's arm descended to his waist as they stepped onto the landing. He says you're not a switch.


Neither am I. A warm hand fondled Sherlock's bruised arse cheek. The younger Holmes caught his breath again.

They followed Mycroft down the hall to a set of double doors at the end. After using an electronic key to deactivate the locks, he pushed the doors open with a flourish and gestured for Sherlock and John to enter.

The low-ceilinged chamber had exposed stone walls, with imitation gaslight fixtures casting a burnt glow on the blood-red carpet, antique sofa and chairs, and gigantic four-poster bed. Sherlock stared at the latter, which had gleaming chains coiled around the posts like metallic serpents and a beaded silver duvet that looked like chainmail at first glance. Light grey pillows with darker tassels were piled so thickly that the headboard was invisible.

A black leather-upholstered trunk stood at the foot of the magnificent bed. Mycroft had a similar one in his own quarters. Like his, this one probably contained more toys than their combined imaginations would know what to do with.

John's hand on his shoulder interrupted his ruminations. Go lie on the bed and wait for me. Knees up, feet apart.

Sherlock obeyed. The duvet's pebbled surface felt strange but luxurious against his back. He watched John go over to Mycroft, grasp the lapels of his three-thousand pound suit, and hiss, Kneel. When the elder Holmes obeyed, his expression slack and blissful, John manoeuvred behind him, produced a thick leather gag from one of his jacket pockets, and strapped it in place. Sherlock could see his brother's long fingers tremble, a sure indicator of excitement and even a little fear.

You did well tonight, John said as he grabbed a fistful of Mycroft's rich red hair and yanked his head back. At least that's the impression I've been given so far. But if Sherlock's atonement doesn't meet my expectations, I'll be disappointed. And you know what that means for you, don't you?

Mycroft nodded quickly. When John released his hair and stepped in front of him with a pair of handcuffs, he presented his wrists without hesitation. John indicated approval by stroking his cheek and saying, If your brother pleases me tonight, there'll be something in it for you. Or rather, there will be something in you. Would you like that? He fondled his crotch mere inches from Mycroft's nose.

The elder Holmes shivered and nodded again.

Then I expect perfect performance. From both of you. John stepped behind him again and picked up something off the hand-carved writing desk. Sherlock saw that it was a pair of blunt-tipped scissors, with long blades that reflected the pseudo-gaslight. But you can't play with so many clothes on, Mycroft. I'll have to do something about that.

Sherlock's eyes widened when John bent down and began cutting Mycroft's custom-tailored suit from his quivering body. The elder Holmes stared straight ahead, face flushed, and did not flinch as his expensive clothing was reduced to a pile of rags.

There, John beamed. Much better. He laid the scissors aside and circled the kneeling man once, eying his hard nipples and harder cock with approval. But look at how you're leaking! Makes me wonder whether you might come unintentionally while Sherlock and I are having fun.

Sherlock expected him to solve that little dilemma with a cock ring, and felt a perverse pleasure at the thought of his brother sharing the frustration he had known all evening. To the surprise of both brothers, John nudged Mycroft's legs further apart before dropping down on one knee behind him. Sherlock saw John rummage in his trouser pocket, withdraw a sachet of lube, and wave it tauntingly under Mycroft's nose.

Hold still. This is a delicate procedure.

There was a soft noise of ripping foil. Then John's right hand lowered to Mycroft's buttocks, and the latter's eyes widened in excitement and what looked to Sherlock like panic. His hips shifted uncomfortably, his thighs trembled, and he moaned faintly into the gag. John smacked one arse cheek with his free hand before snaking it around and gripping the base of Mycroft's erection.

Don't complain. I'm doing this so your punishment won't be worse than planned.

The drops of fluid trailing to the floor were now a steady, milky stream. Mycroft clenched his fists and shivered against John who, despite the harsh language, whispered encouragement against his sweaty neck. On the surface it looked like the elder Holmes was in agony: the muscles in his legs began to spasm and his face had gone from pleasantly flushed to scarlet red. But Sherlock could tell by the dreamy, vacant look in his eyes that his brother relished and badly needed the forced control over his pleasure.

The pool of seminal fluid on the floor widened.

Oh, yes, John hissed, while Sherlock watched and felt the cock ring become unbearably tight. So hot. And so ripe. I bet this feels lovely, doesn't it?

The prostate milking- with its accompanying sensations of pleasure and agony- made the normally indomitable Mycroft Holmes whimper and nod rapidly.

I think that's enough for now. John stood up, stepped back, and wiped his lube-slick fingers on a piece of Mycroft's destroyed suit. Time for me to see to your brother. You may sit back on your heels if that's more comfortable.

The elder Holmes sank down gratefully and bowed his head. Sherlock saw John fondle his brother's mussed-up hair before approaching the bed.

Now, he said, for you.

To his amazement, Sherlock began to shake all over. He was excited, turned on, and a little scared. John's medical skills were already first rate: the fact that he made Sherlock anxious now proved that his dominating ability was just as potent.

John turned the bedside lamp on. Let's look at you first.

Those were words that John had used frequently in the past, before prodding him for cracked ribs or inspecting a bruise or cut. But this time, firm hands grasped Sherlock's bony knees and pushed them obscenely wide.

Hmmm. You're still open. Slick too. But a little red. Hold still.

He reached toward the bedside table, where a package of latex gloves and bottles of expensive lube sat amidst more mundane amenities like tissue boxes and hand cream. Sherlock closed his eyes as he listened to John prepare, and sighed in both anticipation and relief when two warm, slick fingers slid carefully into his hole and began stroking that part of him that had known only partial relief tonight.

So what did they do to you tonight, Sherlock? he queried, keeping up with that sweet, devastating stroking. Tell me everything.

And Sherlock did. Everything. By the end of his litany, he was drenched in sweat and nearly weeping with his need to come. John, he begged, making the name sound like a plea and endearment combined, please.

You don't appear to be injured, and your recall is perfect as usual. John slid his fingers out, binned the glove, and stood. Sherlock, I want to punish you. Hard. Are you willing?

Yes, John.

Sherlock licked his dry lips as John straightened out his legs and rolled him onto his front. The duvet's surface tortured his erection, but when his best friend ordered, Hold still, he obeyed.

A metal fastening clinked as it was opened, followed by the hiss of sliding leather. Then something hard but supple- John's belt- slid over his arse, teasing the already-simmering nerve endings. Sherlock buried his face in his forearm and arched his back, signalling his trust in John and willingness to take whatever was inflicted on him.

The first blow was light enough to avoid bruising him further, but inflicted with enough force to send all rational thought rushing from his head. Sherlock's gasp came from deep within his gut as pain blossomed through his arse and resulted in a shower of endorphins.

Oooh… John…

John hit him again, vaulting him into a headspace where only the crack of leather, the burning ache of beaten flesh, and his own racing heartbeat existed.

He heard John's breathing become uneven, and not from exertion. If you want more of this, Sherlock, you have to ask for it.

Sherlock raised his head, relishing the pain that pulsed throughout his slender form and chased intrusive thoughts like fear and anxiety away. Please, John. Give me more. I need it.

Up on your knees then. Shoulders down. Hold your arse open for me.

Eager to lose himself in more sensation, the younger Holmes scrambled to obey. His fingers dug into his buttocks, exposing his hole to whatever his Dom chose to do to it. Sweat coated his face and plastered his hair to his cheekbones.

Bloody hell. John's fingertips grazed his opening gently. I wish I had a camera on me now. You look so gorgeous and filthy, Sherlock.

Then John's hand moved away, and the blows resumed. They rained onto his arse and thighs, carefully missing his hands and genitals. Tears gathered in his eyes and joined the sweat running down his face, but he was not suffering- he was soaring.

Suddenly the blows ceased. Sherlock heard the soft thud of the belt landing beside him on the mattress and felt John's sweaty fingers close around his neck, holding him in place.

Stay there and keep your eyes closed. I'm very pleased, Sherlock. You took that so well. John's other hand stroked his face tenderly, wiping the tears.

Yes, John.

Sherlock remained in place, revelling in pain's heated afterglow. He heard John cross the floor behind him and whisper to Mycroft. Then two sets of footsteps returned to the bed, and the leather trunk at its foot creaked open. Too blissed-out to be curious, he remained in place while someone- Mycroft- climbed onto the bed. There was some shuffling and rearranging, and then John whispered, Open your eyes.

Sherlock obeyed. Mycroft was lying on his back on the duvet, wrists secured to the thick headboard with expertly knotted nylon rope. He was breathing heavily and staring at his brother with equal portions of pride and lust.

Sherlock was mesmerized. Before tonight, he'd never seen Mycroft in a submissive role: the elder Holmes had always been a polite but foreboding figure to everyone except him. Rather than testing the bonds or trying to wriggle free, Mycroft gripped the ropes that connected him to his grounding point, like he was strapped himself in for an exhilarating ride.

John snapped a leash onto Sherlock's collar and tugged him gently toward his brother. Go on. I want to see the two of you together.

The younger Holmes surged forward eagerly, helped along by the hand that now gripped his head, and wrapped his soft lips around the fluid-glossed cock's tip. Mycroft hissed and squirmed as Sherlock teased the sensitive opening with his tongue while bobbing slowly up and down and letting suction build. John whispered encouragement in soft, breathy tones.

Good boy, Sherlock. Your brother deserves a reward for tonight, and I want you to give him a good one.

Sherlock bobbed his head more enthusiastically to indicate agreement. His right hand caressed Mycroft's balls, which were hard and drawn close to his body by this point. He started to slide off his brother's cock to give those delicate orbs a tongue bath when John pushed his head down abruptly, stuffing the entire length down his throat. Sherlock relaxed his jaw and subdued his gag reflex, but the suddenness of the plunge left him breathless and dizzy. He huffed wildly through his nose and his eyes watered, but John held him firmly in place and he soon stilled.

Fuck his throat, John directed. Mycroft arched his back on the mattress, driving his cock even deeper into his red-faced brother's throat. As he crouched there, unable to control either the position of his head or the depth of the thrusts, Sherlock once again felt intrusive, unnecessary thoughts flee his mind and be replaced with a glorious silence.

Give me your left hand, John ordered him. Sherlock complied automatically, too lightheaded to hesitate. He felt cold jelly being squirted onto his index and middle fingers before John grabbed his wrist and guided it between Mycroft's thighs.

Get your fingers in his arse.

Sherlock had never done this to his brother before, but he hastened to obey. He felt the slick sphincter muscle yield easily to his careful probing, and actually draw his digits inside. It didn't take long for him to find the swollen knot of nerves, which must have still been sensitive from John's ministrations. When he touched it, Mycroft gritted his teeth and fucked his mouth harder, forcing rivulets of saliva and pre-ejaculate past his lips.

Excellent, John whispered. Sherlock's heart soared at the praise. Now make him come, and then it will be your turn.

Faced with such an incentive, Sherlock tightened his lips around the sliding shaft and stroked Mycroft's prostate more insistently. This was as close to heaven as he'd ever been- better than the drugs, and even the danger. This was the perfect distraction: pain and sex and love. They siphoned away his nervous aggression and replaced it with mental calm and physical arousal.

He realized that he wasn't doing all of this just so he could get off, and hard. He wanted John and Mycroft to feel good, to be pleased with him. Pressure banked even more insistently in his groin as he revelled in the brutal thrusting and mild suffocation and whispered praise.

Suddenly Mycroft gave one last plunge and groaned. Sherlock felt salty warmth flood his mouth and throat, and held still as his brother continued to jerk lightly in and out, working through the lingering tremors. Finally Mycroft collapsed back onto the bed, cock wet with Sherlock's saliva and his own semen, and gasped, That was indescribable. Oh, God.

Sherlock slid his fingers out of that hot body and rested his forehead on the pebbled duvet. He was dimly aware of John releasing his head and climbing onto the bed behind him. He heard the rasp of a lowering zip before gentle but insistent hands parted his cheeks.

You're perfect, Sherlock. And from now on, you're mine. Would you like that?

Yes, John. Yes.

John shuffled forward on his knees and pressed lightly down on the younger man's lower back. Sherlock repositioned himself accordingly and waited breathlessly. When he heard the lube bottle snap shut and felt John's stiff, slippery cock push into him, Sherlock cried out and spread his thighs wider to make the angle perfect. The room was suddenly boiling hot, and his sweaty skin prickled with need.

Yes, John. Make me yours. Please. Yes, yes, yes….

After burying himself to the hilt, John tugged on the leash, forcing Sherlock onto all fours. Fuck, you feel perfect around my cock. Such a slut, showing me how you want me to take you. Lucky for you, you're due for a reward.

The doctor pulled partway out before thrusting back in hard. Then the fucking began- it wasn't making love, nor was it just screwing. Only the grip on the leash preventing him from tumbling onto his brother. John pounded him so roughly that he found it impossible to catch a proper breath, and soon he started feeling lightheaded again. The moment his vision started darkening and he reeled, the cock ring came off and he was free.

John lowered one hand and cupped his balls. You're so full. Come for us, Sherlock.

Sherlock's orgasm blasted through him like an exploding furnace, drenching his mind in white-hot heat. He couldn't think properly, all he could do was feel.

Feel every nerve in his body fizzle and sputter like freshly lit dynamite.

Feel semen rush through his sore and throbbing penis until it burst from the tip and showered his belly, chest, and even Mycroft with liquid warmth.

Feel his teeth close over his already-abused lip and draw blood in a desperate effort to keep his screams contained.

He was vaguely aware of John's hips picking up speed and the grip on his leash tightening. He felt his arse muscles spasm and shudder around the doctor's plunging erection and then John was coming too, grunting and gasping and cursing under his breath like a man instead of the devious, self-assured Dom of the past hour.

Fuck, Sherlock… you're incredible….

Sherlock tried to reply, but all that came out of his mouth was hissing air. He had not stopped floating since orgasm, and now mind and body combined to take him out of this room, to a place where there was only darkness, weary pleasure, and peace.


When Sherlock woke up, he felt comfortable and sated. His cheek rested against a goose-feather pillow and soft cotton sheets covered him to the shoulder. He shifted slightly, and discovered that two warm bodies rested on either side of him. One arm draped over his waist, while a muscled thigh lounged across his hip. Opening his eyes, he stared into John's face.

John's black ensemble was gone, replaced by a red robe that resembled one he always wore around the Baker Street flat after showering. The gently malicious expression he'd displayed all evening was also gone, leaving the patient and concerned visage that Sherlock had always associated with safety and security.

When he saw that Sherlock was awake, John's mouth tugged into his lopsided grin. Hey.

John. The younger Holmes touched his flatmate's bare chest in wonder. I haven't been dreaming, have I? Did we…. Did we really do all that?

Mycroft's lips brushed Sherlock's ear from behind. Indeed we did, little brother. All three of us.

John rolled onto his back and retrieved a bottle of water from the bedside table. Let's get you rehydrated, he said, sounding more like a doctor than a Dom. Sherlock raised himself onto one elbow, closed his lips around the bottle opening, and gratefully gulped down the cool fluid. Then he collapsed back onto the mattress.

Wow, was all he could say.

A common expression, but it suits the occasion. Mycroft kissed his shoulder. Sherlock, you never fail to amaze me.

And me. John hooked one finger under Sherlock's chin and levelled their gazes. I've known for awhile that you liked to be handled roughly. I've lived with you for so long that you can't keep many secrets from me any more. I saw certain bruises and marks on you, and knew what they were. Then Mycroft and I reached an… understanding.

The elder Holmes chuckled. An understanding that left me unable to sit down for days. John's so good for you on many levels, Sherlock. I wanted you to see each other like this, and understand that you can be more than just flatmates and friends.

Sherlock gazed at John. So I take it my Atonement satisfied you?

The doctor smiled. I never can stay annoyed at you for long, even if you can be the most ridiculous, aggravating idiot.

Sherlock clasped John's hand. At the same time, he reached back and touched Mycroft's naked hip. Thank you both for this. My God, the entire evening… I was never bored for a minute.

You have a high tolerance for being used, it seems. John wrapped his arms around the younger man and drew him close. And I look forward to exploring your limits further.

Sherlock smirked and nestled his face against John's smooth, warm chest. Just like I test your patience on a daily basis?

Something like that.

Mycroft pulled the covers back and sat up. I'd better go to my chamber now- Gregory's waiting. He patted Sherlock's rear and touched John's shoulder before rising and donning a robe. Let's talk more in the morning. Sherlock, be aware that you've got two Masters now. You'll be held to a more stringent performance level.

Are you trying to intimidate me, or turn me on?

John chuckled and pulled him closer. We intend to do both.

Sherlock had never felt more daunted.

Or loved.