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You Told Me I'm Golden

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You like this, don't you, slut? You love being pounded like the whore you are, getting filled with my come. And it's never enough, you just want more. Don't you? Don't you?

“Yes!” Sherlock screams, back arching off his cramped dorm bed as Victor finds his prostate again. “Oh, God, yes, sir, please. I need to come. Please, sir, please. Let me come, please.”

“Not yet.” Victor says harshly. “Come before I tell you to and you'll be sorry.” He slams home again with a decidedly teasing twist to his hips. “Who do you belong to? Who decides when you get to come?”

“You do, sir. You do,” Sherlock all but sobs, his hips pushing back against his Dom involuntarily. “I'm yours, all yours.”

“Good boy,” Victor praises, curling over him and starting to suck a love bite into life on his neck. “That's what I want to hear, good boy.” The praise pools warm and heavy in Sherlock's stomach making him want to preen with pleasure at satisfying Sir. He and Victor have had sex before of course, but never like this and it's amazing, fuck, beyond amazing. Sherlock's not sure he's ever felt this good in his life.“God you're perfect, you're so fucking tight, and you're all mine.” Victor growls in his ear and Sherlock pulls at the handcuffs connecting him to the headboard, whimpers finding their way out of his throat.

“Be a good boy for me,” Victor orders twisting one of Sherlock's nipples, making his sub cry out. “Come for me. Now. I want to feel it while I'm still inside of you.” He palms Sherlock's cock and soon Sherlock is shaking apart beneath him, sending Victor over the edge right after him.

After a few minutes, once they've both gotten their breath back and Victor's slipped out, he reaches for the key lying on the nightstand and uncuffs Sherlock who immediately starts massaging the sore muscles in his arms as best he can. “You okay?” Victor asks, pulling his clothes back on. “Any cuts?”

“Fine,” Sherlock assures him. There may be some marking from the cuffs but he knew that when he decided to pull on them.

“Good,” Victor, now fully dressed, presses a kiss to his forehead. “I've got a paper due tomorrow morning so I'll see you after lunch. 'Night.”

Sherlock has barely said “Goodnight,” in turn when the door closes, leaving him alone in his dorm, surrounded by the smell of sex. He feels strangely bereft.

It doesn't make sense, he decides, laying back down in his soiled bedding. He agreed to the sex, hell, Sherlock had been the one to suggest Victor try dominating him. And it was perfect, he loved every moment, loved each command and the knowledge of how out of control he really was. It was exactly what he had asked for, so why does he feel so downtrodden now?

He had intended to change the sheets afterward and then work on setting up a new experiment, but suddenly that seems like an impossible amount of work. It's not as if the experiment can't wait until morning, after all. And with how lonely he feels, sleeping on the sheets that he and Victor have just had sex on seems to hold an entirely new type of appeal. Sherlock forces himself out of bed to flick off the light switch – why does it feel like it's taking all of his energy just to do that? He can't be getting sick, there's no time for it – and then crawls beneath his covers savoring the scent of his Dom.

: : :

Victor only lasts until he decides that he likes cocaine better than Sherlock. That's alright though, Sherlock feels rather the same about Victor.

: : :

Sherlock repeats the experiment again, again, again, and is finally forced to the conclusion he's suspected (feared) all along: something is wrong with him.

The sex is always good, hell the sex is great, and he loves to feeling of being dominated, the heady loss of control, and the pleasure that only comes from being praised by whoever's topping him. Their pleasure gives him pleasure and it's brilliant but it's also not the problem.

No, the problem comes later. The problem comes after. The problem is him.

However much he enjoys the sex, he's always left feeling terrible afterward. Lonely, and empty, and like garbage tossed on the side of the road. It happens after sex when he's sober and sex when he's drunk and sex when he's high. Sherlock thinks about topping once, wonders if it would help, but the idea is so unnatural to him that he never goes through with it, never even tries.

Eventually the terrible feelings of abandonment that always follow outweighs the euphoria of the sex itself. Sherlock decides, laying alone on his mattress in his filthy flat (Mycroft is going to have kittens the next time he comes to check up – no, no. No thinking about your brother when you've been fucked into next week not ten minutes ago) with the smell of sex still heavy in the air, that he is marrying the Work. No more sex, no more shared orgasms, and no more horribly pedestrian feelings of loneliness that inevitably follow the first two.

: : :

And for a while, it works. It works beautifully.

The Work is always there. After a case has closed Sherlock is granted a reprieve from his boredom, a type of peace and calm that does not top an orgasm but still rivals it. There is always another murder, another kidnapping, another crime for him to solve. Rather than leaving him with feelings of emptiness and a horrible sense of unease, the Work takes those feelings away.

He does need to make a few changes of course.

Sherlock perfects his “Married to My Work” speech (with a bit of help from Lestrade after he made two girls cry in one night). He also, eventually, is forced to give up the cocaine if he wants to continue the Work (and that one comes with rather a lot of help from Lestrade) but it's all so perfectly worth it. For the first time Sherlock has not only found something that fulfills him, it keeps him fulfilled. Sherlock has finally found the perfect cure for his boredom, his cravings, and his desires.

The Work is a miracle he found all by himself, and it is the thing he cherishes most.

: : :

Then he meets John Watson.

: : :

John gets the “Married to my Work” speech the day after they meet and Sherlock fully expects that to be the end of things.

Of course it can't be that easy.

Because John finds the thumbs in the vegetable drawer and simply leaves a note on the fridge about using proper containers (a list which apparently does not include plastic sandwich bags) for human remains. He listens to Sherlock deduce his entire life's history and says 'brilliant' instead of 'freak'. John watches Sherlock sink into one of his black moods and doesn't leave. Instead he orders Thai for dinner, reminds Sherlock to eat, and lets him stretch his legs across John's lap so they can both sit on the couch while John watches crap telly before bed. Sherlock is the only one who sees the careful wording of 'I'm not gay' as opposed to 'I'm straight' and is endlessly amused and touched by it. John tries to help Sherlock through social cues he can't make heads or tails of rather than act as if he's doing it on purpose. He's a guiding touch more often than he's a harsh reprimand and even then only when Sherlock deserves it, when he knows better and simply doesn't care.

In short, John accepts Sherlock and that right there is Sherlock's undoing.

Before he knows it John is battling with the Work for the title of Most Important Part of Sherlock's Life, and what's more, he's rapidly gaining ground.

And what seals it, what wins John Watson the war over Sherlock, is that he doesn't even know he's fighting it.

Because John isn't trying to win Sherlock over. He listened to what Sherlock said all those months ago and respects it. He doesn't bother trying to hide his attraction because they both know Sherlock would see through any attempt to disguise it in seconds, but neither does he expect it to be acknowledged or reciprocated. As far as John's concerned, it's just there, a small, unimportant, part of their lives together.

Oh, the potential Sherlock can see for them though.

John is helpful, and small, and wraps himself in layer upon layer of wool. People look at John (with Sherlock, without Sherlock) and they see a kind person who's calling in life is to heal. The eternal plucky sidekick, who is oh-so-good at it. They're wrong.

Sherlock looks at John and sees steel. He sees a steady gun in a steady hand and an absolute certainty in his moral compass. There's a certain blue John's eyes become when his patience is all but gone. John has a tone of voice (which privately Sherlock calls his Command Voice) that always manages to stop Sherlock in his tracks when he's done something more than a Bit Not Good. He holds himself in a certain way sometimes as if he wants nothing more than to bend Sherlock over his knee and teach him a lesson and oh God Sherlock wishes he would.

It doesn't take long for Sherlock to decide that John is worth submitting to however much the aftermath will wreck him. He needs to hear that Command Voice telling him exactly how to suck John's cock, and which piece of furniture Sherlock looks prettiest bent over. He will do whatever John wants wherever John wants if only John will agree to possess him, to own him, to let Sherlock finally belong to someone.

: : :

They kiss for the first time over Chinese food and bad telly.

: : :

Two weeks after that, when they are lying on the couch together, Sherlock's face hidden in the crook of John's neck, Sherlock carefully voices his desire to submit. John's response is enthusiastic to say the least.

: : :

The next night, John backs Sherlock towards the bedroom and between kisses and discarded clothing asks, “Have you done this before? Not just the sex, the submitting part.” He chooses that moment to lick the hollow of Sherlock's throat, mangling the 'yes' into a garbled moan. By the time they're in Sherlock's room they're both down to their pants. John pushes Sherlock onto the bed, leans over him, and asks, “Safeword?”

“Unnecessary.” Sherlock assures him wriggling out of his pants.

He's rewarded with a sharp slap on his arse. “Safeword?” John asks again, a steely note in his voice.

Sherlock takes a second, he's never used one before and he's distracted by the blood rushing to his groin and the wonderful sting from John's hand, and then chokes out, “Sussex.”

“Sussex,” John repeats, nodding. “Alright.” He gives Sherlock a once over and then snaps his fingers, “Kneel,” Sherlock's knees hit the floor with a hollow thump. “Good boy,” he praises, running his fingers through wayward curls. John pushes his own pants down and steps out of them. He stands so that his cock is directly in front of Sherlock who wants nothing more than to take it in his mouth. But he hasn't been ordered to do anything yet and he so wants to be good for John.

“Suck,” John orders, and it's all the incentive Sherlock needs. He latches on, humming in pleasure as John's fingers weave their way into his hair. He wants to impress John, so he tongues the slit, trying to draw John's pleasure out and make it as good as possible. There's only a seconds warning of fingers tightening in his hair before he's pulled off and Sherlock feels his head forced back, so that he's looking up into John's face.

“I said 'suck',” John reminds him. His pupils are blown wide with arousal but his face is stern and Sherlock has never loved him more than in this exact second, wonders if he will ever be able to love him more. “I was hoping for a pleasant night for both of us,” he continues mildly, “But if you need a lesson in minding instructions we can do that instead. I warn you though, sluts who can't follow directions don't get to come.” Sherlock whines pathetically. “You have one more chance,” John offers graciously. “Now, suck.”

The hand in his hair loosens and Sherlock wraps his lips around John and sucks. John groans, “Good boy,” and Sherlock hums deliberately around the cock in his mouth. “God you love this,” John says, snapping his hips, pushing his cock further into Sherlock's mouth. “I'm shoving myself down your throat and you're just gagging for more. But then again with lips like those you were just made for sucking cock, weren't you, you slut?” Sherlock makes the closest thing to an affirmative noise that he can manage with John brushing the back of his throat

When John's inevitable orgasm is nearly upon him he squeezes Sherlock's shoulder in warning. Sherlock's only reaction is to curl his hand around John's good leg and keep him closeclose close.

There's an odd sense of peace that finds him when John comes down his throat, Sherlock greedily swallowing. It's the knowledge that he did that, he, Sherlock, gave John pleasure, made John feel good . It's the same type of high he gets solving cases. The satisfaction of a job well done.

“You've been such a good boy,” John praises, slipping out of his mouth. “Good boys deserve rewards, don't they Sherlock? Would you like a reward?” He looks down at his still kneeling lover expectantly.

“Whatever you think is appropriate, Sir. I'm yous. Whatever you want. Anything, John, please.” Sherlock, still on his knees, feels like a worshiper in a church and oh, he would supplicate himself at the altar of John Watson forever if he could. John's face softens and he beds to press a kiss to the tip of Sherlock's nose

“I think we'll both have a treat, love.” He says says with a smile. “On the bed, on your back, move it.” Sherlock scrambles up from the floor and then hesitates – which end does John want him toward? – it only take him a second to figure it out but apparently that's too long for John who delivers another (pleasantly) stinging slap to him bum. “Move.” John reminds him sternly.

Sherlock hastens to obey, stretching out on his back, head on the pillow, wriggling on the bed. He wants so badly to take himself in hand, but he can't, he won't disobey John, nono no. Still, that doesn't mean he can try to entice John to hurry things up a bit. Sherlock all but writhes on the bedsheets, trying to ruin his Dom's control.

Unfortunately John has more than enough experience dealing with Sherlock to fall for his tricks. “I think not,” John smiles, turning his back on Sherlock scanning the room for something. He lets out a noise of satisfaction, apparently finding what he was looking for, and picks it up off the floor. “I don't want to make this too hard for you,” John says, holding up one of Sherlock's scarves, “So I'm going to tie your hands to the headboards to make sure you behave.”

Sherlock immediately stretches his arms above his head – he loves being restrained, it's perfect, and doing it with John makes his entire body buzz with anticipation. John chuckles at his lover's eagerness and loops the scarf through the rails of the headboard before tying an end to each wrist. “Okay?” John asks, “Comfortable?” Sherlock nods feeling confused, who cares if he's comfortable? The entire point of this is for Sherlock to not be comfortable. But John just kisses his forehead and murmurs, “Remember the safeword if you need it,” before backing away and sweeping his gaze down Sherlock's body.

“You've been a good boy,” John praises making Sherlock feel warm and content. “But before I give you your reward, I think you could use a lesson in delayed gratification.” He draws a single nail down the sensitive skin of Sherlock's hip making him squirm. His nail is soon replaced by his mouth, dotting wet kisses down his hip and along his inner thigh. “You're not to come until I give you permission.” John reminds him.

And then, without any warning, he swallows Sherlock down.

Sherlock's hips immediately start bucking and lightening quick John pulls off. “No,” he says firmly, slapping Sherlock's arse which only serves to make him whine in desperation. “I decide the pace, not you. Do that again and I'll leave you here for a while and go make myself a cuppa.” And he will, Sherlock knows John doesn't make threats he isn't willing to carry out, but he's not sure he has that much self-control.

“Please, Sir,” he gasps out, “I – I can't help it. Please, oh God, please.” Sherlock knows, knows deep in his bones, that if John takes him in his mouth again he'll body will respond with or without his permission and he cannot stand the idea of letting John down.

Luckily for him, John is a man of generosity. “We'll have to work on that,” he promises “But for now,” John wraps his hand around Sherlock and watches in amusement as he nearly levitates off the bed. “There's my boy,” he praises softly, stroking Sherlock just slowly enough to keep him from tumbling over the edge, stranding him on the precipice, desperate and wanting. “God you're beautiful like this.” Sherlock struggles to keep his eyes open and fixed on John, it's all too much to take in and at the same time not enough. “What does it feel like, Sherlock? Describe it to me,” John demands.

“It's – oh God – it's everything, John, just everything. ” He strains against his bonds pulling at the headboard, wild for any extra bit of friction that will grant him release. “It's like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff and all I need – oh my God, John, please,” (John has added a clever flick of his wrist on his down stroke and Sherlock's surprised his eyes don't roll back completely in his head) – “all I need is a tiny push and I'll fall into the ocean. Sir, please, please let me come.”

“Keep talking,” is all John says.

“God, it feels like a dying star.” Sherlock bites out (and he knows all about how stars work now because no one will ever use his lack of knowledge of balls of gas against him again). “It, oh, it feels like I'm collapsing in on myself, this huge amount of energy building until it explodes and dies with only the after image left behind.”

“A tad dramatic, Sherlock, no?” John asks sounding perfectly calm and collected and Sherlock actually cries in frustration. His breaths are more sobs than anything at this point and his cock is aching its so hard.

“John,” his voice breaks on the name. “Please.”

John picks up his pace, leaning up to kiss Sherlock on the mouth. He trails kissed and bites across Sherlock jaw before he finally reaches his ear. He takes a moment to suck and nibble at the lobe before harshly commanding, “Come. Now. I want to see it.” And Sherlock, with a perfect twist of John's wrist at the perfect moment, does just that.

: : :

It takes a few minutes before Sherlock comes back from his post-orgasmic state of bliss. When he does his mind is peacefully clear and he feels the remainder of the floating sensation that sex like this has always give him. He notes that his hands have been untied, not unusual, and that his arms are being massaged – that is, well, beyond unusual.

“Why are you doing that?” He asks, amused.

John raises and eyebrow, “Oh, do you like muscle cramps then?” He takes Sherlock's silence as an answer, “Exactly, so shut it.” John kisses him and then switches arms.

There's an odd sensation in Sherlock's chest that's making it hard to breathe. He swallows it down viciously. Sex may leave him feeling lonely and maudlin afterward but he's not going to let himself be that pathetic until John leaves.

Only John isn't leaving. Instead he's pushing Sherlock onto his side so that he can curl up behind him. “Did that all work for you?” John asks softly, wrapping his arms around Sherlock who manages a nod, feeling lost. “There's no rush,” He says, kissing the back of Sherlock's neck, “I know it takes time to come down.” Come down? Come down from what exactly?

Sherlock's chest feels tighter and tighter and he knows he's about to do something completely horrific and awful like cry but he doesn't know why. He settles for trying to hold as still as he possibly can when the tears start slipping down his face. Don't notice, he thinks fiercely, Don't, don't, don't. But luck isn't on his side today.

“Sherlock?” John wipes a tear away. “Hey, hey what's wrong?” He kisses Sherlock's temple. “Is this normal for you with after care?” And that's it, Sherlock has no idea what John's talking about and he needs to know right now.

“What?” He all but yells, “What are you talking about? What are you doing?” Sherlock demands. “The – the hugging and comforting, why? ” Behind him John has gone very still.

“I thought you said you'd done this before?” John sounds like he is hovering on the border of becoming very angry, very fast.

“I have!” Sherlock says indignantly. “Did that really seem like my first bout of rough sex to you?” He sneers. “It's just this!” Sherlock says waving his arms vaguely. “I don't understand what any of this is!”

“Jesus,” John breathes, resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder. “How many people have you subbed for?” he asks, sounding a little unsteady. “Not counting me.”

“Nine,” Sherlock answers warily.

“Christ,” John wraps his arms around Sherlock even tighter. “Sherlock, I'm not sure what winners you slept with, but this,” John squeezes his arms for emphasis, “This is normal. This is healthy .” John takes a deep breath while Sherlock waits for further explanation.

“Listen, you know that floaty sort of feeling you get from playing?” Sherlock nods, of course he does, it's part of why he loves submitting so much. “Right. Okay. That's called sub-space. Christ you didn't research any of this did you? Obviously people like being in sub-space,” he continues not waiting for an answer. “And afterward it's a Dom's responsibility to stay with their sub and wait for them to come back down to Earth. Does this feel better or worse than the other times, when people left straight after the sex?”

“Better,” Sherlock says slowly. “Those other times I always felt,” he waves his hands vaguely, “Lonely, sad. It's why I stopped having sex for so long. It wasn't a worthwhile trade-off.” He knows, in a round about way, that he's admitting to John being worth whatever negative feelings he anticipated coming later. He knows John realizes this as well when he feels him place a reverent kiss on Sherlock's shoulder.

“Some people sleep, some people cry, some people just cuddle, it's all fine. The point is though, that you shouldn't be left alone right away and I'm not going to leave you, Sherlock,” John throws his good leg over both of Sherlock's effectively pinning him as if his boyfriend may make a run for it. “This is also a good time to talk about anything that didn't work for you.”

“It was fine,” Sherlock assures him. “All fine,” he feels sleepy which unusual but wrapped as he is in John's arms, he's finding it hard to care.

He feels John kiss his shoulder again and, half laughing, say, “I never would have taken you for someone who naps after sex.” Sherlock contemplates making a rude hand gesture, but settles for falling asleep instead.