Incident #1 November 19th
Footsteps. John's, getting closer. Five, six. He stops. Probably because he's seen Sherlock. Six John steps until Sherlock is in sight means John either came out of Sherlock's room or the kitchen. John's pause is longer than 2 seconds, therefore he hasn't seen Sherlock for a while. What is a while? What is too long? What amount of time makes John miss him? He needs to find out. But not now, now he's cataloguing types of wax. John is too distracting, wonderful, surprising, interesting. But distracting.
"Yes?" Sherlock ask, not looking up.
"No, it's nothing." John sounds taken aback, surprised, a little nervous, maybe even embarrassed. Why? Because Sherlock caught him staring? Something else?
More footsteps. Crossing the room now and going into the kitchen. The soft click of John turning on the electric kettle and Sherlock pushes the exchange to the back of his mind, nothing but car polishes, shoe polishes and phonograph records fill his thoughts. John is never forgotten, but he can be let go sometimes.
Incident #2 November 26th
"Do you remember the first time we met?" John asks, drawing patterns on Sherlock's back with the wet towel.
Sherlock sighs an affirmative. He feels almost too content, lying sated and relaxed on their bed, imagining John's tiny bits of DNA spreading all over the skin of his back. Seeping into his skin and being imprinted on him for anyone to see.
"You said you left your riding crop at the mortuary," half statement, half question and Sherlock is too relaxed to remark on John's obtuseness, he nuzzles his face into the pillow instead, mindlessly following the pattern on his back. He did leave his crop at the mortuary that day. He wonders where he put it, he never did use it again. But it's of no significance, really.
John doesn't say anything else, throwing the towel aside and fitting himself against Sherlock's side, a hand draped around Sherlock's waist and his lips pressed to a shoulder blade.
Sherlock falls asleep.
Incident #3 December 4th
Sherlock's in the middle of an email from a client (theft, obviously the granddaughter, dull) when John sits across him and starts chewing on his bottom lips. Sherlock glances quickly at him.
John's nervous, hands spread on the armchair, clutching into the leather. And why is John sitting on Sherlock's chair?
"Why are you in my armchair?" Sherlock ask.
"Because you're in mine," John bites back.
Sherlock looks down and to his surprise he is sitting in John's armchair. He didn't notice, it smells nice, like John, and it's comfortable. He looks at John again, longer this time. John's posture is tense, and he shifts closer to Sherlock.
"Listen," John starts, and Sherlock takes in a sudden breath. Serious conversation, but Sherlock hasn't done anything wrong, has he? No, everything in the kitchen is contained according to John's standards, there are no clients he could've been rude to, nothing changed from last week. It's not about work, or Mrs Hudson, or money.
Could Mycroft have done something? Damn Mycroft and his constant meddling, what did he tell John to make him tense?
"Sherlock," John's voice is too gentle, fond, nothing wrong then, but a serious conversation non-the-less. Intimacy, sentiment, emotions.
"I love you," Sherlock says, looking at John.
John blinks, startled. Maybe Sherlock was too hasty to jump to conclusions. Wrong intimacy, not emotion - sex. Oh, there's always something.
John smiles goofily and springs forward to kiss Sherlock, braced on the chair's arm with one hand and stroking Sherlock's jaw line with the other. He mouth is soft and generous, and Sherlock moans into it, eyes closing on their own accord.
"I love you too," John smiles when the kiss ends.
Sherlock stands and pulls John closer by his sweater, desperately presses their mouths together again. John laughs into the kiss and Sherlock swallows the sound down, tastes it with his lips like he does John's skin and it's John's turn to groan and press closer, run his tongue over Sherlock's bottom lip, kiss chin and jaw and throat.
"Bedroom," John whispers into Sherlock's throat and Sherlock nods, hangs on to John's hand as they stumble through the apartment.
Incident #4 February 20th 18:00
When John comes into the room his back is full of knots and he has photographs in his hands. Sherlock catches the dark red colour on the images and looks up sharply from the computer screen to narrow his eyes with disdain at the familiar prints.
The Woman. Irene. Why would Irene make John tense? Surely not… No. John doesn't know, can't know. It must be personal. John looks at the images and his hand moves longingly over the sleek paper. Oh. Sex.
"What I felt for her was nothing like my feelings for you," he tells John, because honestly, even the thought that John might feel inferior to Irene Adler of all people is idiotic at best.
"I know," John smiles, but it's forced and his back is still tense. "But you were attracted to her."
He refuses to outright lie to John. But what are some coincidental feelings of lust compared to the death grip John Watson has on his heart and mind. He wants to plaster himself against John's chest and never let go, measure the gap between every heartbeat and the following breath, calculate the average and make a room in his mind palace in that exact diameter. Irene Adler is nothing compared to that.
"Sherlock, I won't be jealous," John promises, and he's lying, Sherlock can see it in the shape of his brow and the way he slightly opens his mouth.
"You're lying," he snarls at John. "You are jealous. You're jealous because she saw before you did. And because she was interesting when nothing else was. "
He's on his feet and pacing before he can stop himself, the restlessness taking hold of his body without him being able to control it. "You're so petty and human and small, how can you be so disgustingly narrow?! You're so jealous it's all over your body, you could've at least tried to hide it, and I hate this!"
John is standing now too, hands clenched into fists by his side. He wants to leave, because he doesn't want to shout.
"You can go," Sherlock means for the words to be kind, a forgiveness and acceptance, but they come out cold and toneless. A dismissal.
John's out the door before Sherlock can find the words to say anything else.
Incident #5 February 20th 22:53
Warm hand on his shoulder, calloused trigger finger, smooth palm. The angle is wrong. John doesn't lie down or sit, just stands with his warm hand on Sherlock's shoulder and nothing between them but Sherlock's skin and John's skin, and that's two spate tissues of stratum corneum, pigment layer, stratum germinativum, stratum spinosum…
"Sherlock," John says.
"I think I would like to feel your flesh against mine," Sherlock tells him. "Real flesh, I mean. Just for once, feel you not through skin. It would hurt, but it would be worth it, I think. If you prefer, it could be just me. But if it hurts us both it would be more real."
John sighs and Sherlock closes his eyes, refuses to hear the length or the pitch, refuses to compare it to the countless John sighs he already has catalogued. John lies down, moves his hand to Sherlock's waist, and Sherlock moves his own hand to rest against John's.
"No," John says finally, entwining his fingers through Sherlock's. "Reminds me too much of the army. But I get what you're saying."
And Sherlock imagines John's deft fingers buried in some soldiers body, covered with blood and tissue and fixing whatever he can, and he feels so alarmingly sick, so desperate. He almost wants to go out and get injured (maybe... no, he won't, too many variables) so he can feel that, John's compassion, and knowledge, and competency. Jealousy fills his stomach like bile, sharp and nauseating.
"Oh," he says.
Incident #6 February 21st 2:36
Sherlock thinks under the soothing sound of John's silent snores, eyes wide and focused on the dark figure lying by his side.
John held his nape a little too hard.
John looked up, smirking, after Sherlock came in his mouth and playfully said "Good boy."
John bit Sherlock on his shoulder when he came.
Getting up and leaving the room without disturbing John is easy. Sherlock sits on the sofa and opens his laptop.
"Were you trying to ask me if you can hurt me?" Sherlock finally asks, he's too impatient to wait for John to try and bring the subject up again.
John looks up from his computer. "What?"
Sherlock swallows the annoyance, this is obviously important to John.
"A few weeks ago you were asking about the crop and then you wanted to talk about my attraction to Irene. Were you trying to ask me to play a sadomasochistic scene with you topping me?" Sherlock asks.
John coughs, looks down, cheeks red. "Yes, but…"
"Sherlock," John exclaims. "You can't just… I wanted to talk to you about it. This is a conversation - not a proposition."
"Please don't tell me you're not sure," Sherlock scuffs. "You've spent three months trying to breach the subject and probably even longer trying to figure out if I'd be amenable to the practice. Well, it was unnecessary, I am. Amenable, that is."
"To what exactly?"
Sherlock shrugs. "To whatever it is you do. I'm assuming it is something you've tried before?"
"God," John rubs his eyes. "You're unreal, you know?"
"Yes," Sherlock grins, triumphant, and John smiles back despite himself, the excitement buzzes between them and Sherlock imagines he can feel it, a fog of need and trepidation surrounding them both like another dangerous adventure for them to share. And they've done that before.
Attempt #1 February 24th
Sherlock sits naked on the bed looking up at John, it's confusing and exciting. He's still John, loyal and efficient and kind. But he's also. He's more. Commanding, and dangerous, and in charge. And Sherlock can't breathe. John's stance (military, officer) and his smile (predatory) and his fingers' grip around the paddle (tight, sure, practiced), it's all so much better than Sherlock imagined.
"If you refuse to set limits," John says annoyed, they've been discussing decorum for the last quarter of an hour with no progress.
"I don't know what my limits are," Sherlock interrupts.
"I know," John sighs. "So you're going to have to use safewords." Sherlock grimaces. Safewords are for scene, he wants to give himself to John, how could he do that and keep the final authority to himself.
"Either we do it my way, or we don't do it at all," John states, voice going hard and challenging.
"Fine," Sherlock gives in, petulantly, and John coughs, hiding his surprise.
"If you want to stop," he explains
"If you do," John doesn't raise his voice, but he shifts it somehow. Makes it go authoritative and menacing, a hidden 'or else' in every word he says, and it's wonderful. "You say 'red'. If you want me to ease up and make sure everything is alright you say 'yellow'. Is that okay?"
"I am quite intelligent enough to understand the workings of a traffic light, John."
"Sherlock," John warns and it sends a pang of pleasure through Sherlock's spine, makes him sit straighter, makes his senses sharper. Oh, this is glorious.
"Fine. Red for stop, yellow for slow down and green for go," he says, looking up at John.
"Thank you," he's rewarded with a soft caress on his check and it makes him shiver in anticipation. "Now lie on your stomach."
Sherlock moves back on the bed and turns to lie on his front, buries his face in the soft pillow (warm, smells like John) and cross his hands on his nape.
"Sherlock," John scoffs somewhere above and behind him, "Stop doing what you read online. If I want something, you'll know."
Sherlock swallows heavily and lowers his hands, resting them palms up on the sides of his body.
"I want you to answer me."
"That wasn't a question," says Sherlock, confused.
"You're right, it wasn't," John slides the paddle slowly down Sherlock's spine. "I want you to give me an answer whenever I give you an order. Do you understand?" He stops and Sherlock can almost feel his smirk in the way the paddle rests heavily against his tailbone. "That was a question."
"I understand, John," Sherlock tells the pillow, eyes shut. His heart is beating so fast he can't keep up with counting the pace. He knows. He knows it's going to be now. He wants, and he doesn't want, because he's also afraid, but John can't know that. Or does he want to know that? Does he want Sherlock to be afraid? He can hear John's steady breath, and how can he, how can he stand to breathe so evenly when he's going to hurt Sherlock like this. When he has a paddle and he intends to spank Sherlock until he's hoarse and red and begging.
"Good," John says together with the heavy sound of the paddle meeting Sherlock's skin.
The pain isn't really a pain, it’s a warm tingling feeling, spreading on the right cheek of his bum. John hits again, harder, in the same spot, and the tingly feeling spreads and becomes a full heat, painful and unpleasant and Sherlock squirms of the bed, trying to get away.
"Sherlock?" John asks. He's breathless, excited, aroused, and Sherlock wants him.
"Green," he answers. And John hits again, and again, the paddle alternating sides, and Sherlock feels his skin burn, thousand tiny nerves screaming at his brain to stop and he can't, he can't because. John.
He breathes heavily into the pillow, body almost shaking with the need to not fight, not move, and just take what John gives him. But he doesn't feel like he's breathing, it feels like his throat has closed up and no air can get through. Tiny bubbles of pain running through his vein instead of oxygen, and that's ridiculous, but it must be true, must be.
"Sherlock?" John asks again, obviously concerned. And Sherlock can't answer, doesn't know what he wants, what's right.
"Sherlock?" John sounds worried now, a hand (gentle, nothing like the paddle) touches his nape and Sherlock finally breathes, air going through his lungs, but he's still burning.
"You need to say it," John tells him softly, running his fingers through Sherlock's hair, and Sherlock wants to lean back but he can't because he's drowning and he's on fire and he can't think at all, and damn John for being kind to him and damn Sherlock for not being able to give this to John. And damn his mind and his body and this incessant feeling of suffocation.
"I'm sorry. Red. I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Sherlock mutters to the pillow, body still burning with pain and failure.
"Hush, it's okay," John whispers, and when did he move so close? When did he manage to pull the blanket over both of them? "Just breathe."
Attempt #2 February 28th
"I want to try again," Sherlock says over breakfast.
"There's nothing to try - you don't like pain, Sherlock," John says forcefully. He's obviously still upset.
"I liked everything else," Sherlock explains. "And I was just taken by surprise. I know what to expect now."
"Sherlock," John starts in that understanding tone Sherlock can't stand.
"I want us to be compatible," because they are in everything else, sex shouldn't be different.
John sighs and puts down his fork. "Nobody is really compatible, it doesn't work that way. Look, it's like the fridge: I want to use it for storing food only, you want to leave body parts in it, but we managed to find an arrangement we're both happy with."
"A compromise," Sherlock says distastefully.
"No, not really," John shrugs. "A compromise suggests we' re both feeling cheated, like we're missing out on something. This is more of an alternative arrangement, something we're both happy with. And I… Yeah," John blushes, scratching the back of his head. "I'm kinky and you're open-minded enough, but it doesn't mean that what we had before wasn't bloody fantastic. I wanted to try something and it didn't work for us, and that's it."
Sherlock thinks about it, and well, there must be more than just two possible arrangements, there could be an infinity of arrangements and possibilities.
"What if we try something else new?" he asks.
John sighs. "Sure, okay. But we'll have to properly talk about it this time."
"Good," Sherlock beams and steals a piece of bacon from John's plate.
Back to the internet.
Attempt #3 March 2nd
"No," the steely tone in John's voice does unspeakable things to Sherlock already nervous excitement, so he pushes anyway.
"Why not?" he asks, looking hopefully at the silky black ropes on the bed. He bites his lip and lowers his voice. "You could fuck me. Tie me to the bed and fuck me whenever you like. A whole day just for you to use me, and I won't be able to get away, I think I'd like that."
He can almost see it, black lines over his pale skin, his legs spread obscenely. John's lovely hands ghosting over his thighs, that focused, predatory smile studying Sherlock's hole, his cock, and nowhere for Sherlock to hide. He can almost feel himself blushing at the thought.
"Red," John says, and Sherlock blinks. John has his hands clenched in the fabric of his jeans and his jaw is set. The leg, the one John has been walking on unaided for over a year, is shaking.
Sherlock takes the rope and puts it back in the fancy bag he took it out of. John still looks pale and ill, so Sherlock takes the bag out of the room. When he's back John's still sitting motionless on the bed, he looks small and vulnerable. Sherlock coils his limbs around John's smaller frame from behind and hums into the crease between shoulder and neck.
"Sorry, bad memories," John tells him hoarsely.
Afghanistan. Sherlock should have noticed sooner. He holds on tight, vowing to never let John go.
Attempt #4 March 3rd
John laughs the moment he comes into the room and Sherlock glares at him, annoyed.
"I am not putting a chastity cage on you," John says, eyeing the intricate design of plastic and the lock arranged on the bed.
"Sherlock, you don't have much of a libido anyhow," John smiles apologetically. "Controlling a demi-sexual's erections seems kind of pointless. And anyway it's really, really not my cup of tea."
Sherlock can't help but feel the disappointment of another failure, and John must see it reflected on his face because he walks up and rests his hands on Sherlock's shoulders.
"I'd be more interested in getting you painfully hard and putting a ring on you for a whole day," he confesses, bringing one hand to play with Sherlock's hair. "Or just trying to make you come as many times as I can in the shortest amount of time."
"We can do that," Sherlock says, blushing, the image a welcome surprise, and presses his face against John's stomach.
"Yeah, maybe," John says and Sherlock pushes his face further into John's stomach, hands locking tightly around his waist. "Can we, maybe, take a break with trying to find a new arrangement? And just go back to having great vanilla sex?"
Sherlock sighs but nods. He can wait, beside, he needs the time to find the right suggestion anyway.
Attempt #5 March 17th
"I've been wrong. So stupidly, inexcusably wrong," Sherlock moans, planting his face into John's shoulder. "We should've tried submission instead of sadomasochism from the start. Oh, John, it's so obvious."
John turns off the telly and turns to Sherlock, looking perplexed. "Sherlock, you're the least submissive person I know," he says. "I can barely make you tidy after yourself."
"No, you don't see," Sherlock insists. "I liked the idea of you controlling me all along, I just couldn't find the right means to make it work."
John turns to him, looking hateful, all compassionate eyes and uneasy smile – their living room was not a doctor's office. "There's a difference between fantasies and reality. You can have fantasies about kinky sex and not like having it."
"I know," Sherlock counters. "But I would like to have it, if it's all the same with you. I'm not…" he coughs, looking down. "I know won't be the kind of sub that finds peace in service or in pain. And you'll probably have to work at making me submit, but you'll like that. Don't you want to push and push and push, see me bent at your will, your control? Why are you being so bloody noble about this?"
"I can push pretty hard, I don't want to break you," John says quietly.
Sherlock smiles, presses a soft kiss to John's lips, then another one. This almost feels like victory. "You won't, I trust you."
John groans, leaning his head against Sherlock's, searching for his eyes until their gazes meet.
"I need to trust you to safeword, Sherlock," he says quietly. "The other day, it… God, you have no idea how much you scared me."
"Scenes go wrong sometimes," Sherlock tells him, because that's what the internet said.
"Yes, but I need you to be honest about what you want and what you can take if this is even a possibility."
Sherlock nods. "I promise."
"Fine," John sighs, and kisses Sherlock, turning the telly back on. "I'll think about it."
"John," Sherlock protests, but it's obvious from John's set shoulders that the discussion was over for now.
Attempt #6 March 19th
John looks up from his laptop, one eyebrow arched, and says softly "Sherlock."
Sherlock looks up instinctively. John's relaxed, sitting comfortably with his legs crossed, one hand impatiently drawing circles on the chair's arm, his confidence takes charge of the whole room. Oh.
"Oh," Sherlock says. "Yes?"
John laughs and nods, licks his lips. "Yes. I want you to undress and kneel, quickly."
Sherlock hurries to comply, removing his dressing gown and shirt, then turns with his back to John before pulling down his sweats, giving John a full view of his naked arse as he leans forward.
"If I wanted a striptease I'd tell you." John's voice is sharp, cutting the heavy silence in the room. "Just do as you're told, Pet."
Sherlock stands quickly and efficiently throws the clothes away. He moves to kneel in front of John's armchair, knees spread and chin up, his hands lying motionless on the sides of his body.
They breathe together and John studies him with an undisguised, predatory grin. Sherlock can read the intension before John moves but he doesn't understand, can't catalogue the feeling of suddenly having the sole of John's boot press on Sherlock's naked thigh.
"Wider." John says and Sherlock spreads his knees until the pressure resides and he's straining, balanced, but only almost, on his heels. And John, wonderful, imaginative, cruel John moves his boot up Sherlock's thigh and under his soft cock. Sherlock looks down and sees himself resting on John's shoe, his cock looks small, vulnerable, the leather feels both hard and soft against the sensitive skin. It feels dirty being inspected this way and Sherlock feels a desperate longing for John's fingers or lips.
"You're going to be 'Pet' today," John tells him and Sherlock looks up, breathing deep, willing himself not to bite back a retort. "I don't expect you to answer me unless I ask you a direct question. Your safewords are 'red' and 'yellow'. Do you understand, Pet?"
"Yes." Sherlock nods, eyes fixed on John's face, as he feels the boot presses lightly on his balls.
John hums in approval as he removes his leg from Sherlock's body and spreads his own legs. "Come closer," he asks.
There's not enough place to crawl closer, so he'll be forced to shuffle forward on his knees and Sherlock swallows the growl of indignation threatening to come out of his mouth at the realization. But he does as he's told, focusing on burn of the carpet against his bare knees and nothing else, until he's kneeling between John's legs.
"That wasn't so hard, was it?" John asks, smiling, Sherlock bites on his lower lip and glares.
The slap comes as surprise, sharp and cruel.
"We said no pain," Sherlock protests immediately, looking up and John slaps him harder.
The heat radiates on his left cheek and Sherlock takes a deep breath.
"Are you going to answer?" John asks, raising an eyebrow. "Or maybe safeword?"
"No, it wasn't," Sherlock mutters, staring behinds John's shoulder.
"Good, Pet," John bends and kisses him on the abused cheek. His lips are wet and cold against the heated skin and Sherlock misses them the moment they are gone. "I will remind you that while I agreed not to hurt you to give you pleasure, I will punish you as I see fit. It's so convenient to know what you really hate."
He slides his fingers leisurely through Sherlock's hair and then grips tightly, fisting his fingers in Sherlock's curls and forcing him to look into John's eyes. It would be easy to be afraid, and he is, a little, but he knows John, knows those eyes - trusts them with his body and his mind.
"Do you understand, Pet?"
John doesn't release his grip on him, but instead shifts forward on the armchair to slide his other hand over Sherlock's nipple.
"Do you like that, Pet?" he rubs the sensitive bud to hardness and then pinches it lightly.
"Yes," Sherlock breathes, focusing on John's hands on him.
"And this?" John suddenly twists the nipple hard and Sherlock gasps in pain, trying get away and only making John tighten his grip on his hair.
"No," he gasps out.
The pain resides and suddenly John is kissing him hungrily, opening Sherlock's mouth with his tongue and pushing inside until Sherlock gasping for breath. John releases him and Sherlock gulps air, as he feels John's left hand joining the right on his nipples and alternating between drawing soft, playful patterns on the one and pinching the other until Sherlock's keening and then switching between the two.
It's dizzying and too much, Sherlock can't decide whether he feels the pain, or the pleasure, or maybe he's just drunk on the sheer hunger in John's eyes.
John bites his lower lip on an especially nasty pinch to his right nipple and Sherlock cries out.
"Oh, good Pet," John tells him, as if it was what he was waiting for all along. "Now I want to hear you deduce where I was this morning."
"What?" Sherlock asks, trying to clear his mind.
"You know how I like to see you brilliant mind at work, Pet," John tells him, smoothing a hand around Sherlock's throat. "I want to hear you tell me where I was this morning before you woke up."
"You were at Sarah's," Sherlock says, breathless.
"Good," John praises him, licking his fingers and then continuing to tease Sherlock's right nipple with them, circling and tugging. "How did you know?"
John moves to the left nipple, repeating the slow treatment and Sherlock moans. John pinches the nipple hard and Sherlock moans, trying to move back.
"Tell me how you knew," John repeats huskily, and slaps Sherlock again.
"You took your prescription book," Sherlock moans as John goes back to kneading lightly. "Oh, it was, John."
"Don't make me hurt you again, Pet," John warns with a playful twist.
"It was on the kitchen table last night and, God, this morning it was on the bookshelf."
"Good," John smiles and pecks Sherlock on the lips. "Why Sarah's and not the surgery?"
Sherlock stares, mind blank. He knew that a few seconds ago, but he can't focus on it now. John hands on his chest are making his nerves dance, sending confused signal to his brain. And then John slaps him again, the other check this time, and he can barely breathe before John does it again, and again, harder.
"Pet?" John asks, holding him by his throat. And that helps, looking at John helps. Because under that façade of amused cruelty he can see doubt and that, oddly, makes everything okay.
"I don't remember the question," Sherlock confesses, breathless. And John smiles.
"Open your mouth," John says.
And when Sherlock does John leans over and spits on his tongue. It feels weird, and nothing like he read and he doesn't know what to do.
"Swallow, Pet," John tells him gently. "And tell me how you knew I was at Sarah's and not at the surgery."
Sherlock closes his mouth, lets John's spit rest on his tongue and focuses. He swallows and then runs his tongue over his lips, imagining it's a different kind of kiss, and John groans a little.
Sherlock looks at him breathlessly, eyes wide and mind reeling.
"Come on, Pet," John says as he opens his fly, and takes out his cock. "Show me how clever you are."
Sherlock closes his eyes "I… your pant leg, there was a grease stain on them, meaning you sat something, probably in a taxi." John pets his cheek, while sliding the other hand to grip his hair above the nape and Sherlock moans. "If you... If you came from the surgery you'd take the tube."
John beams. "You did so good, Pet. Come here."
And he pulls him to his cock, and Sherlock strains against the hand on his hair, desperate to have John in his mouth.
"Say please, Pet," John growls, hand going tight.
"Please, may I suck you?" Sherlock moans. "Please, John, please, please."
John lets him go and Sherlock falls forward, barely catching himself before opening his mouth and taking the head of John's cock inside, sucking and moving his tongue under the head.
"Oh, you so good at this," John moans and lays a grounding hand on his nape. "Such a talented cocksucker, Pet. It's like your mouth was meant to be fucked."
Sherlock takes him deeper, bobbing his head up and down, moaning around it and trying to fight the warm coil of embarrassment in his stomach. "I should rent you out, you'd probably make more money as a cocksucker than a consulting detective, Pet."
He pulls Sherlock off his cock, gripping his hair and pulling his head as he gets up and pushes his cock back into Sherlock's mouth, in a better, deeper angle. Sherlock is immobilised, forced to open his mouth and take it, being carelessly used for John's pleasure. He can feel the burn in his throat, breathing heavily through his nose, the sweat dripping from his brow and John's hand on his hair.
"Don't you dare spit or swallow," John snarls and that's the only warning Sherlock gets before John groans, tightens his fingers in Sherlock's hair and comes in Sherlock's mouth.
John heaves above him, but almost immediately grabs one of Sherlock's hands and holds it to his mouth and breathlessly commands "Spit."
Sherlock does, spitting John's semen and spit into his own hand.
"What is this?" John asks, smiling, still breathless.
"Your come," Sherlock answers, eyes wide.
"Where does it belong?" John asks maliciously, his eyes burning into Sherlock.
"Open your mouth, tongue out," And Sherlock does as he's told, feeling John spit into his mouth again. "Swallow. That's my spit, it belongs in your mouth, now where does my come belong, Pet?"
The ball of humiliation grows warmer in his stomach, something Sherlock always hated, but suddenly it feels too good. "My arse," he says.
And John laughs. "So clever, Pet. Come on, I want that arse in the air and I want to see you put my come where it belongs."
He releases Sherlock's hair and Sherlock swallows, puts his free hand on the carpet and raises his arse, careful not to spill the semen in his other hand.
"Head down," John says and Sherlock feels John's boot pushing on his nape. It's hard concentrating on getting the angle right when the sensation of the carpet on his face and John's boot on his nape threaten to overwhelm him, but he manages to smear some of the mixture of semen and spit on his hole. It's cold and foreign, and it slides down his thighs like he was just fucked, only his body knows he hasn't been breached, and it's confusing, the thought of how he must look is head-spinning, arse up in the air with John's semen covering his skin and his face pressed down to the floor by John's boot.
He feels like he could stay that way forever, hanging on that brink of desperation under John's control. The need to come is only secondary to pleasing John.
The boot is gone, but Sherlock stays where he is, waiting for an order.
"Oh, look at you," John sounds as shattered as Sherlock feels. "Come up here."
And the moment Sherlock's head is up John takes his mouth in a bruising kiss, using tongue and teeth to take Sherlock apart, and Sherlock in turn clings to him, open his moth and moans against the onslaught.
"You're perfect," John's eyes are shining. "You should see yourself, Pet."
And the hand in his hair was back suddenly, now dragging him across the room and Sherlock can't help but crawl as fast he can, feeling his erection smear pre-come all over his own stomach as John's come continues to run down his thighs. John manhandles him into the bedroom and in front of the mirror, forcing Sherlock to stare at his own reflection.
"What do you look like?" John asks hoarsely, crouching down behind Sherlock.
Sherlock can see everything they did on his body. He looks wrecked, chest red, his face is covered with sweat and spit, pupils blown wide and lips red and swollen. His hair shiny with sweat and sticks in weird angles and his cock is slick and hard.
But most of all he looks desperate, hungry and needy and so much out of control he wants to cry.
"What do you see, Pet?" John asks again, reaching down to take Sherlock's cock in his hand. "Tell me."
Sherlock groans and something in him breaks, he's blushing, the embarrassment making him even more unhinged, only his face is so red already John's won't be able to see anyway. "I look like a whore," he moans out.
"Right, my little pet whore," John says while jerking Sherlock off. "Why should I let you come, Pet?"
"Please," Sherlock keens, head thrown back on John's shoulder and eyes staring at the reflection of John's hand moving mercilessly on his cock. "Please, John, let me come. God, please, please."
"Come on, Pet," John growls in his ear and Sherlock shouts and comes, his body shattering and forming again in John's arms.
No matter how mad it may seem, it must be the truth
"Of all things, you go for humiliation, I should have known," John says, shaking his head, sitting on the edge of the tub and watching Sherlock soak.
"How could you have known?" Sherlock asks, carefully.
"Oh, there's no way, really. But it's probably the hardest thing to give someone, of course you'd go for it."
Sherlock grins. "Thank you."
"No, thank you," John smiles, running his thumb over a scrape on Sherlock's knee.
"Am I your sub now?" Sherlock suddenly asks.
"No," John shrugs. "I'm not really into a 24/7 kind of thing, it's too much trust,"
"I trust you," Sherlock says quietly.
"I appreciate that, considering what we just did, but I really don't think it could work with our lifestyle, " he grins, splashing water on Sherlock with his hand. "But we could play again, try more stuff."
"I'd like that."
"Yes, I think you would," John teases.
Sherlock closes his eyes and leans back, smiling. There's time to convince John to go further.