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Training Sherlock

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It's not that Sherlock is shy – he's just not sure. If it would be enough? If John can handle him?

As it turns out, Sherlock shouldn't have worried...


Sherlock is aching. There hadn't been an interesting case in ages – and he's aching. For distraction. For... something. Something to take the edge off.

John is not helping. He's always around. Lingering, looking. Starring. Admiring? It's unsettling – Sherlock's not sure why.


John has stopped dating, Sherlock has noticed. Most days he comes home straight after the clinic and spends the evenings in. Sherlock knows that John is looking at him when he thinks he can't see and wonders what that might mean.

He's still aching but now he knows that it's not from boredom.


When Sherlock rises late one Saturday, almost in the afternoon, John's sitting in his chair, reading the paper. Sherlock emerges from his bedroom in just his pyjamas and dressing gown, all tousled hair and still sleepy. He stays in the kitchen and makes himself a cup of tea before sitting in his own chair, watching John. But John just reads and sips his tea until Sherlock leaves with an indignant huff for the shower.


Later in the evening they order Chinese. John eats at the desk in front of his laptop, with Sherlock opposite him, checking his phone.

“What are you writing?” Sherlock asks.

“Nothing. Just browsing.”

As Sherlock gets up to take a look over his shoulder John closes the tab and even shuts the laptop.



John retires at about half past eleven. When he's sure that John is asleep Sherlock powers up the laptop again and opens the browser history. He blinks a few times as the last page John has accessed opens. “Now when you are beaten” the site tells him and Sherlock feels a surprised tingle down his spine. Is that what John wants? Giving or receiving?

Sherlock doesn't sleep that night.


The next morning Sherlock is sitting in his chair opposite John, wearing slim black dress trousers and a tight black shirt. It's so thin that his rips are slightly visible through the soft cotton. Sherlock let's his legs fall open invitingly while he sips his tea but John merely glances over at him. Only when Sherlock rolls up his sleeves and tucks his violin under his chin to tune his instrument does John's eyes flicker over him. He even absent-mindedly licks his lips as Sherlock raises the bow. Sherlock smiles to himself as he gets up and turns towards the window to play some Bach.


In the evening Sherlock is sitting at their kitchen table, bowed over his microscope, when John comes in from a walk. He's carrying three shopping bags from Tesco and just huffs in annoyance when realising that the whole table is occupied by Sherlock's equipment. He is forced to balance one bag on some papers piled high on a chair while setting the other two bags down on the counter. But there's just not enough space as John starts to put away the food, so eventually the bag on the chair slides down and apples spill across the floor, rolling in every direction.

“Oh, for fuck's sake!” John shouts but then falls silent as he turns around from the fridge. Sherlock is kneeling on the floor in the middle of their dimly lit kitchen, holding up a bright red apple in his long pale fingers, offering the fruit – and more - to John.

Sherlock can see John's eyes go dark.

They stare at each other for a long moment before John walks over to where Sherlock is kneeling and reaches out to brush his thumb over Sherlock's index finger as he takes the apple from his hand. He looks down into Sherlock's face and sees his mouth fall open and his eyes flutter shut.

John carefully places the apple on the table next to the microscope but when he turns back to Sherlock he sighs. Sherlock is still on the floor with his eyes closed but his hand is now palming his crotch through his expensive sharp trousers.

“This is not how this works, Sherlock.” John tells him, his voice firm if a little disappointed.

Sherlock opens his eyes and looks at John. “But I like this. I want this,” he whispers, his voice all dark and husky.

To which John just shakes his head. “It's not about what you like, Sherlock.” John leaves the kitchen and Sherlock is alone, half-hard and exposed. It's not so much embarrassing as it is strangely arousing.


John has already left for work when Sherlock gets up the next day. He doesn't bother getting dressed, just settles on the couch in nothing but his dressing gown, reading, sipping the odd cup of tea and yelling at the telly. John doesn't even say hello when he eventually walks in but heads directly for the bathroom, taking a very prolonged shower.

Afterwards, John goes up to his room and changes into something more comfortable – dark blue jeans and a snug white t-shirt – before returning downstairs. Sherlock can see his dog-tags beneath the fabric and swallows. John comes to stand next to the couch and gazes down at him, frowning.

“Have you been like this all day? Lounging around the flat in nothing but your slutty dressing gown like the lazy twat you are?” John's voice is cold and rough. Sherlock tries to sit up on the sofa, too astonished to answer, but suddenly there's John's fist in his hair and he's jerked up and then pushed down onto the floor. He lands on his left hip and tries to scramble into a kneeling position but John has grabbed his right wrist and now twists his arm onto his back to throw Sherlock face first onto the carpet. A knee is placed between Sherlock's shoulder blades as he's pinned down beneath John, unable to move but for a slight wriggle. John yanks his arm up even higher and Sherlock hisses as sharp white pain shoots through his body. His head is jerked brutally up by his curls again as John tells him quite matter-of-factly: “We do this my way or not at all. I do with you whatever I want, and you'll take it. Otherwise we'll stop right here and never mention what happened. Do you understand me?”

Sherlock tries to nod but is unable to. “Say yes or no, now!”

“Yes.” Sherlock sneers through gritted teeth.

“Choose a safeword.” John growls.

Sherlock can't help it, a giggle erupts from his strained throat. As if he would need a safe word – with John.

“John, really, I don't think I...”

His face hits the floor and he tastes blood as the hand holding his head up is abruptly removed. At the same time the iron grip to his arm loosens as John gets up quickly and storms into the hall, slamming the door shut. By the time Sherlock has got to his feet he can hear the front door downstairs closing. Blood drips from his lip and nose. His dressing gown hangs open and his erection juts out in front of him, accusingly, obscene. Shit, Sherlock thinks. John is really very good at this. Ah, this is becoming utterly compelling.


There's a case the next day and during the following 36 hours Sherlock and John run around London, inspect dark alleyways and search even darker dwellings before cornering the young but fierce leader of an all female money laundering ring in a chip shop in Hackney. Sherlock knocks her out with a frying pan as she tries to slice up John with a butcher's knife and that somehow seems to restore some kind of truce between them. In the cab home Sherlock looks intensely at John who stares out of the window and doesn't turn, not even when Sherlock whispers “Doomsday.”

“It wasn't that bad, was it?” John chuckles, sounding slightly amused despite still not looking back at Sherlock.

“My safeword.”

John is still not facing him.

“I... we... tried that, Sherlock. It's not working. You are not... you are not into that stuff. You think you are but believe me, you are not.”

“But I want it.”

“No, that's the point.” John sighs and finally looks at him, pinching he bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

“I really do. I'll try. I'll do everything...” Sherlock doesn't care if the cabbie can listen to him pleading with John, not now when he has eventually gained John's attention.

“It's not about you.” John says very calmly. “And because you don't understand that, you are not what I'm looking for. Not in this way.”

The rest of the cab ride is silent. John stares into the night while Sherlock concentrates on his clenching fists in his lap.


Over the next few days the atmosphere in the flat is thick with frustration as they both try to avoid each other as best as they can; but there's only so much chance to do so when you share a kitchen and a bathroom. Sherlock is nervous and irritable while John seems tired and grumpy. There are too many petty remarks and snappy replies and even Mrs Hudson bringing up some scones on Saturday afternoon doesn't help to ease the tension.

That night Sherlock looks up some of the websites John has been browsing. He expects the usual amount of slightly disturbing kinky stuff but it's all rather low key and stylish, with some quite aesthetic but very harmless pictures of artfully tied up bodies. Most sites offer private sessions to cater for the specific tastes of the customers. The services provided sound almost businesslike (medical, corporal punishment, sensation play). Honestly, it doesn't do much for Sherlock. For the first time he thinks John might be right about him.


Sherlock gets up early on Sunday morning. John has been out till late last night, meeting Stamford at a pub. He won't be up for hours. Good, Sherlock needs some time on his own. He wants to think about what he's got himself into. He takes a shower and shaves and then emerges from the bathroom with just a small towel wrapped around his waist to make himself some coffee. That's when he encounters John – bleary eyed and obviously hung over – crouching at the kitchen table.

“Oh.” Sherlock's mouth forms a perfect circle upon seeing John just in his pyjama bottoms, sipping black coffee. John looks up then and as his gaze trails over Sherlock's lean damp body his eyes darken to an almost violet blue. He stares at Sherlock over the rim of his mug, unblinking, and Sherlock feels pinned to the spot.

“Come here,” John invites after lowering his cup, and only then does Sherlock pad over to the table. He carefully lowers himself onto a chair next to John. There's still tension between them, but of a slightly different nature than the days before. John gets up and pours Sherlock a mug of coffee – black, two sugars – and their fingers brush as he hands it over.

“Thank you.” Sherlock blows on it before taking a gulp of the scalding brew just to have something to do with his hands and mouth. John is still standing in front of him and, after Sherlock has drained his cup almost in one go, takes it from him and touches his thumb to Sherlock's lower lip. There's still the small abrasion from when John pinned Sherlock to the floor the other day and John caresses it before pushing his thumb inside Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock has no idea what to do and just stares up at John, wide eyed and a little uncertain.

“Have you ever done anything like this, Sherlock?” John asks very gently and removes his thumb to stroke a wet stripe over Sherlock's cheek bone. Sherlock wants to turn away but John grabs his chin and forces him to meet his eyes. “Tell me. Have you?”

“No.” Sherlock can barely whisper as his cheeks turn pink with embarrassment.

“So, you are a virgin, right?”

“Yes.” Sherlock breaths.

John nods, once.

“You have to surrender if this is going to work. You have to obey me. And that is only going to work if you trust me completely, Sherlock. Do you do that?”

Sherlock's head is spinning. He's drowning in dark blue eyes as John's soft voice echoes in his ears.

“Yes, John.”

“Remember, this is not about you. My satisfaction is your satisfaction. You are for me to use as I wish. I won't hold back. I'll do whatever I want with you. And no matter if you like it or not, you will take it.”

Sherlock wants to nod but John still firmly holds his face in place, so he licks his lips and answers “Yes, John.”

“No trying. No pretending. What's your safe word?”


“Ok, wait here, I'll be right back.”

Sherlock's breathing is ragged as he hears John sprint up the stairs to his room. It surely takes only a few minutes for John to return but it feels like ages to Sherlock. Somehow time has slowed significantly down and is stretching like sweet hot molasses.

When John re-enters the kitchen he's dressed again in jeans and t-shirt, carrying an old-fashioned doctor's bag in his hand. He sets it down onto his empty chair and asks: “Could you clean the table up a bit? Perhaps put all those slides and Petri dishes somewhere else?”

Sherlock – glad to have been told what to do but still wondering what might be in John's bag – sets to work with shaking hands and nearly drops an Erlenmeyer flask in the process. John stands by and watches patiently until the table is cleared.

When he opens his bag Sherlock's eyes go wide and his pulse quickens. Meticulously John sets out the content on their kitchen table: two screw top jars, a plastic-wrapped syringe, a black tourniquet, latex gloves, a small sachet of medical lubricant, black hemp rope and a chrome device not unlike some futuristic scissors, only with three blades instead of two and a screw in the middle of the handle. Sherlock is equal parts horrified and aroused by this display and looks questioningly over to John.

“What is all that for?” He asks tentatively

“I think I need to examine you thoroughly before we start, to make sure you are up for what I have in mind. Therefore I'll need urine, blood and semen samples: You'll also undergo anal examination. That's an Alan Parks rectal retractor, if you've been wondering. I'll use that to spread you open. Now, take that towel off and let's begin.”


Sherlock is sitting bare-arsed on a kitchen chair and watches John pull the tourniquet tight around his upper arm. It's been a while since he has used one. The black fabric is a stark contrast to his white skin. John puts on latex gloves before unwrapping the needle as Sherlock balls his hand into a fist without being told; he knows how this is done. John has to try a few times to find a spot where the needle can puncture the vein. Even as Sherlock's junky days are over his damaged blood vessels have still not fully recovered. John dabs a spot on Sherlock's forearm with a Betadine swipe from his bag and eventually the needle breaches Sherlock's skin. John draws at the plunger and Sherlock watches as dark red blood fills the tube. When it's full John removes the needle carefully and swiftly disinfects the small pinprick again. After wards he puts the syringe back on the table.

“Now, urine.” John takes one of the jars from the table and opens it. Sherlock blushes bright crimson.

“You want me to do this here?” Sherlock asks, his voice thin and shaking.

John gives Sherlock a stern look that shuts him up at once. Sherlock takes a deep breath but still turns his head away as John takes his flaccid penis in his gloved hand and holds it into the jar.

“Look!” John demands.

And Sherlock does. He sees his limp cock in John's hand – and he can't. This is too humiliating to even think about it. He wants to beg John to stop this but they have barely begun. Sherlock inhales a few times through his nose, trying to calm down.

“I'm waiting, Sherlock. Piss in that fucking jar or this ends right here.”

Sherlock desperately tries to relax and briefly closes his eyes. John pinches his cock rather brutally to get his attention back to the task at hand and, surprised by the pain, Sherlock opens his eyes in shock and manages to dribble a few droplets of piss into the jar. He gasps in disgust but now that the floodgates are open it's rather easy to just let it flow from his body until the jar is nearly full. Despite an appreciative low moan of encouragement from John Sherlock's face is still flushed bright red as John screws the lid shut and puts the jar on the table next to the blood sample.

Thus far this hasn't been stimulating at all – just very humiliating and slightly weird.

“Ok, get up now and bent over.” John's voice is smooth and dark. Sherlock gets to his feet and leans over the table until his upper body is flush against the cool table top. He's glad to be able to hide his burning face.

“Spread your legs.” Ok, Sherlock thinks, here we go. He'd wanted this but nevertheless clenches and hisses as a cold dollop of lubricant hits his anus. John's latex covered fingers rub it quickly over his hole and then Sherlock can feel cold metal scraping over his entrance.

“Relax.” John's other hand briefly rubs the small of Sherlock's back as he tries; he really tries but it still hurts like hell when John pushes the blades inside him. Sherlock presses his lips firmly together – this is just transport, after all – but can't prevent a painful moan from escaping. John relentlessly pushes the device inside him even as Sherlock tries to flinch away. The hand above his buttocks presses down firmly to still Sherlock and keep him in place.

The pain is like nothing Sherlock has ever felt. It's not just the burn and stretch, it's the unfamiliar intrusion that frightens Sherlock as well. His body screams at him that this is not right and fights this object inserted into him, into a place where it's not meant to be. John works it in regardless.

By the time the speculum sits firmly in place Sherlock's body is rigid with tension. He claws at the table's edge to ground himself as he feels his vision blur with tears. John doesn't even give him time to adjust. As he begins to turn the screw and starts to spread Sherlock open his body threatens to explode with agony. Sherlock can't prevent it, he screams and bites down on his forearm to stifle the barely human noises he's making.

John's hand pins him down as he opens him, steadily turning the screw. Sherlock is sobbing uncontrollably by now, babbling incoherently, but John isn't deterred in the slightest. He only stops when Sherlock's anus is gaping wide open and he can see the pale rose coloured walls of his colon.

“God, this looks beautiful.” John whispers and kneads Sherlock's buttocks before taking two short hemp ropes t to tie Sherlock's ankles to the table legs. Sherlock is openly crying by now, his whole body jerking in spasms.

“Now, let's see about that semen sample.” One of John's gloved hands wraps around Sherlock's soft cock that is hanging from the the table's edge. Two fingers of his other hand push inside Sherlock's gaping rectum and start searching for his prostate. It's rather easy to find as Sherlock is wide open and the small nub very easily accessible. Sherlock's body convulses as John's fingers press against his delicate spot, but gradually his sobs change into lewd moans and gasps. It's nearly too intense as Sherlock proves to be very sensitive but at least this new experience keeps the pain at bay. It's not long before Sherlock's cock fills and stiffens and starts to leak pre-come. John jerks him off efficiently until he removes his hand from Sherlock's shaft to get the second jar.

“I want you to come just from this.” John murmurs softly yet still demandingly into Sherlock's ear as he relentlessly rubs his prostate, milking Sherlock. And, rather surprising to himself, after some time Sherlock looses himself in the sensation and starts to rut against the table, seeking at least minimal friction. At this John intensifies his administration until suddenly Sherlock's hips buck and he shoots thick stripes of semen into the jar John is holding beneath him.

As Sherlock sees the jar being placed on the table next to the other one he sincerely hopes that his ordeal is over for now. His body is still trying to come to terms with the contrary impressions of pleasure and pain at the same time. Luckily, the endorphins rushing through his veins make him dizzy.

He can feel John untying his legs before he slowly removes the speculum. Sherlock nearly slides off the table, sobbing with gratitude as he is allowed to sit back unto the chair. His anus feels like its been turned inside out, raw and bruised; his insides feel even stranger, squishy and slightly numb. He's exhausted and drained from the overwhelming force of his orgasm, and therefore utterly grateful for the small comfort it gives him when John strokes his hair and wipes his stained face with a kitchen towel, soothing him by whispering reassurances. “Hey, stay with me. You did it. It's nearly over...”

Sherlock nods to indicate that he understands, that he's able to continue.

“Would you like something to drink?” John asks softly and Sherlock nods again. To his absolute horror, however, John takes the glass with his own piss from the table, opens it and offers it to Sherlock. Sherlock flinches and tries to turn his face away but John grabs the back of his head and makes a dismissive sound.

“Sherlock!” There's a slight warning in John's voice. “Remember, you do what I want.”

“John, please...” Sherlock whispers, almost choking on his embarrassment because he knows that he will do what John wants from him regardless; but the shame is so intense that he desperately tries to bargain nonetheless.

“Drink.” John presses the rim of the jar against Sherlock's lower lip and Sherlock reluctantly takes a sip of his own by now cold piss. “Swallow.” John orders and Sherlock does, even as the salty bitter taste nearly makes him gag.

“If you throw up, I'll let you lick your own vomit off the floor. Now, take the glass and drink. All of it.”

Sherlock's hands shake slightly as they close around the smooth glass but then he raises it to his mouth and starts gulping the pale yellow liquid down.

John watches him, mesmerised, palming his cock through his jeans. “God, look at you, so filthy. The day will come when you beg me for it.” The bulge in John's trouser is rather impressive.

When the glass is empty Sherlock puts it on the table. He can't look into John's face, he's too ashamed.

“Tell me what you just did.” John requests, his voice rough with with arousal.

Sherlock coughs and feels bile rise in his throat. He has to swallow hard as the taste of his own piss lingers in his mouth.

The smack hits him totally unprepared. It's hard and fierce, delivered with such considerable force that Sherlock's head jerks abruptly to one side. He nearly falls off the chair.

“I won't ask again, Sherlock.” John's voice is like the blow he's just delivered, brutal and sharp.

Sherlock's cheek burns. He has to blink a few times to clear his vision, fixing his eyes on the grimy linoleum as he eventually mumbles barely audible: “I drank my own piss.”

John lifts his chin and forces Sherlock to look up at him. “That's right. You just drowned a whole pint of your own piss. Did you like that?”

Sherlock dares not to shake his head as he whispers: “No.”

“No, but nonetheless you did it. Why?”

“Because... because you told me to.” When John smiles down at him Sherlock starts to feel a little better.

John is standing in front of him, still lazily rubbing his erection. Sherlock stares fascinated at John's hands as he slowly starts to unbutton his jeans. When John's hard cock springs free it's even bigger than Sherlock would have thought. Despite his pain and humiliation Sherlock feels an odd sense of pride in being the one responsible for this.

John strokes himself slowly from root to tip, pulling back the foreskin with every tug, exposing his wet slit, and says. “Take the other jar.” Sherlock grabs the second jar without hesitation. “Prepare yourself for me.”

Sherlock opens the lid and smears his fingers through the sticky white goo. Then he bends over the table again and tentatively starts to push one slick finger inside himself. He's still quite loose from the lube and speculum and therefore quickly able to insert another finger. It feels uncomfortable and strange but John wants this so he does as he is told. It's really that easy.

“Have you ever done this before?” John's voice is soft and tender again and Sherlock's nerves start to sing with pleasure as he feels hot arousal pool low in his belly.

“Not often.” He manages to pant weakly.

“Take another finger.”

“Oh god, John...”

“Wait, let me give you a hand.”

And suddenly there are five fingers inside Sherlock, pressing, rubbing, fucking him. He feels filled to the brim but somehow it's still not enough. The pain has receded and he therefore spreads his legs wider and pushes up his arse, inviting the intrusion, seeking to be good for John. He's offering himself up on a plate, all for John to take and claim.
This takes ages. John now and then adds some more come from the glass as they both stretch Sherlock's arsehole beyond what he'd thought physically manageable. Only when Sherlock's knees start to buckle does John have mercy and removes both their fingers. As Sherlock moans at the sudden emptiness John takes another hemp rope and ties Sherlock's wrists behind his back. He works quickly and in a few moments has Sherlock's lower arms bound together up to his elbows.

“Breath.” It's the only warning Sherlock gets before John pushes in. He's huge. Sherlock cries out as the head of John's cock breaches him. It's too much. It feels like he's split in two despite all the preparation. It's like being ripped apart as his hole is stretched past endurance. Hot tears spill from Sherlock's eyes and he's drooling and gasping in pain as John continues to slide into him until he's fully seated.

When he starts to fuck Sherlock the rhythm is fast and brutal. It's like being impaled on a rod. Because Sherlock is screaming now John grabs the towel and shoves it into his mouth, only to fuck Sherlock even harder afterwards, now that his cries are muffled.

“Take it. Take all of it.” John groans as his fingers dig into Sherlock's hips, keeping him firmly in place. Sherlock's eyes roll back in his head and he's sure he'll pass out any minute. Still, he spreads his legs even wider and arches his hips up a bit to change the angle. He desperately wants to be fucked by John, despite the pain. He needs this, they both do. When he feels John suddenly tense, then swell and pulse inside him Sherlock is riding on a wave of bliss. He did that to John, for John, and it's breathtaking and wonderful and absolutely transcending. Sherlock triumphantly sobs with joy and smiles through his tears.

John stays inside Sherlock just a little while longer, relishing the sweaty body writhing in agony beneath him. Eventually his soft cock slips free but Sherlock is too far gone to notice. He simply slides off the table and rolls onto his side on the floor, biting down on his gag while his arms can do nothing to support him as they are still tied behind his back. It's a sight to behold. Nevertheless, John removes the towel before Sherlock starts to black out from lack of oxygen. That's for another session.

John hasn't even properly removed his jeans and pants. Now he just pushes them down to his knees as he stands above Sherlock, his flaccid cock in hand. “On your back.” John orders, and as Sherlock doesn't oblige quickly enough, he gives him a little nudge with his bare foot. That somehow penetrates the fog clouding Sherlock's dazed brain, and encouraged like this he rolls onto his back, his still bound wrists digging sharply into his spine. But as pain has been reduced to an abstract concept to be embraced and invited, Sherlock only lets his trembling legs obediently fall open, prepared to take whatever John will give him next. He can feel come leak out of his used, sore hole but can't clench his strained muscle to hold it inside.

“Open your mouth.”

Sherlock doesn't close his eyes when the first drops of John's warm piss hit his face. He swallows as much as he can and even tries to push up into the pale warm stream. John lets it flow over Sherlock's heaving chest, quivering abdomen and half-hard groin, and the act is so utterly depraved and dirty that Sherlock brain almost short-circuits as he gives himself over to the sensation of bathing in John's hot piss. He's just there for John's pleasure, his body to be used as John sees fit. And as he accepts this attitude something shifts inside Sherlock. This is suddenly all he wants and needs.

John grins as he eventually tucks himself away. “God, look at you. You get hard when I use you like this.” Sherlock just moans again and writhes in the rapidly cooling puddle of piss on the floor. “Stop it. Come on, get up.”

It takes a few moments for Sherlock to be able to push himself up into a sitting position on the slippery floor. John – who's still wearing the gloves – unties him quickly and rubs his arms to start circulation again.

“You'll clean that up. I'll take a shower. Then we'll talk about your training. You've been difficult up until this last few moments. I think you'll need some strict discipline to learn how to behave. It will be my pleasure as well as my privilege to see to that.”

With that John walks off into the bathroom, leaving a dazed, shaky, debauched Sherlock behind. He's covered in piss and come, sporting a massive erection, his arsehole throbs and his mouth tastes vile but he's neither feeling sick, ashamed, nor frightened. He's... elated, high on oxytocin and very curious what John has in mind when he speaks of his training.

That doesn't sound boring at all.

Chapter Text

Sherlock is cold and damp, his curls still dripping with John's piss, and therefore hurries to clean up. He roughly wipes himself down with the used towel, then sets to work on the floor. His legs feel wobbly, his arms hurt and his sore arse throbs but John told him to mop the piss up and so he does. His foggy brain is quite happy for now to just obey orders.

After some time John returns to the kitchen, wrapped in a towel himself, and takes in Sherlock's effort. The linoleum is dry and smells of bleach.

“Ok, I think you might need a wash as well.”

But first of all Sherlock needs the toilet. His bowels are still irritated from the intrusion they suffered. They threaten to empty themselves any minute. So, with John's permission, Sherlock rushes to the bathroom.

“I've run you a bath.” John tells him from outside the closed bathroom door and Sherlock is truly grateful for that. He's cold, sore and sticky. The hot water relaxes him as he slides into it, lying back ans sighing happily as the water covers him up to his chin. He stays like this for a while before vigorously scrubbing himself with a flannel and washing his hair – twice, just to be sure.

As he steps out of the tub to dry himself, John opens the bathroom door and watches him.

“Are you alright?” John asks, gesturing up and down Sherlock's moist body, pale skin flushed pink from the heat.

“Yes, just a bit sore. As was to be expected.”

John nods and smiles a little. “This all came about rather quickly. Next time, I'll prepare you properly. For hours.”

Sherlock's knees suddenly go weak and he has to hold on to the sink to keep himself upright.

“Which would involve... what exactly?” His voice comes out in a soft huff.

John steps up close and scrapes his fingernails down Sherlock's lower abdomen until they brush through the dark hair above his cock.

“Hm, I think I'll start by giving you an enema, to clean you out nicely for me.” Sherlock blushes and inhales sharply at this suggestion. “After that, I'll play with you just like I want. It'll take ages until you're ready to take me. But we'll get to that later. For now...,” his eyes meet Sherlock's. “I think you need a shave.”

Sherlock frowns and touches long lean fingers to his smooth chin. “I did shave this morning, John.”

“I'm not talking about your face.” John retorts, still smiling.

Sherlock needs a moment to process that. “Oh.” He looks down where John's hand is still skimming over is body, his soft cock nuzzled in a nest of damp dark curls, not black but more a dark auburn. “You mean...”

“Yes.” John nods. “You should get rid of these.”

“Ok, so...” Sherlock turns to the sink to get his shaving kit but John stops him by grabbing his wrist.

“Sit down on the tub. Let me do this.”

Sherlock sits back and lets his knees fall open as he watches John put some shaving soap into the tin mug, stirring it with the brush until it lathers. When John steps into the V between his legs and starts to apply the foam around his groin, Sherlock shivers. John drags his double-edged razor over delicate skin, working carefully as the sharp blades slide through Sherlock's thick pubic hair.

“Budge up a it.” John goes down on his knees and smears more foam around Sherlock's testicles. He pulls tender skin taught to remove the sparse hair behind Sherlock's ball.

“I can't shave your arse now, you are too sensitive right now but we'll see to that when you've recovered a bit.” He explains.

After wiping Sherlock down with a hot flannel John admires his work. There are no cuts. Sherlock's skin feels soft and smooth. The exposure to air is unfamiliar. Sherlock feels rather vulnerable.

“Go into your bedroom and lie on the bed, face down. I'll be with you in a minute.” John cups Sherlock's cheek in his palm and lets his thumb brush over the prominent cheekbone before releasing Sherlock. There is a admiring tenderness in John's gaze that makes Sherlock's stomach flutter.


He lies flat on his belly and waits. He can hear John upstairs, rummaging through his cupboard, and the anticipation combined with the friction of the bedding gets him half-hard, despite his still ailing body. What kind of delicious torment is John planning for him to begin his training?

When John comes down he's carrying a black plastic box the size of a large toolbox. He's got dressed in black Jeans and nothing else. Sherlock can see the fierce scar on his shoulder as well as the strong defined muscles of his torso. The jeans ride rather low on his hips, accentuating the fury line of dark blond hair trailing down from John's navel and vanishing beneath his waistband. John's chest is also sprinkled with golden blond curls and Sherlock experiences his own now almost hairless body as a stark contrast to John's blatant masculinity. It's so arousing that Sherlock squirms on the sheets as his cock stiffens further in anticipation.

“I got some of my stuff. But we'll need to buy new ones to use on you. I'd never had a virgin before so you'll need lots of preparation. But look what I got for you so far.”
John sets the box down next to the bed and Sherlock's eyes go wide. Inside, there are four cone-shaped objects in different sizes – two made from black rubber, two made from glass – as well as two replicas of penises, also in black, one average size, the other one rather big, at least in Sherlock's opinion.

“I'm not going to use all of these on you today, don't worry. But you are still a bit loose and I want to take advantage of that. To get started. In a few weeks you'll be open for me whenever I want you and you'll fit sizes you now can only dream of.”

Sherlock's breath hitches and his heart rate speeds up. John takes the smaller of the rubber butt plugs from the chest and presses it to Sherlock's lips. “Lick it.” And Sherlock does, his pink tongue darting out and lapping on the rubber until its shiny with his saliva. After a few minutes John presses forward and pushes the plug past Sherlock's lips, the conic bulb filling his whole oral cavity. Sherlock wraps his lips around the smaller part and feels the base brushing against his lips.

“Stay like this, I'll get the lube.”

When John returns from the kitchen where they had left the sachets of lube Sherlock is still sucking on the plug. As John gently removes it from Sherlock's mouth a soft moan escapes. “Patience. I'll put it back inside you soon. Promised.” But first John squeezes a generous amount of lube onto the rubber in front of Sherlock's face. Sherlock gasps at the sight as he imagines this device being pushed inside him. John smiles, ruffles his still damp curls and climbs onto the bed behind Sherlock.

He starts to knead his buttocks before gently asking: “Push up. Spread your legs for me.”

Sherlock pushes his arse up in the air and moves his knees as wide apart as possible, supporting his weight solely on his forearms on which he rests his head.
His tight pink hole is already twitching in anticipation. His hairless balls hang heavy between his legs.

“Relax.” John murmurs as he slowly starts to push the plug inside Sherlock's hole. It isn't as tight as before but it's still not used to accommodate rather large objects either. Sherlock clenches and gasps at the intrusion and makes the task rather difficult for John. Sherlock's sphincter just won't yield and give way.

“Sherlock, I told you to relax. Otherwise this will be really trying for both of us.”

“John I... I can't do this... right now. God!” Sherlock pants as John drives the plug further inside him regardless.

“I don't care if you like it or not. I want this. And you need this. So stop fidgeting.”

“Yes, John.“ Sherlock sighs. John works the rubber toy deeper and deeper inside him until the widest part is stretching Sherlock's rim as it breaches him agonisingly slow. John stops to admire his work. Sherlock's breathing has become ragged. John brushes his index finger around Sherlock's entrance, the soft pink of his flesh turned a bright red from the friction.

“God, look what you can take,” John whispers. “And this is only the beginning. Your anal training will involve being plugged all day, every day. From tomorrow on, you'll do it yourself, while I watch. I'll choose the toy and you'll put it inside you. The noises you'll make...”

When John finally pushes the plug past Sherlock's sphincter and it settles snugly inside him, Sherlock lets out a sound part moan, part cry. To soothe him, John brings his mouth down to kiss Sherlock's perineum, very softly, before getting up.

“Get dressed. A suit. Then come to the living room.”


Sherlock can feel the plug inside him as he moves, dressing up in his dark purple shirt and a slim black suit. The sensation is not painful, just a bit odd. He feels stretched and filled; owned, because he does this for John, and John will be the only one allowed to remove the object. Sherlock is willing to sacrifice his body for John's pleasure. If John wants him open and prepared at any time, Sherlock will be exactly that.

When he comes into the living room John is standing by the window and indicates for Sherlock to sit down on one of the hard chairs at the table, not on the soft couch. Sherlock can feel the plug inside him more intense this way.

“Ok, I think we should establish a few rules before we proceed with this.” John begins, leaning his hip against the table top. “You know your safeword and you are allowed to use it. I actually encourage you to do so if you are really uncomfortable with what we are doing. Otherwise, I'll assume you like what's happening. In case you won't be able to speak we should agree upon a sign from you. I'll stop immediately.”

“Why wouldn't I be able to speak?” Sherlock asks confused.

“Gag. Asphyxiation. Exhaustion. Your head might be under water. Or your mouth might be filled with cock. Just a few examples.”

Sherlock swallows and nods, already getting somewhat aroused by the fantasies playing out in his head.

“Oh... uhm,” he stutters before his brain comes back online. “How about I give you the victory sign then, with my fingers?”

“Ok.” John looks pleased. “You might already have deduced that I'm into medical play. And watersports. As I told you, you will get stretched over the next few weeks. Those devices you have seen are only the small ones. I really have a size kink. I want to be able to put my fist inside you.”

Sherlock squirms a bit on his chair. He can't imagine how that will feel like, given the intense pleasure he's already getting from this tiny plug. He just nods and licks his lips.

“Knowing you, I'm rather sure you'll need stern discipline. I prefer a thin bamboo cane but I'm aware that you own a riding crop and I will use that on you as well. In fact, every evening from now on I will monitor your behaviour of the day. You are then allowed to pick the method to be punished. I expect you to beg me on your knees for your well-deserved punishment. And I expect to be thanked for it afterwards. Are we clear on that?”

“Yes, John.”

“I'm also into wax play, breath play, pain play and torture. I think you'll really appreciate these approaches, as they will help you to focus, to relax and to loose yourself in the sensation. That means I will hurt you, Sherlock. I'm not talking about a few cloth pins to your nipples or a smack on the arse. I'll take you to the edge. Are you able to handle that?”

Sherlock just nods again as his mouth has gone dry.

“Good. You know I had girlfriends in the past.” Sherlock snorts a laugh at this that somehow eases the tension a bit. John smiles back at him. “I'm just saying I'm not exclusively into blokes. But you are?”

Sherlock just shrugs. He'd never given this much thought. Not before John, anyway. “I suppose so. I don't know. I think I'm first and foremost into... you.” It's the most honest answer Sherlock can come up with.

“Then we'll put this to the test. If you are uncomfortable being with women, of course you don't have to. But I will engage with women nonetheless, and I expect you to participate in these scenes. We'll see where your limits lie as we progress.”

Sherlock's not sure how he feels about this. The idea of watching John with someone else is not totally unpleasant but expecting him to be part of this is a little bit unsettling. But it's not his place to question John's decisions, he's getting this.

Of course, John sees through Sherlock's thinly veiled scepticism. “You don't like the idea.”

“I... I don't know. The prospect just isn't something I've ever envisaged.”

“Well, this brings me to another aspect of your training. I'm not used to train a new sub. I actually prefer fully trained specimens. That's why I think I'll need some help with you. From an expert. Her name's Irene Adler. I just made an appointment with her while you took your bath. We'll see her tomorrow.”

Sherlock remembers the web site he'd looked up in John's search history. “She's a dominatrix.”

“Yes, and a very exclusive one. She's an expert.” John licks his lips. “Do you have anything to add?” He asks to Sherlock's astonishment. Upon sensing Sherlock's confusion, John tentatively enquires: “Have you ever done anything at all, Sherlock? I mean sexual. Ever? Anything?”

Sherlock bites his bottom lip and shakes his head. “No.” He whispers.

“No snogging behind the bike shed? No clumsy fumbling on a back seat of a car?”

“No.” Now Sherlock sounds slightly indignant, appalled even.

“Do you masturbate?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Sometimes. Not often.” It's the truth.

“So you do fantasise. What about?” John sounds intrigued.

Sherlock squirms again and is nicely reminded of the object up his arse. “It's nothing specific. It's more about sensations. Being held down, being confined, tied up. This sort of thing. Restraint, unable to move, helpless. To be at someone's mercy, to surrender. That sort of thing.” Sherlock looks up through his lashes, a light blush darkening his pale cheeks.

To his surprise, John bows down and kisses him, softy and almost chaste, mouth closed. The gesture is so very tender that a shiver runs through Sherlock's body.

“I understand.” John murmurs against Sherlock's lips, cupping his face in his palm. “I do. I've got you.” Sherlock closes his eyes and leans in as John deepens the kiss. He leads, entwining their tongues, nibbling at Sherlock's bottom lips, and Sherlock arches into the touch, melting into the kiss. John brushes the knuckles of his free hand over Sherlock's crotch and both gasp as they realise how hard Sherlock is.

“Wait here.” John breaths against Sherlock's mouth, and then he's gone, taking his assuring warmth with him. Sherlock feels temporarily thrown off balance but it only takes a few moments for John to return from the kitchen, carrying a role of black gaffer tape from one of their drawers.

Sherlock willingly obeys as John uses the tape to tie his wrists and ankles to the armrests and legs of the chair, wrapping Sherlock's clothed forearms and calves in sticky black plastic until he can't move them anymore. Finally, a strip of tape is put over Sherlock's mouth. Only then does John open Sherlock's fly and fumbles with his pants until his hard, leaking cock juts free. When John starts to slowly stroke it Sherlock's eyes almost roll back in his head.

“God, you are so beautiful.” John murmurs. “It's such a shame no-one else can see you like this.” A shiver runs down Sherlock's spine at the idea of being discovered like this, tied up and exposed. “You'd like that, don't you? Being caught like this. Perhaps by your mummy? Oh, she might spank your bare arse for being such a filthy boy.” Sherlock makes an undignified sound behind his gag as a thick drop of clear pre-come wells from his slit, making his shaft deliciously slippery. “Or maybe your brother might walk in on you like this. Tied up, with your cock out, just waiting to be used. Would you be a good little slut for Mycroft? I beg you would. Just imagine your brother discovering you like this. He'd come over to you, looking all disappointed and disgusted at your shameless behaviour. And to punish you for it he'd start to touch you, like this.” John twists his wrist and Sherlock makes a high keening sound that perfectly expresses his desperation.

“He'll rub your cock like this, rough and fast.” John's hand speeds up as he tugs more forcefully. “And all the while he'll tell you what a dirty, deprived, perverted faggot you are. Letting your brother get you off. He'll force you to lick his hand clean after you came all over his fingers. Imagine, sucking your come from Mycroft's fingers, pushed deep into your yielding mouth.” Sherlock can feel his cock swell in John's fist. His balls are already drawn tight – but John must have felt it as well for he abruptly stops his ministration. Instead of wanking Sherlock to completion he slides a cockring onto Sherlock's engorged shaft, trapping him just short of coming. Sherlock whines helplessly and pulls at his restrains but to no avail.

“I think I keep you like this for a while.” John murmurs into Sherlock's ear. “Who knows, Mycroft tends to pay us surprise visits now and then. Or Mrs Hudson might come up. Perhaps even Greg needs your help. And then they'll see you like this, with your leaking cock, soiling yourself. I imagine you can feel the plug up your arse as well, don't you?”
Sherlock nods and squirms to acknowledge John's words. The plug brushes over his prostate and Sherlock almost jolts, throwing his head back in equal pleasure and agony. Pre-come dribbles down his shaft, soaking his crotch, trousers and pants and Sherlock nearly blacks out as John lowers his head and licks over the glans, just once. Sherlock rocks forward as far as possible but John's mouth is gone again.

“Hm, gorgeous. I think I'll lie down a bit upstairs. I had a rather rough night. But I keep the door ajar, in case you need something. Perhaps I'll let you come later, when I fuck you with one of the bigger dildos until you scream. But I'm not sure yet. It depends if you can behave yourself.”

And with that, John leaves the room and goes upstairs. Sherlock watches his retreat with incredulous astonishment, seriously shocked while extremely aroused at the same time. The door towards the stairs is left slightly open. Anyone walking in will be able to see Sherlock, obscenely exposed and rock hard.

Sherlock is not sure if he's afraid to be discovered or yearns for it.

Chapter Text

Sherlock is both mortified and aroused, tied down to his chair, sitting in full view of the slightly open living room door with his leaking cock jutting out of his trousers – on display for anyone to see who should walk into the room.

His humiliation develops into a panic when he hears Mrs Hudson shuffle around downstairs. Tears of despair dwell up in his eyes as the doorbell rings – but it’s just a delivery for their landlady, not for them. And thank god it’s not a client either.

Sherlock imagines someone coming up, pushing the door open, walking up to him. ‚Now, look what we have here…‘. He imagines calloused fingers tightening around his stiff cock as the plumber – seriously? What clichéd tricks is his brain playing on him? – starts to stroke him. The man smells of stale smoke, tea, sweat and something oily-metallic as he hisses into Sherlock’s ear: ‚Ugh, such a pretty boy awaiting me, all wet and ready to be used.‘

This is not helping to calm Sherlock down.

His hips start to roll as he imagines being tossed off by a stranger in his living room. The plug up his arse makes the most delicious movements as it brushes over his prostate. The strip of tape over his mouth – more for aesthetic purposes than functioning as an actual gag – would prevent him from protesting the violation; as the cock ring would prevent him from coming. He envisions his attacker – seducer – getting his own cock out, stroking himself until he comes over Sherlock’s face and shirt, drenching him in thick spurts of come. Sherlock can almost feel it drip off his face and can’t stifle the moan rising in his throat.

‚God, you moan like the slut you are,‘ the man in his fantasy says as Sherlock‘s hips try to buck up into thin air. No friction – no release.

Sherlock is a sweaty, panting, leaking mess when John returns about an hour after leaving him, fully dressed now with a chequered shirt and one of his hideously misleading oatmeal jumpers. Sherlock's cock is by now rock hard, purple and swollen, the foreskin fully retreated.

John grins devilishly as he strides over to the chair Sherlock is confined to, brushing one hand through damp curls as he murmurs: „My, my, Sherlock. God, your trousers might be ruined. If you could only see yourself like this. I think the next time we do this I’ll have you face the mirror. You look like you’d rub yourself against anything with a pulse… ok, in your case, a pulse might not even be necessary for you to rut against it like a dog in heat. Hm, if I release you now I want you to crawl over to the coffee table and lie face down on top of it, legs spread wide. You got that?“

Sherlock just nods and moans in desperation. John gets a pair of kitchen scissors and cuts through the strips of black Gaffer tape around Sherlock's arms and legs. At last he rips off the strip covering Sherlock’s mouth in one swift move. It still stings and Sherlock can taste blood as his delicate lips are torn open.

„John, please…,“ he almost sobs but John just indicates with a movement of his head for Sherlock to take his trousers, pants and socks off. Half-naked, Sherlock sinks down onto the floor before getting on his hands and knees, slowly crawling over to the low table in front of the sofa. There, he lies down with his chest pressed against the hard cool table top and spreads his knees wide. His head rests on his folded arms.

It just takes John a minute to get the box from the bedroom. He sets it down next to the table so that Sherlock can see its contents.

“I'm sorry, but there's no more lube. Do you, by any chance, have some?”

Sherlock just shakes his head. Why would he have lube? He rarely even masturbates.

“Well, how about the stuff you use in your Petri dishes?”

“You don’t want to use Agar extract as lubrication. It's more like aspic jelly. I wouldn't recommend that.” Sherlock sounds rather doubtful.

“Hm, ok, but I think we really need some lube for what I have in mind...,” John trails off as his left hand starts to stroke Sherlock's naked arse. When his deft fingers flick the base of the plug Sherlock’s hips stutter and he raises his arse even more, offering himself up.

“God, you are so utterly responsive.” John whispers as he twists the rubber device inside Sherlock's anus and starts to pull at it. Sherlock gasps and moans unashamedly at the delicious stretch. It's not painful anymore.

“Hm, at least there's still some lube up your arse. I think I will just plug you with a bigger one, then go to the shops and get some proper lube.”

John takes his time with removing the plug. He teases Sherlock's hole, even stops and twists the toy deliciously slow as the widest part slips out of Sherlock, who is writhing in front of him, almost humping the coffee table but still unable to come due to the cock ring entrapping his erection. The emptiness when the plug is pulled out of him is utterly shocking.

“John, please, I need it, please, just take another one!” Sherlock doesn't care he's begging like a whore, he desperately needs to be filled up again.

It feels like his balls might actually explode when, instead of the expected large, firm device something soft and wet brushes over his hole. It takes Sherlock approximately ten seconds to realise that John is actually licking his arsehole. It's so good, Sherlock can't believe this is happening. As John pushes his tongue inside Sherlock's exquisitely stretched rectum his eyes roll back in his head and a keening whine escapes his throat.

“John, John...!” Sherlock knows he can't ejaculate but that doesn't mean that he can't orgasm. His whole body shivers as John fucks him with his tongue. He might even have forgotten to breath, blissfully clawing at the table top, enjoying what John does to him.

Yet all too soon that skilled wet mouth is removed; Sherlock is panting, whining, begging. “John, please, John, god, please... please!”
“Please what? What do you want, Sherlock?”

“Please, stuff me with another of your toys, John, please. A big one, take a big one.”

John's face comes into view then, his chin still glistening with saliva. Sherlock reaches out and brushes his fingertips over John's swollen lips that had just been sucking on his anus moments ago.

“You want a big one?” John asks, almost smiling, after pressing a soft kiss against Sherlock's shaking fingertips. “Ok, then, how about this one?” John holds up a rather large glass plug, bigger than the black rubber plug he has just removed, but not frighteningly huge. Sherlock just licks his lips and nods. God, how he wants that.

John has already moved back behind him.

“You are so open and wet for me...,” John whispers as he starts to push the toy inside Sherlock. This time it takes only about a minute before it sits in position, stretching Sherlock beautifully.

“For your entertainment, I want you to suck on this dildo while I'm out. This will be the next toy I stuff you with so you better be thorough.” John holds up a large black rubber dildo and Sherlock almost snatches it from John's hands and starts to lick and suck with abandon. John strokes his cheek and as he feels the hardness of the toy beneath Sherlock's skin his eyes go dark with desire.

“God, I really want to fuck you again, Sherlock.” He sighs and Sherlock moans in response around the rubber stuffing his mouth. He sucks it in deeper than he's thought possible, almost gagging on it and John smiles fondly and strokes his hair once before getting up to leave. Sherlock is thankful that John not only closes but also locks the door to their flat. No-one will disturb him as he plays with the rubber toy. He'll be a good slut and do as he was told. The dildo feels amazing in his mouth. How mind-blowing it will be when John eventually fucks him with it!

John is rather glad that he chose his longer coat for his short shopping trip. His hard cock is throbbing in his jeans and the memory of Sherlock with a big glass plug up his arse, desperately sucking a rubber dildo with his impossible mouth doesn't help to calm him down. John just wants to be back and continue playing.

The next Boots is about half a mile away, just down Marylebone Road. John bypasses the hordes of tourists lining up for Madame Tussauds, pops into the shop and quickly tosses two large tubes of lube, a pack of condoms, a home enema kit and a box of nitrile gloves into his basket. He knows it looks like preparing for an especially lewd gay orgy – but well, that's what it is and he couldn't care less what the girl behind the counter thinks of him. She neither blushes nor winks, just sells him his supplies while never once stopping to chat with her colleague about a guy called Toby and his manifold shortcomings.

John is back at the flat within 15 minutes, out of breath and still hard. Sherlock is in no better shape. When John enters the living room Sherlock is twirling his tongue around the tip of the dildo, looking up at John from hooded eyes through his dark lashes. His lips are wet and swollen, as is his anus.

“God, your mouth was made to suck cock. I want to see some guys come on your face after you sucked them off while I fuck your arse.”

Sherlock's lips close around the rubber glans as he moans in appreciation. He'd love to do that for John.

Sherlock's obedience turns John even more on. Without much ado he pulls the glass plug from Sherlock's rectum, watching enrapt as the empty hole flutters and leaks the rest of the lube.

“Come on, get up.” Sherlock's legs shake as John guides him onto the sofa. Sherlock sinks back against the cushions as he hands John the slippery toy he's been sucking for the past quarter of an hour. Then he pulls his legs up to his chest by grabbing them from behind his knees, spreading himself open right in front of John.

Having purchased two bottles, John feels he can be generous – the dildo is rather big, at least 4 inches wide. So he applies an ample amount of lube onto the plastic glans before slowly shoving the toy up Sherlock's arse.

The both gasp, Sherlock at the feeling of being entered and stretched to the maximum, John at the sight. Despite its size the toy slides in easily.

Sherlock's neglected cock has turned a dark shade of purple by now and is leaking even more copiously. It has much the same colour as the shirt he's still wearing, which is soaked up to his navel in sticky pre-come. As John gently starts to roll Sherlock's balls in his free hand Sherlock hisses as if in pain. Well, he probably is.

“Does it hurt?” John asks.

“A bit.” Sherlock answers through gritted teeth.

John sets a steady rhythm with the dildo, pushing the black rubber shaft deep inside Sherlock. It's a sight to behold, Sherlock's rim red and stretched, his balls tight against his body, his cock dark and wet.

“Take your shirt off.” John orders, and with sweaty, unsteady fingers Sherlock eventually succeeds to unbutton his shirt and wriggle out of the crumpled, damp fabric. He has to let go of his legs to do so but places his heels on the edge of the couch to stay exposed and open for John to fuck him. His arse is slightly hanging over the edge to make it easier accessible.

“Suck on your fingers!”

Sherlock hastens to put the index and middle finger of his right hand into his glorious mouth and starts to lick and suck. When they are glistening wet John tells him to play with his nipples, already two hard pink nubs of flesh.

The noises Sherlock makes are almost animalistic. He pinches and pulls his nipples so hard that John fears (wishes?) he might draw blood, and when John hits his prostate with the dildo Sherlock throws his head back and howls. Clear fluid is freely running from his slit, over his stomach and hairless pubic ridge, and his writhing body looks so obscene that John fears he might come in his pants just from watching.

As John has found the sweet spot inside Sherlock he aims for it mercilessly. Sherlock bites down on his free hand, curled into a tight fist and pressed against his mouth, to stop yelling with every hit John takes on his prostate. His abdominal muscles flex and heave as he tries to control his ragged breathing but he still feels on the brink to hyperventilation.

John – always the good doctor – seems to sense Sherlock’s wrecked state for he momentarily stops fucking Sherlock with the dildo, empties the plastic bag he’s carried his purchases in onto the floor and quickly gets up. Sherlock is so far gone that it doesn't really register with him what’s happening. Therefore, he gasps in surprise as John pulls the bag over his head, tightening the handles around his neck to seal off the air supply. Sherlock’s rapid breathing has the plastic cling to his sweaty face in no time, his gaping mouth the indentation of a silent scream.

With his free hand, John grabs the dildo again and viscously starts to fuck Sherlock with it. The body beneath him is almost spasming but Sherlock makes no effort to remove the bag. His arms are flung over the back rest of the couch as he pushes his arse down onto the rubber cock while his head starts to loll from side to side.

“Try to relax.” John murmurs. “Don’t fight it. Try to breath.”

They both know that the bag is not airtight, that there are small vents in it to prevent children from choking in them but Sherlock is a grown man in considerable arousal – his body desperately needs oxygen right now. The vents will prevent suffocation but they are not allowing for nearly enough air supply to help Sherlock breath properly.

The agony is delicious. Sherlock can feel his head start swimming as his mind is clouded over by a soothing fog. It’s a bit like shooting heroin. It’s hot inside the bag and Sherlock has his eyes closed but he still senses unconsciousness approaching. He hopes John will choke him until he passes out. This will show John what he’s able to take, how far he'll go for him.

But suddenly the plastic is yanked away and cool air hits Sherlock’s face again. He has to blink a few times while moaning in distress to get his focus back and is rewarded with a look of utter bafflement on John’s face above him. A hand strokes damp curls from his forehead as John whispers: “Jesus, Sherlock. You are amazing. Truly amazing.”

Sherlock’s head rests against the soft cushions. He has to cough a few times to get his voice back.

“Please, John, will you let me come? Please!”

But John just shakes his head and Sherlock is on the brink of tears. John even stops fucking him with the dildo and pulls it out. It is tossed onto the floor where it comes to lie next to lube and condoms. At least John starts to unbutton his jeans and shoves the down together with his pants, stepping out of them while toeing off his socks. His massive cock is hard and almost as dark with congested blood as Sherlock’s.

“God, fuck me, John, please, I’m so open for you, I prom-…”

Sherlock’s plea is cut short as his head is yanked forward by his hair. He just catches on in time and sinks onto his knees, hitting the floor hard, opening his mouth to have it stuffed with John’s cock. John pushes in regardless and only stops as his glans hit the back of Sherlock’s throat.

They stays like this, unmoving, for a few seconds until Sherlock has adjusted his breathing. As John feels his throat relax he starts to pound into Sherlock’s mouth, brutally fucking his face.

Sherlock gurgles, drools, chokes and gags. Tears run down his face. Yet he grabs John’s hips with both hands and urges him to go harder, deeper, to use him as he pleases. His nose bumps into John’s pubic bone and he can feel his wiry blond hair against his lips. Sherlock tries to suck as best as he can while his mouth is stuffed with cock, and it’s sloppy and uncoordinated but that just makes it hotter in John’s opinion.

John can feel Sherlock shake in front of him; from the noises he makes he's already far gone – perhaps it's the lack of oxygen, perhaps the fact that his cock is nearly turning blue while he's denied the orgasm he craves. It's depraved and dirty and John just grabs Sherlock's hair tighter as he chases his own orgasm. His other hand strokes down Sherlock's long pale throat and as he feels his hard cock beneath the delicate skin of Sherlock's neck he can't hold it any longer and comes down Sherlock's throat. Sherlock tries desperately to swallow and to breath at the same time, which ends in a coughing fit that makes his whole body spasm. John only releases him when he's totally spent, watching as Sherlock keels over, bracing himself with his hands on the floor as to not crash face first down onto the floor. Come and saliva drip from his mouth as he gasps for breath until John fears Sherlock might actually throw up on the carpet.

John has the presence of mind to look for his underwear and puts it back on. As Sherlock still retches John finally has mercy with him and gets him a glass of water from the kitchen. Sherlock takes it with trembling fingers and gulps it down almost too fast.

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock's voice is rough but the drink has helped him to get his breathing back under control. Yet he keeps kneeling on the floor, his erection bobbing obscenely in front of him, the dark crimson of his cock a stark contrast to his creamy white skin.

Sherlock is too exhausted to plead or beg any longer. He just watches John, who sits on the coffee table and tries to get himself back together. The second orgasm today has drained him and he just needs a moment to contemplate the next steps. It's already getting dark outside. He has totally lost any sense of time.

“So,” John eventually finds the strength to speak again. “I think it's time for your first corrective punishment.”

Sherlock just nods obediently, all fight fucked out of him.

“Let me start by telling you that I will take into account that this is all new to you. Anyway, it's my duty to point your flaws and errors out to you, so that you can avoid such behaviour in the future. Do you agree?”

Sherlock nods again.

“I understand that this morning was hard for you. You aren't used to be treated like this. But you wanted it. Therefore, all this crying and pleading was really annoying, Sherlock. You acted like a difficult prat. You refused to drink my piss.”

“But I did...” A hard slap silences Sherlock.

“See? That's what I mean. This wasn't a question, Sherlock. When I want you to speak I'll tell you.” John really starts to get angry by now.

He waits until Sherlock nods once again before he continues.

“It was a bit better this afternoon. But you kept nagging me about wanting to come. Again, this is not about you, Sherlock. You have to understand that. You have to truly embrace the idea that you are just for me to use. You are in no position to demand anything.”

“Yes, John, I'll try...” Another slap hits Sherlock's other cheek. It's hard enough to bring tears to his eyes but he blinks them back. He's sure John doesn't want to see him sniffle.
“I fear this will be hard work, Sherlock. Really hard work, for both of us.” John sighs. “So, I give you ten minutes to come up with a suitable punishment. I'll be in the kitchen, having a cuppa. When I return I want you to be ready to tell me what you deserve for your disobedience.”

John has almost reached the kitchen counter when Sherlock calls him back: “John.”

“What is it, Sherlock?” John has difficulty to keep his voice even and under control.

“I think you forgot something. Didn't you say you'll keep me plugged all the time?” Sherlock has his eyes cast down onto the floor as he utters his request.

John can't help it, he smiles a little as he strides back over to Sherlock. He takes the abandoned glass plug and squeezes some lube on it before handing it over to Sherlock. “Well, then, put that back inside you.”

It's an awkward angle and Sherlock's face contorts a little in discomfort but he manages eventually to push the toy up his arse. He alternates between gasping and cursing while doing so but overall he seems dedicated to the task. Only when the plug is finally seated deep inside Sherlock's body does John return to the kitchen to flick the kettle on.

Sherlock still squats on the floor when John comes back into the living room precisely ten minutes later. He's surrounded by sex toys, bottles of lube and discarded cloths, looking quite debauched.

“So, did you figure something out?”

When Sherlock looks up at John his eyes are large and pale. Two bright pink spots bloom on his cheeks.

“Yes, John.”

“Well, let's hear it, then.”

“As you rightly mentioned, I was averse to the pissing... thing, at first.” Sherlock gives a little embarrassed cough. “Therefore, I suggest that you give me nothing else to drink as your or my bodily fluids until I'm used to it. Aversion therapy.”

John nods slowly. “That does make sense.”

Sherlock swallows audibly. “Ok. My other fault was talking too much, begging, crying, pleading. I therefore propose that you gag me for the rest of the night, to teach me my place and to make me shut up. I'm sure you own some device to do so that causes maximum discomfort.”

“I've got a rather big ball gag that would look lovely in your naughty mouth.”

“I'm sure I won't be able to swallow properly. I'll be drenched in saliva soon.” Their eyes meet. Sherlock's go dark while John's sparkle with affectionate mischief.

“To add to my helplessness, you should tie me up. Again, I'm sure you know techniques that will leave me in a most uncomfortable position.”

John licks his lips as he thinks about binding Sherlock's arms and legs with black hemp rope, the dark cords cutting painfully into Sherlock's delicate pale flesh.

“Now, for me wanting to orgasm...,” Sherlock continues. “I figured out by now that you won't allow me to finish tonight. Instead, you might want to inflict some pain onto my penis. I thought about putting some cloth pins onto my shaft and testicles before dripping hot wax all over it. Would that suit your tastes?”

They both know that this will be a rather long night...


Before they had started, John had pissed into a pint glass – he had had some tea after all – and Sherlock had drunk it without protest. Afterwards, the gag had been fastened around his head. It was a large red rubber ball gag that made it impossible for Sherlock to swallow or to speak. He started drooling almost immediately.

After that, John had manhandled Sherlock up to his room. All the stuff they needed was up there, and it was as far away from Mrs Hudson as possible. John had made Sherlock lie on the bed on his back before tying his hands to the headboard. When he'd finished, he'd folded Sherlock in half, bringing his spread legs up until his ankles were next to his ears. John had tied them to the headboard as well before wrapping rope around Sherlock's calves and forearms, binding them together. Sherlock had felt utterly exposed and was totally unable to move. In addition, it was very uncomfortable.

John finally had had some mercy with Sherlock and had removed the cock ring. By now the ache of Sherlock's straining muscles had taken the edge of his arousal, leaving him kind of numb. When the first cloth pins had been attached to his balls, Sherlock had groaned behind his gag but had been far from coming.

“I'll put four on your balls.” John had announced. The agony had been almost unbearable; but then John had moved on to Sherlock's still hard cock. He'd put just two cloth pins onto the foreskin, retracted from the glans, it's folds surrounding Sherlock's frenulum beneath the corona. Sherlock had tried to escape the inevitable by wriggling helplessly in his bonds, his hands pulling forcefully at his restraints – but to no avail. He'd moaned and choked behind his gag but the rubber ball had stifled all his protests.

Now John is kneeling in front of his exposed arse, a burning red candle in his hand. He starts with dripping hot wax from some distance onto Sherlock's testicles and Sherlock can't suppress the high keening whines that escape his throat. He knows that the candle is still about ten inches away from his most delicate parts but it nevertheless already hurts like hell.

Over the next 20 minutes John drizzles hot wax over Sherlock's exposed perineum, his shaft, his spread cleft – even the base of the glass plug – before finally devoting his attention to Sherlock's glans and slit. It doesn't help that Sherlock can see where the hot splashes will hit him next, as the knowledge of the pain caused by this torture is at least half the agony he experiences. But he can also see how much John enjoys punishing him in this way. His eyes are dark and his breathing is almost as ragged as Sherlock's.

John has saved the most painful part for last. He has to concentrate but eventually succeeds to drip hot wax right into Sherlock's slit, making him growl in shock despite the gag. Sherlock is sobbing by now, his throat raw from silent screams. But when John asks if he wants to use his safe word Sherlock just shakes his head and so John continues his administration. The candle is now only about 2 inches away from Sherlock's skin.

Finally, John starts to coat his whole cock in hot red wax. Sherlock moans in agony as the scalding liquid hits his sensitive flesh. Whereas it had been just drops before John now generously pours it all over him. Sherlock's muffled cries fill the room.

This continues until the candle is almost burned down and threatens to sear John's fingers. But John doesn't just blow it out. Instead, he presses the stump with the still burning wick against Sherlock's right arse cheek where his Gluteus Maximus meets the Iliac Crest. Sherlock's body jerks in agony as he shrieks in panic and pain like a wounded animal, tearing at his bonds in a futile attempt to escape. The smell of charred flesh fills the room as John makes soothing sounds to assure Sherlock that it will all be over very soon.

After a few more moments John slowly peels the dead candle end away from Sherlock's arse and moves up the side of his body until he kneels next to Sherlock's tear-stained face. As John strokes Sherlock's damp curls from his forehead he can see Sherlock's pulse hammer in his throat.

“God, you are so beautiful like this.” John murmurs, swiping saliva from Sherlock's chin, only to brush his wet fingers over Sherlock's hot cheeks and fluttering eyelids. “You've done so well.” Sherlock arches into the gentle touch, craving tenderness after this brutal punishment. In the dim light John's eyes look fathomless and his usually so placid features gain a stout seriousness and determination while he admires his work. Sherlock has become John's creature, defined and owned by him and at his mercy.

Sherlock just nods weakly as a reply, to show that he understands and agrees. He deserves this. He needs this. And, deep down, he wants this.

John's voice is warm and soft, full of concern and admiration when he tells Sherlock: “This might hurt a bit now.”

Which seems superfluous to Sherlock, regarding what he's just been through. The pain he's suffered cocoons him like an aura. He's floating on a cloud of endorphins, set adrift in a space between hyper-vigilance and unconsciousness. But as John starts to remove the cloth pins one after another the sharp pain that shoots through Sherlock's body has him howling in agony behind his gag. He throws his head from one side to another, sending spit and sweat flying, as he helplessly pleads with John to stop his torment. The coating of wax over his cock and testicles breaks away, leaving highly-sensitive skin behind that John caresses with his fingertips. Sherlock's spine arches off the bed and he can taste blood in his mouth.

When all cloth pins are removed and the jerking body on the bed has calmed down a fraction, reduced to a sobbing heap of trembling flesh, John starts to untie Sherlock. His joints ache as his legs are brought down, the muscles cramping and twitching, but John gently massages first Sherlock's ankles and then his wrists to aid circulation. The prickle accompanying the blood shooting back into Sherlock's limbs soon becomes a searing pain as he tries to flex his numb fingers. It takes a while until full tactility returns.

Sherlock is done, he's reduced to a purely carnal state of existing; his mind is quiet. He just wants to curl up beneath the sheets and sleep. When John at last removes the gag only a soft sigh escapes Sherlock's aching jaw before he rolls onto his side and buries his head against John's hip. And for once, John lets him, pets his hair, strokes his quivering back and murmurs soothing words until Sherlock falls asleep.

Chapter Text

John lets Sherlock sleep in his bed that night. He perfunctorily cleans the sheets, brushing off the residue of the wax play before getting undressed himself and climbing in next to Sherlock, who's warm spent body is a solid weight against John during the whole night.

John is a little bit surprised to wake first. Usually, Sherlock gets up quite early – if he sleeps at all – but last night seems to take its toll even on the world's only consulting detective. John has time to look at him in the early twilight, to study his gracefully serene profile, and an up until now unknown possessive pride fills his chest and warms his soul. Sherlock surrendered to him; he's now John's to break apart and form anew. And John loves it.

When he stretches and yawns he suddenly feels his full bladder. A smug smile creeps onto his face as he nudges Sherlock's side. The man next to him just grunts and tries to steal even more of the duvet but John gently shakes him awake.

“Hey, Sherlock, wake up. Sherlock!”

Sherlock sighs and slowly blinks his eyes open. “What?” He huffs, still half asleep.

“I need your services.”

“My... services?” Sherlock's brain seems not to be fully online yet.

“I have to piss.” John clarifies.

“So what? Oh. Oh!”

Sherlock elegantly slides out of bed, dropping to the floor in an almost obscenely subservient manner. He winces silently as his sore muscles protest the movement before looking expectantly up at John on the bed. “You want to do it right here? Or shall we go to the bathroom?” He even licks his lips in anticipation.

“Are you very thirsty, love?” John asks in a low voice.

“Very.” Sherlock answers innocently as he leans slightly forward.

“Now, that's convenient. I'll drench you in my piss until you choke on it. It feels there might be plenty. So we better go downstairs and get you into the tub.”

Sherlock almost trips as he stumbles onto his feet. He's down the stairs before John is even out of bed and already waits, kneeling in their bathtub, when John enters the loo. John has to fight his beginning erection as he pulls his pants down to mid-thigh. He has to breath deeply a few times to relax and allow the yellow stream to flow freely from his cock. He aims for Sherlock's open mouth and watches as Sherlock starts to swallow.

Sherlock tries to catch as much as possible and it occurs to John that Sherlock might in fact be really thirsty, so he slows down a bit to give Sherlock the chance to gulp down as much liquid as possible. Despite Sherlock's eagerness, urine starts to run over his chin, chest, belly and groin until Sherlock is dripping wet and drenched, just as John promised.

When he's finished John shakes the last few drops into Sherlock's yearning face before ordering him to clean his wet cock with his mouth. Sherlock licks and sucks with abandon until John has to remove his rapidly hardening cock. This is not supposed to be a blow job.

“Stop. Stop! Wait here.” John tugs himself back in and leaves a scowling Sherlock behind as he quickly sprints naked into the kitchen to retrieve an empty water bottle.

He hands it to Sherlock, grinning. “You need to stay hydrated. Come on, fill that up.” John demands.

Sherlock looks up at John as he takes the bottle from his hand, then adjusts his penis over the opening. John watches fascinated as almost orange urine streams from Sherlock's cock, filling the bottle.

When Sherlock is finished he screws the lid tightly shut before handing it back to John.

They just stare at each other. John wants to fuck Sherlock until he screams his name but they have an important appointment today that is not to be missed. There are preparations to be made. And John will take care of that.

Sherlock is by now shivering in the rapidly cooling splashes of piss that cover his naked body. But there's still something to do before he'll be allowed to shower. John takes the still warm bottle back into the kitchen and puts it in the fridge. He knows it's sterile, but anyway. No good if Sherlock catches something by drinking contaminated beverages.

The living room still shows signs of their activities from the previous afternoon. John has to rummage around a bit until he finds the enema kit and the bottle of lube.

When he returns with it to the bathroom Sherlock's eyes go wide.

“You really think that's necessary?” He asks with a meek voice.

“Believe me, Sherlock, you want to be very clean when meeting Miss Adler. Otherwise she might get angry with you. And it will reflect badly on me if you don't meet her expectations. Everything you lack is my fault. Don't forget that.”

John fills the blue bag (with a capacity of 3,5 pints) with lukewarm water from the tab before enrolling the tube. It ends in a kind of nuzzle with a small tab attached.

“Get on your hands and knees.”

Sherlock blushes all the way down to his chest as he kneels in the tub. John can see the burn mark high on his right arse cheek. He'll have to see to that after the enema and a shower. For now, he has to remove the glass plug first. Despite Sherlock's by now nicely loose sphincter, John still applies some lube onto the nuzzle out of courtesy before pushing it up Sherlock's rectum. When the device sits deep inside Sherlock, John hooks the bag onto a ring of their shower curtain and opens the tab. Warm water starts to flow inside Sherlock's body.

“Is it ok? How does it feel?”

“Odd.” It's the truth, it's not unpleasant, just strange. Sherlock can see his belly swell as his bowels are filled with water.

When the bag is empty John explains: “I'm going to remove the nuzzle. Clench your muscles as firm as you can. You don't want to sit in a tub filled with your excrements. Try to hold the water inside you as long as possible. The longer you can hold it, the cleaner you'll be afterwards. Ready?”

Sherlock nods and John pulls the nuzzle out. Sherlock clenches his sphincter as hard as possible.

“Ok?” John asks.

“Yes, I think so.”

“Can you kneel up?”

Sherlock does. John starts to stroke his full belly with one hand, half caress and half massage.

“I'll leave you now. Remember, as long as possible. But don't try to outdo yourself, Sherlock. If you don't reach the toilet in time I'll have you clean your mess up, and I'm not sure I'll allow you to use your hands. You got that?”

Sherlock can only nod as he feels the first cramps set in. It gurgles and roars inside him as his intestines are flooded with warm liquid.

“You can shower, afterwards. Be thorough. And by that I mean really thorough.”

Left alone, Sherlock tries. He really tries. He even massages his abdomen a bit but it only takes a few minutes until he knows that he won't be able to hold it any longer. He scrambles to his feet, almost slipping in the moist tub, and reaches the toilet bowl just in time. The urge to empty himself is so strong that he can't even feel shame as the contents of his bowels rush out of him. It takes a while until he's sure enough that he's empty. He staggers into the shower and vigorously starts to scrub himself clean. He even pushes a soapy finger up his anus to wash himself. He wants to make John proud.

John must have heard when the shower was turned off, for he's back in the bathroom a few minutes later while Sherlock is still towelling himself off. He has their first aid kit with him. Sherlock's wrists and ankles are sore and there's the burn high on his bum. John uses antiseptic and burn ointment before putting some gauze over the bright red mark. It sits high enough on Sherlock's arse that he'll be able to sit without too much discomfort. In addition to the meds John has also brought a plug for Sherlock with him – the smaller black toy they'd started with yesterday.

“I thought you would opt for a bigger one?” Sherlock asks and arches an eyebrow.

“I'm sure you'll get enough sensory input today. This one's better if we are on the move. Believe me.” Sherlock just shrugs and braces himself against the sink as John shoves the toy up his arse.


They arrive at ten sharp in front of a white town house at Eaton Square, one of the most expensive neighbourhoods in London. Miss Adler's work seems to pay off nicely, Sherlock muses, as he exits the cab and let's John pay the fare (well, if he can afford such services as rendered by Miss Alder, he can surely afford a cab ride as well). Sherlock is dressed in another slim black suit (not the one from yesterday, for obvious reasons; Sherlock is still not sure how to explain the stains to his trusted dry cleaner's) and a tight white shirt that elegantly hugs his lean frame.

He's rather excited. He's never been to such an establishment as a dominatrix's dungeon; and he's very pleased that it's not located in some sordid backyard in Bermondsey or a respectable semi in Croydon, with lace curtains and dwarfs populating the front garden. It could have been cheesy in the extreme – but this seems very sophisticated.

The woman who opens the door has flaming red hair and wears some kind of tasteful 1940s styled dress in black and white, rather formal but not a uniform. They are shown into a stylishly furnished sitting room – not some kind of dark torture chamber as Sherlock has expected but a bright room with comfortable sofas, low tables and abstract pictures on the wall.

“Miss Adler will be with you in a few moments.” The maid/housekeeper/PA informs them before sweeping out of the room. John sits down and crosses his legs. Sherlock paces the room and takes in every detail – barely visible red wine stains on the thick white carpet, the pictures original paintings by Mondrian, Magritte and Kokoschka, the sofas being at least 18 months old and still no one's had sex on them – until John coughs once: When Sherlock looks at him he gestures towards the empty space on the couch next to him and Sherlock sits down.

“Calm down.” John says.

“I am calm.” Sherlock retorts primly.

John scoffs and grins.

Sherlock is about to utter a sharp reply when the door opens again and a tall dark-haired woman walks into the room. It's quite an entrance: her hair is done up in an elaborate fashion, her make-up is flawless and she's wearing a creamy white pencil dress combined with dark stockings and black high-heels. She looks stunning and totally in charge.

“Miss Adler.” John gets up and greets her.

“Doctor Watson. Nice to meet you again.” A warm smile transforms her perfect if cold features ; she looks very young and rather experienced at the same time.

“And this is the... object we've been talking about?” She stands right in front of Sherlock and takes his chin in one of her well-manicured hands. Sherlock has no choice but to look up at her.

“Yes, that's Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes, meet Miss Irene Adler.”

Miss Adler turns his face slightly from one side to the other. “Nice. Very nice indeed. Strong-willed, independent, if a bit troubled. I can see what you like in him.” Her voice is deep and alluring. Sherlock feels himself blush.

“Gosh, look at him. He has turned pink. God, you are a lovely specimen. Quite a bit of work I can imagine?”

“That's why I came to you.” John admits.

“Oh, but Doctor Watson, someone with your reputation... I feel rather flattered.” She gives John a slow appreciative smile that John returns with a slight shrug.

“Well, your expertise in this matter is much greater than mine...”

“Is that so?” The woman almost purrs by now and Sherlock feels unease creep up in his chest. Why is this woman flirting with John?

“I think your pet is getting jealous, Doctor Watson.” Irene tears her eyes away from John and looks back at Sherlock, a small knowing smile playing around her full red lips.

“You think so? Well, perhaps it's time to show him his place?” John is fixing Sherlock with a firm gaze before telling him in a surprisingly soft voice. “On your knees.”

Now, it's one thing for Sherlock to obey John in the safe confines of 221b Baker Street, but kneeling on the floor in front of a strange woman is something else, entirely, something Sherlock's not sure he's prepared for. On the other hand, John has told him that any misconduct will reflect badly back on him – which is something Sherlock wants to avoid at all costs – so he takes a deep breath and sinks down onto the soft white carpet while Irene still holds his face up.

Her thumb strokes Sherlock's bottom lip, just once.

“He is quite a beauty.” She tells John who meets Sherlock's eyes when replying: “You should see him when he's tied up and helpless.”

“I'm sure I will.”

Sherlock shivers at the prospect. Irene smiles down at him.

“Now, let's see what assets you have to offer.”

Sherlock's eyes dart between her and John, unsure of what is expected of him.

“Undress.” John clarifies.

Sherlock sheds his clothes quick and efficiently, neatly folding them before placing them on the sofa seat behind him. Irene allows him to stand up the remove his trousers, shoes and socks. Sherlock has never been self-conscious but getting naked in an unfamiliar sitting room feels kind of odd even for him.

After stepping out of his snug grey boxer briefs Sherlock sinks back down on his knees and waits. Miss Adler's gaze travels down his body to linger at his crotch, eyeing his flaccid cock with an amused expression.

“I can see that you put him properly through the mill last night, Doctor Watson.”

John smiles smugly. “Oh, he deserved it.”

“I'm sure he did. Have you started to acquaint him with your... peculiar tastes?”

“Some. He's quite willing and very responsive.”

“Well, I have to say, up until now he seems very well behaved. Shall we see how he gets on with the maid?”

As if on cue, the busty red-head enters. “Ah, Kate, come over here. You remember Doctor Watson?”

The woman just nods and gives John a somewhat lewd grin. Sherlock, kneeling naked on the floor, surrounded by three fully dressed people, feels rather ridiculous.

“So, this is Doctor Watson's new pet. We'd like to watch him with you.”

The woman called Kate takes a good long look at Sherlock before licking her lips and replying. “Of course, Miss Adler.”

“What do you have in mind, Doctor Watson?” Irene enquires curiously.

“Oral stimulation.”

Sherlock swallows. He's not sure he'll get it up if Kate starts to suck his cock. He blushes even more when Irene laughs out loud.

“I see what you mean, Doctor Watson. He still has a lot to learn. Listen, pretty boy, it's not you who'll get sucked off. Kate, take your place.”

The maid sits down in one of the armchairs, pulls her flowing skirt up to her waist and spreads her legs. She doesn't wear knickers, just black hold-ups, exposing milky white skin above the laced trim. Her vagina is shaved bald. As She throws one leg over the armrest Sherlock gets a good look at her already wet rosy labia and it suddenly dawns on Sherlock what is expected of him.

“Come on, get your adorable mouth on her.” Miss Adler tells Sherlock. Her tone is encouraging and a little mocking but Sherlock can sense steal beneath that light-heartedness.

As he looks pleadingly up at John the only answer he gets is: “Crawl.”

Sherlock freezes until the sharp sting of Irene's slap brings him round again. “Do as you are told.”

Sherlock can feel tears of shame well up in his eyes as he gets on all fours and slowly crawls over the the woman exposing herself in front of him. He can smell her; sweet musk, something flowery, vanilla. She has started to rub her clitoris with her index finger, moaning softly, making her even more wet.

Sherlock doesn't want to do this as he crouches down between Kate's spread legs and tentatively darts out his tongue to give the moist flesh in front of him an experimental lick. It tastes different from John – tangy, slobbery, pungent. It's warm and soft and his tongue swipes over the glistening fold again and again. The woman moans, louder this time, and Sherlock becomes acutely aware that he's being watched by Irene and John. Not only watched, but that his performance is judged. He swirls his tongue experimentally and elicits another low moan from Kate.

“Hm, he seems quite talented.” Irene states and Kate nods enthusiastically. Her hands grab the armrests, knuckles turning white, as Sherlock lets the tip of his tongue repeatedly circle her clitoris, massaging gently.

“Come on, fuck her with your tongue.” John's voice is rough and low and Sherlock's cock slowly starts to thicken as he becomes aware that this is something that turns John on. He stiffens his tongue and pushes inside, plunging deep between the folds of smooth tissue. Kate rocks her hips forward invitingly. It's actually not as awful as Sherlock has anticipated.

After a few minutes, however, his jaw starts to ache. His face is wet with Kate's juices, smeared all over his cheeks, mouth, nose and chin. His cock is still only half-Hard at best until suddenly he feels someone's finger flicking against the base of the plug inside him.

“Nice.” It must have been Irene. Then the toy is moved, pulled and twisted, and Sherlock mimics the movements with his mouth and tongue. Kate is writhing in the chair, pressing her wet cunt against Sherlock face but just as he can feel her clenching and shuddering his head is pulled away.

“Not so fast.” It's John who's grabbing him by the hair. “I can see that you made her open and wet for me. Now it's your turn to watch.”

John's hand slips from Sherlock's hair and grabs Kate by her pony tail instead. He pulls her up rudely before sitting down in the chair himself, legs spread. Kate's red hair is twisted around John's fist; he brutally pushes her onto her knees until her face about three inches away from his groin.

“Get my cock out, Sherlock. Let's see how much she can take.” Kate whimpers and licks her lips as Sherlock's dexterous fingers pull down John's zip and fumble with his underwear until his large cock springs free. Irene hast stopped playing with the toy up his arse and has moved her hand to cup and squeeze his balls instead. It's rather painful.

Kate's lips greedily close around the head of John's thick erection. John holds her there for a moment before shoving her head down his shaft until her nose is buried in his pubic hair. She chokes a bit but adjusts her throat willingly to John's massive cock.

“Lock, Sherlock, this is how it's done.”

Kate starts to bob her head slowly up and down, taking John deep, saliva threading from her lips. Her eyes are open and wander between John and Sherlock.
“Oh, that's nice. Come on Sherlock, don't get lazy down there. Suck my balls.”

Sherlock bows down again to do as he's told. The angle is awkward and his neck starts to hurt immediately but he obligingly takes John's sack into his mouth and starts to lick them, rolling them over his tongue. His saliva starts to mix with the spit dripping from Kate's mouth.

Miss Adler has stopped crunching Sherlock's balls by now. To get a better view she's circled the little scene and is now standing behind the back rest of the chair, watching. She smiles down at the display of the red and the dark head pleasuring John. Both Sherlock and Kate make rather desperate, sloppy, filthy sounds as the smell of sex and arousal fills the tidy sitting room.

As John eventually feels that he's getting close from the two delicious mouths working on him he pulls the red-head back abruptly. Kate pants at the loss of cock but is quickly pacified when John tells Sherlock to undress her.

They both have to get up for this. Kate's frock isn't only looking vintage – it really is. There are no zippers but loads of hooks and buttons. Sherlock's face is wet, his lips are swollen and his fingers tremble but he still manages to efficiently unbutton Kate's blouse. It's made of fine white silk so Sherlock can see her hard nipples beneath the fabric even before he pushes the shirt off her shoulders. She's wearing a topless white corset underneath, laced so tight that Sherlock might be able to span her waist with both his hands.

She turns so that Sherlock can unbuckle her skirt. When it falls to the floor she's just in her black high heels, black hold-ups and white corset. Her round firm arse sports a brand mark on the right cheek, the letters I and A entwined. Sherlock swallows, remembering his own punishment from last night. He's tempted to brush his fingers over the mark but is sure that this will not be allowed. Nevertheless, he's fascinated by the degree of submission proven by this mark. It must have hurt like hell. As Sherlock let's his eyes roam over Kate's body to distract him from his thoughts he discovers that she's got freckles on her shoulder, which Sherlock finds strangely cute.

In the meantime, John has wriggled out of his trousers and pants and took off his shirt. Irene, who is still standing behind him, is caressing his chest with her slender hands, her bright red nails dragging through John's wiry blond hair. She strokes one finger tenderly over John's scar and he grins up at her.

“You know how much I like it, Doctor Watson.” Her voice was low and sweet as treacle. They lock eyes and stare intensely at each other before turning towards the two naked people in front of them.

“Aren't they gorgeous?” Irene asks before handing Sherlock a condom from a low table near by. “Better roll that onto Doctor Watson. I think it will be needed very soon.”

Sherlock tears the blister open and takes the moist sheath between thumb and forefinger.

“With your mouth.” Irene orders.

Sherlock is a little taken aback but then just puts the condom between his lips and bows down over John's hard, leaking cock. He relaxes his throat as best as he can and sinks down onto John, his lips sheathing John's shaft in latex. When he comes up again, the condom snugly in place, John smiles proudly back at him.

“Help her into my lap, Sherlock.”

Sherlock steadies Kate by one elbow as she climbs onto the chair and s her legs, knees either side of John's thigh.

“Come on, line me up.” John growls as he starts to pinch Kate's nipples, which makes her gasp out in pleasure. Sherlock gets on his knees again and grabs John's cock by the root, adjusting it until the head brushes against Kate's swollen vulva. Sherlock's fingers keep John's cook steady as Kate sinks slowly down on it, engulfing John in slippery heat.

Sherlock only removes his hand as she's fully seated in John's lap and sits back on his heels to watch.

Kate rolls her hips gently twice, then starts a slow rhythm, bouncing up and down on John's cock. Sherlock can see that the thick shaft is glistening with her juices. He wants to touch, to lick to be part of this but is condemned to just be a spectator. Still, his cock is filling rapidly.

As Irene becomes aware of Sherlock's arousal she leaves her position behind the chair and comes to stand behind Sherlock instead, stroking his hair as she whispers: “God, this is so hot, don't you think? Look at how much John enjoys her. She is so soft and wet and willing. So unlike you.”

As if to emphasize this point, John grabs Kate's hips more firmly. She gives a crude moan as John plunges deep into her and throws her head back, eyes closed, mouth open. Her long red hair cascades enticingly down her back.

John bows forward and starts to suck on one of her nipples but his eyes are on Sherlock as his tongue plays with Kate's tits. It is strangely intimate, the smell of those two bodies in front of Sherlock, the sounds they make, and Irene's heat behind him. His head starts spinning; this feels unreal and Sherlock suddenly fears of loosing his grip to reality. What is he doing here, watching John fuck this woman with abandon?

Irene senses the sudden panic welling up inside Sherlock; her fingers pull fiercely at his hair which make his mind stutter to a halt. They lock eyes and her firm gaze grounds Sherlock, offering him a fixed point to concentrate on. He silently begs her and Irene wouldn't be good at her job if she didn't respond to Sherlock's need. Therefore she pulls his head forward until it's almost touching Kate's well-rounded arsecheeks, her brand mark dancing before his eyes. Irene hums low in encouragement before her hands leave Sherlock's hair and spread those cheeks apart, her red fingernails digging into sensitive flesh as she exposes Kate's cleft. Kate's pink hole flutters and contracts in front of Sherlock as Irene tells him: “Lick her.”

And Sherlock does. He desperately wants to be part of this scene of base fucking that he pushes his face between Kate's cheeks and licks broad wet swipes over her hole and up to her tailbone. At the first contact Kate shrieks in surprise but after the first shock is over she starts to moan and gasp. John has to grab her more firmly to keep the rhythm up, for her hips roll and shimmy to seek maximum pleasure form both the cock up her pussy and the tongue up her arse.

Sherlock can taste her sweet juices as well as John's more earthy musk as he stiffens his tongue and pushes in. She's tight but yielding, squirming back on his tongue to get it inside her. Sherlock is aware that he is making wet, slurpy, undignified noises as he sucks at her rim, finally pushing his tongue past her sphincter. She cries out in total bliss, chanting “Yes, yes, yes.”

One of his hands is slung around her waist and pressed against her belly to gain more leverage while controlling her movements (Sherlock does not fancy a broken nose right now); his other hand sneaks between John's legs to cup his balls and gently massage them. John utters a string of profanities and pounds into Kate once, twice before his ragged breath stutters and he almost grunts as he comes.

Kate rides her own orgasm out above him until they are both spent and she slumps down, her head resting against John's scarred shoulder. Sherlock's head lies against John's quivering, sweaty thigh. His eye is nearly poked out by one of Kate's heels as she shakily climbs out of John's lap. Her weak legs don't support her anymore and she sinks down onto the floor, crouching next to Sherlock at John's feet.

Meanwhile, Irene has pulled on two black latex gloves. Sherlock watches mesmerised as she carefully removes the condom from John's by now limp cock and Kate obediently opens her mouth without being told. Irene slowly squeezes John's come onto Kate's tongue as John watches from hooded eyes. Kate opens wide and cranes her neck to receive every drop of the pearly fluid before squashing it around in her mouth, an expression of absolute indulgent on her face. When she opens her mouth again her oral cavity is filled with frothy white goo.

“I think you should share that, Kate. Come on, don't be so selfish. Swap it.”

Kate smiles as best as she can with a mouth full of come before sitting up and leaning over Sherlock's face. He has no idea what's happening until John sharply tells him: “Open your fucking mouth!”

Sherlock is too stunned and surprised to argue, just opens his mouth and and watches wide eyed – part fascinated, part disgusted – as Kate lets the viscid mixture of come and spit drip from her mouth and into Sherlock's. He can't bring himself to swallow and so the goo runs over his lips and down his chin. John leans forward in that chair and stares at the debauched sight of his pet while Kate rubs her twat with one hand and glazes Sherlock's face with John's release.

“God, kiss him,” John gasps and Kate presses her shiny wet lips against Sherlock's and pushes her tongue into his mouth, licking and sucking while almost climbing into his lap as well. Sherlock does neither resist nor participate, he has no idea what to do with his hands or his mouth, what is expected of him or what he is allowed to do. He can taste John on his tongue but it's watered down and just very messy.

Before Kate can start to hump her wet cunt against Sherlock's thigh, however, she is brutally pulled back by her pony tail. Miss Adler slaps her face three times, leaving bright red marks on her cheeks and orders her not to behave like a bitch in heat. When Kate kneels submissively by John's chair, begging for forgiveness, Irene turns her attention towards Sherlock.

“Now, I get it you are peckish. Don't you like to be fed come like this? No?” She grabs his hair again and pulls so fiercely that Sherlock cries out in pain.

“Look at me!”

Sherlock turns his damp face up at her, fully aware of how filthy he must look; still, he has no choice but to obey her.

“I... I don't...” he stammers, confused and perplexed. Her gloved left hand slaps him, hard, and to his embarrassment his cock twitches. He gets even more hard when Irene pushes all five fingers sheathed into his mouth, making him choke and grunt in desperation. The taste of latex is almost intoxicating and Sherlock wants to suck, nibble, succumb to being forcefully entered like this. He wants to do whatever Miss Adler has in mind for him.

“Keep your eyes open. If you close them you'll be very, very sorry. Are we clear?”

Sherlock nods as best he can and makes a consenting noise. Irene grabs his hair still more firmly and then a dollop of her spit hits Sherlock right in the left eye. His whole body shudders as he wants to turn away, to close his eyes, to wipe his face – but does nothing like this, just keeps kneeling on the floor, his face turned up, his mouth stuffed with her fist, as another drop of spit hits his other eye. It burns, but he doesn't dare to blink. Irene pushes her fist still deeper inside Sherlock's mouth and he can only make a whining gurgling sound as he silently promises her to be a good boy, to please her and John and do what he's told. He only eventually closes his eyes when Irene removes her fingers from his mouth and brings the thumb up to his right eyesocket to smear her saliva all over his face.

“You really have to learn a lot, pretty boy. When I'm finished with you'll keep your mouth wide open and appreciate whatever is put into it. You'll even beg me to be allowed to lick the floor clean after one of my orgies.” As Irene releases him Sherlock nods weakly and only whimpers, sinking back to squat on the floor, simmering in his desperation and embarrassment. He looks up at John for some reassurance but John seems lost in thought. He only stirs and seems to come to life again when Irene announces: “Now, I think it's time to move this upstairs, don't you think, Doctor Watson?”

Chapter Text

Kate is send away by Irene to freshen up a bit. She slowly staggers to her feet and leaves the room, looking over her left shoulder once at Sherlock, who still crouches on the floor. She doesn't smile.

After John has adjusted his rumpled clothing Irene leads the way upstairs, her high heels clicking loudly on the marble steps. Sherlock has neither been allowed to clean himself up nor to get dressed. He shivers. Drying spit and bodily fluids make his face itch.

Irene opens a door on the first floor and steps aside to let John and Sherlock walk past her. At first glance it seems to be a rather spacious study with a large oak desk and a few hardbacked chairs in the middle. An elegant chaise lounge with a low coffee table beside it is placed at the far wall between two windows. The thin white curtains prevent anyone from seeing inside while still letting natural light stream into the room.

However, a quick look around shows Sherlock that this is not an ordinary room. For example, the wall to his left is covered by an enormous mirror. On a sideboard to the right lie paddles, crops, canes and whips in different shapes and sizes. Irene walks over there and opens the drawers. Sherlock glimpses ropes and shiny stainless steel.

“I'm sure you'll find anything you might need here. As you explicitly requested corporal punishment, Doctor Watson, I thought the study quite fitting.” Irene makes a gesture with her slender hand that encompasses the whole room and smiles over to John, who nods in appreciation. “The room is soundproof, even the windows have special glazing, so no one will hear the screams should your pet be allowed to make some noise.”

John nods again and indicates for Sherlock to sit down on one of the chairs as he walks over to Irene to inspect the equipment on offer.

“I'll be relying on your expertise here, Miss Adler.”

“Oh, of course, it will be my pleasure so give you a little demonstration of the use and impact of the different devices.” Her smile broadens. Sherlock swallows hard and cranes his neck to get a better look at what John and Irene are inspecting.

“You might want to start with a paddle. Firm strokes, not too painful, no instant damage to the skin. The affected area might bruise later, though. After that, it depends if you prefer the riding crop or the cane. The cane requires some experience as it can do severe damage, but as you are a medical professional I'm sure you can handle it. Very painful when it breaks the skin. The thinner the cane, the more it hurts. You can also wet it to do even more harm. Be careful where you use it. It might actually cut through tendons. The resulting welts, however, look stunning. Like a work of art if applied correctly.”

John takes a long slim cane in hand and tries a few strikes through the air. Sherlock can hear it sing and feels his skin prickle.

“There are a few different whips – all designed to cause rather grievous injuries. For a bull whip you should tie the pet to a rack in a standing position because you need some space to use it properly and cover the whole body. A cat-o'-nine-tails is more handy. I use a real one, the spikes on it tear away skin and flesh. Use it moderately. Perhaps better start with the one with knots instead of spikes. Still very painful. The belt can be used both ways: with the soft end it's more like a broad whip. If you use the end with the buckle, however, you might cause severe damage.”

John runs his fingers over the soft black leather of the whips. He's glad he's just fucked the maid to take the edge of things as he feels himself getting hard again while imagining the smooth dark leather in contact with Sherlock's pale skin, making him scream. He wants to beat him raw, then fuck Sherlock's tight hole while he's on his hands and knees until he passes out from pain and exhaustion.

“Now, shall we begin?” Irene asks. John looks over at Sherlock and nods.

“You want him tied up? Or shall we test his self-control?” Irene's fingers dance over the different bundles of black and red rope, tidily rolled up in one drawer.

“Let's try in without restraints first. I'm quite sure we'll have to tie him down at some point but I want him going along with it voluntarily at the beginning. I like it when he surrenders.”

“Very well.” Irene condescends, albeit sceptically arching one delicate eyebrow. “I'll show you some nice little tricks at the beginning, then I let you take over for a thorough thrashing.”

Irene takes a long thin cane and goes over to Sherlock's chair while John reclines onto the chaise lounge, Sherlock in full good view in front of him.

“Get up, turn around, legs apart, hands flat on the table.” Irene orders and Sherlock does as he's told. He takes a deep breath and tries to prepare himself for what's coming.

“Now, Doctor Watson, I told you, a cane is able to snap tendons.” A sharp stroke hits Sherlock at the delicate skin on the back of his left knee and his leg nearly gives way. The pain sears through his body, all the way up his spine, and he gasps in shock. He almost expects that his other poplit will suffer next but Irene is nothing if not inventive. The next stroke hits him in the vicinity of his right kidney and all air is knocked out of him. He can feel wet warmth trickle down his side and over his hip. He's already bleeding.

“And it can break skin easily. Leaves lovely scars. You can lay a pattern all over your pets back.”

Which she does in quick succession, criss-crossing the strokes from Sherlock's shoulders down to the swell of his buttocks until he sobs and has difficulty breathing. Black dots dance before his eyes. His hands scrabble over the table top, searching for leverage. He's not sure how much he's already bleeding.

“He's lovely, look at all this pale skin...” Irene sounds almost dreamy, lost in admiring her work. She touches Sherlock's shoulder blade with her still gloved fingers and Sherlock winces. “Now, in comparison, the riding crop.”

“Oh god.” Sherlock whimpers.

“Shut up and lie down!” Irene raises her voice. She doesn't sound amused.

Sherlock obeys and bows forward, pressing his sweat-slick brow into his folded forearms and waits. His eyes follow Irene as she returns with a black leather crop in her hand.

“Spread yourself for me.”

When Sherlock doesn't catch on immediately, she gives his buttocks some forceful strokes until he grabs his arse cheeks and pulls them apart, face and chest now flush with the table top.

“Now, another very sensitive area is obviously the rectum, balls and perineum.” Sherlock's whole body spasms as he can feel Irene's latex covered fingers tease his hole as she eases out the small plug that has been sitting inside him since the morning. He knows what's coming and that there's no escape. But instead of a brutal blow Irene caresses his rectum with the soft tongue of the crop for several minutes until he sighs and relaxes a fraction.

When the crop comes down hard onto his cleft it feels like he's split in half by an incandescent rod.

His scream rings in his ears.

Irene goes back to caressing his perineum and balls before a deft flick of her wrist sends another jolt of pain through Sherlock's body.

“God, he's so sensitive and responsive. I really want to fuck him. Can I fuck him, Doctor Watson?”

Sherlock shivers and sobs silently onto the table top. He's drooling and closes his eyes to shut out the humiliation.

“Be my guest.” John's voice is low and rough. He's aroused by what he's witnessing, which gives Sherlock a little spark of comfort. At least his torment pleases John.

Sherlock can feel Irene rub something bold and firm over his anus and it takes him a few seconds to grasp that it's the handle of the riding crop. It slips inside him rather easily – he's by now nicely stretched and lubricated – and Irene is met with no resistance as she pumps the handle in and out of him. To his own embarrassment Sherlock starts to get hard. He still holds himself open and even arches his back a little for Irene to push deeper. Suddenly, she hits a spot inside him and he gasps and almost jerks off the table.

“Hm, you like that, don't you? Look at this horny boy, Doctor Watson, begging to be fucked, spreading himself like a whore.” She pulls the crop out abruptly and Sherlock winces.

“Turn around, on your knees!”

Sherlock does as he's told, still slightly dazed. He kneels on the shiny parquet floor, sporting a massive erection. Irene caresses his chest with the crop, stroking the tip over his right nipple, and Sherlock moans, throwing back his head and leaning into the touch. John sits up on the chaise lounge, looking at Sherlock somewhat predatory.

“Touch yourself.” He growls.

Sherlock's fist blindly finds his cock and starts to tug fiercely. He hasn't been allowed to come yesterday and therefore it only takes a few strokes until he can feel his balls tighten. Irene senses how close he is and starts to inflict precise little flicks of the crop to his nipples, moving down his chest until reaching his almost concave belly. The flicks get sharper there but Sherlock only makes a keening sound deep in his throat as his fist blurs on his shaft. He's leaking precome but it would feel perfect even without this lubrication.

“Look at me, you gorgeous filthy thing.” John pants and when their eyes meet Sherlock can see how affected John is despite having fucked the maid only an hour ago. His face is flushed and his eyes are dark, holding Sherlock's gaze.

“John, please, let me come... please.” Sherlock is begging but he doesn't care.

John suddenly gets up and leans forward, grabbing Sherlock's wrist to still his movements. But it's too late, Sherlock's whole body convulses as thick spurts of semen erupt from his cock, hitting John in the chest and almost in the face. Sherlock groans through gritted teeth as John crushes his bones but he can't stop it, not now, he's coming so hard he almost topples over. Well, he actually does topple over and is only stopped from crashing face down onto the floor by John's shoulder, against which he pants as he tries to suck some air into his lungs.

“You naughty, naughty boy. Look what a mess you made. Now Doctor Watson will have to punish you in earnest.” Irene sounds rather satisfied.


Sherlock ends up on his abused, bleeding back, lying on the table top with his arms stretched out above his head, bound together with black rope that's tied around one of the table's legs. His calves are tied to his thighs with bright red rope. His arse is resting on the table's edge. His legs are spread as his ankles are tied to two other table legs, exposing Sherlock beautifully.

John has decided to use the belt. He's already given Sherlock's still half-hard cock five hard lashes, and Sherlock tries to writhe and escape the next stroke but of course that's futile. He knows he still has fifteen lashes to endure. John has ordered him to count aloud.







“Please, John, please...” Sherlock is sobbing uncontrollably, thrashing his head form one side to the other.

“If you stop counting we'll start all over again, Sherlock.”

“Ni... nine.”


“TEN!” It's a shrill scream. Sherlock's cock looks already saw, swollen and bright red. “I promise, John, I promise... please...” Sherlock's voice is strained with pain and terror.

“I'll give you a short break now. Breath, Sherlock. This is all your fault, and you know that. I have to punish you when you don't obey me.” John gives Sherlock's abused cock a short hard squeeze before gently rolling his balls in his right palm, his middle finger dipping low between Sherlock's spread cheeks, tenderly massaging Sherlock's hole

“Yes, John.” Sherlock sighs.

“Ready for the next ten?”

“Yes, John. Please, John. I deserve it.”

When John is finished with the belt Sherlock is openly crying, his twitching body glistening with sweat.

“Thank you, John. Thank you.” He whispers again and again. John smiles down at him.

“You look so fucking hot Sherlock, so open, vulnerable, broken like this.” John bows down and kisses him very softly, stroking his tear-stained face. “Just one more go, then it's over.”

Sherlock nods weakly and closes his eyes. Irene hands John a thin short fibreglass cane. “Be careful. As I said, this can do severe damage. If you cut sinews or nerves in his arms he might loose the use of his hands. I'd say five strokes will be enough.”

John caresses the delicate skin of Sherlock's exposed inner arms before the first stroke. The broken skin shows a fine shallow cut and blood trickles down Sherlock's pale lean arms. As John hits Sherlock again and again Sherlock yells in pain and balls his hands into fists, pulling at his restrains. He's only bruising his wrists, though; Irene knows how to tie a man up.

After the fifth stroke Sherlock's arms are split open from shoulder joint to elbow. His chest is heaving as he tries desperately to suck in air between his screams.

“We should clean him up now before his wounds get infected.” Irene reminds John. But John can smell Sherlock's sweat and blood and musk and suddenly he knows that if he won't be fucking him right now his balls might explode. He's so hard he has trouble to unzip his trousers.

“Not yet. I going to fuck him first.” John has already walked over to Sherlock's exposed arse and now presses the head of his cock against Sherlock's yielding entrance. John unceremoniously pushes in all the way until he's fully seated, his jeans and pants still round his thighs. He's desperate to fuck Sherlock, who has no resistance left and just lets John claim him. John holds onto Sherlock's bound thighs as he fucks him rough and fast, plunging deep, then pulling almost all the way out. It's a brutal rhythm with which John hits Sherlock's prostate almost every time. Sherlock is leaking over his stomach while chanting John's name, only half-conscious due to pain and arousal.

“I think he might be coming again.” Irene, who is standing by and watches, states almost in awe, and that makes John only harder as he drives into Sherlock's willing body without remorse. “Get the plug,” he gasps out, and then he can feel his cock pulsing deep inside Sherlock, shooting load after load of hot come up his arse while Sherlock's cock twitches in sympathy. It's obviously not as much semen as before but still Sherlock manages to shoot pearly come all over his stomach and chest.

John only pulls out as Irene hands him the small black plug. He replaces his cock with it, sealing Sherlock before his come can leak out. They'll play with it later, at home.

“Ok, love, that was amazing. You're amazing. Just lie here, I'll clean you up and take care of you.” John gently pats Sherlock's hips before he starts to untie the ropes. Sherlock just murmurs his approval, totally compliant and reduced to making incoherent noises. His mind is wiped blank as he gives himself over to John's care.

“I'll send the maid with hot water and towels.” Irene offers before silently gliding out of the room. At the door, however, she turns around. “He's something special, Doctor Watson. Look after him.”

“I will.”

Chapter Text

Sherlock has a hard time on the cab ride back to 221b. Even as Irene had paid more attention to his back, and John to his cock, his arse hurts and sitting is uncomfortable. John had washed him and had tended to the welts and wounds, patched him up and rubbed soothing ointment into his skin, but still, Sherlock's whole body aches despite him being high on endorphins. The pain, however, is somehow eased by John's hand on his thigh, caressing his bandaged left knee. Sherlock needs John's help to get out of the cab and limps towards the door while the cabbie watches both of them with a suspicious look on his face.

Back at the flat, John gives Sherlock two ibuprofen, which he obediently washes down with a swig from the bottle of piss he'd filled in the morning.

“Are you tired?” John asks.

Sherlock actually needs a moment to answer that question. “No, not tired. Just... exhausted. Everything hurts.”

John nods, a small smile on his face. “Show me. I want to look at you.” He steps back and gives Sherlock room to undress. For the second time today, Sherlock neatly folds his suit and shirt and steps out of his pants.

“Turn around.” John's voice is somewhat rough as Sherlock turns his back to him. “Kneel.”

With a small sigh Sherlock sinks onto his knees in the middle of their living room. His back and upper arms are covered in gauze dressings. His cock is still sore from the beating with the belt. A bandage is wrapped around his left knee. His body looks like a battlefield.

John steps up behind him and carefully sets about to remove the patches. It twinges and Sherlock huffs in pain but knows better than to protest.

“God, you look gorgeous.” John whispers as he's finished and Sherlock's wounds are displayed in all their glory. His back is covered in a criss-cross pattern of bright red welts, some split open, not bleeding anymore but the shallow cuts reveal vulnerable flesh. The wounds to his upper arms are slightly deeper and must hurt like hell. John gets his mobile out and takes a picture of Sherlock crouching on the floor, head hanging low, like some Christian martyr in a medieval painting, bearing the marks of his suffering. He's so thin that his vertebrae are clearly visible beneath his white skin.

The box of nitril gloves is still sitting on the desk and John pulls one pair over his fingers. Then he sits back onto the sofa and switches on the telly. “Come here.” Sherlock shuffles backwards, not raising his head, until he's kneeling between John's spread thighs. He shivers.

“This will hurt. Try to be quiet or I'll have to gag you. Show me what you can endure.”

John's gloved fingers start stroking Sherlock's back, moving over welts and split skin, probing and pressing. It hurts – god, it hurts! But John doesn't stop when Sherlock groans in agony. He just fists Sherlock's curls and mumbles in Sherlock's ear. “I said, be quiet. Just take it. You are mine to do as I please, remember?”

Sherlock nods. John's hands reach around his upper arms and squeeze his biceps. Sherlock has to bite down on his lower lip until he can taste blood, his scream dying in his throat. He rocks slightly back and forth, his body squirming in agony until John starts to suck on his right earlobe. Despite the pain Sherlock can feel himself getting hard again. He calms down a fraction, enjoying the rare tenderness.

Until suddenly, John bites down onto the soft skin of his neck just below Sherlock's ear. Sherlock's whole body jerks but John's hands hold him in an iron grip. The noises Sherlock makes are delicious – a bitten of cry that subsides into a sob. He can only breath again as John gently starts to suck the spot he's just bruised.

Sherlock is still panting hard when John returns his attention to Sherlock's back. He slowly starts to bite and suck Sherlock's shoulders, licking damaged skin, kissing his welts. It feels amazing while it hurts like hell. John continues to run his hands over Sherlock's bruised body, slightly scratching up and down his back while watching some stupid talk show. Then he turns his attention to Sherlock's nipples, pinching them hard. By now, silent tears stream down Sherlock's face. But he keeps kneeling in front of John and lets him have his way.

Eventually, when Sherlock gets too loud and starts to seriously gasp in agony while sobbing uncontrollably, John orders him to stuff his pants into his mouth. Sherlock crawls forward and does as he's told.

“Turn around.” John orders.

Sherlock does, sitting back on his arse, his arms supporting him behind his back. His mouth is stuffed with his own underwear as tears dry on his face. Despite the pain he's hard and leaking, his erection jutting out in front of him, red and swollen.

“Fuck your fist. Show me what a horny boy you are. How much you want it.”

Sherlock's cock is still raw and chafed from John's beating. Nevertheless, he wraps his right hand around his shaft and starts to stroke. Sherlock would appreciate some lube to ease the soreness but is sure that John won't allow him even this little comfort, and as he's gagged he can't ask for it.

“Don't come again before you are allowed to.” John reminds him. His gaze moves between the telly and Sherlock wanking himself for his entertainment. He let's Sherlock stir for almost half an hour, until he's sobbing again because his misused cock is by now burning.

“Sh, love. Does it hurt so badly?” John asks softly.

Sherlock nods, his gaze blinded by tears.

“Ok, stop it, I'll get you some balm.”

Sherlock is entirely grateful that he's allowed to stop stroking himself. Until John returns with a small tin; it has some Asian looking letters on its lid and when John opens it Sherlock can smell the characteristic sharp odour of tiger balm. John puts some of it on his gloved left hand despite Sherlock furiously shaking his head and trying to move away from him. But John just grabs Sherlock's hair again with his right hand and holds him in place while wrapping his left hand around his cock. The pain searing through Sherlock's body at the contact makes him collapse backwards onto the floor.

John smiles a dark smile as Sherlock tries to squirm away from him on his lacerated back, making choking noises while his limbs start to twitch uncontrollably. Instead of letting go, John grabs his cock hard and squeezes. “Stop it right now, Sherlock, or you will be really sorry.”

Sherlock tries to speak, to beg, but can't because his mouth is stuffed with cotton. John doesn't let go of him but continues to touch him until Sherlock stops thrashing as the agony paralyses him. He still screams into his gag, his eyes almost popping out of their sockets in his reddened face.

“This hurts rather badly, I imagine.” John grins wickedly as Sherlock nods weakly. John massages the balm onto Sherlock's cock and the cooling-burning sensation makes Sherlock almost faint. When John eventually removes his hand Sherlock is so grateful he wants to lie down at John's feet and thank him for having mercy.

“Why am I doing all the work, I wonder. Come on, get some of this onto your fingers and fist your cock for me.” Sherlock can't. He violently shakes his head, but suddenly John is standing above him and steps onto his left hand that is scrambling on the floor for purchase. Sherlock jerks up and tries to pull his palm away as John grinds down his heel. He can feel his metacarpal bones being crushed brutally.

“You do as you are told or I'll start breaking your fingers one by one. See how you'll play the violin with that.”

Sherlock stares up at John and is shocked by the cruel determination he sees in his face. He slowly reaches out for the tin; John releases his hand.

When Sherlock has rubbed some balm onto his fingers and starts to stroke himself John sits back on the couch and watches. Sherlock is squatting on the floor, crying, his face blotchy, his chest heaving, his belly sucked in in pure agony, but he does as he's told despite the pain. The fabric of his pants in his mouth have darkened with spit, tears and perhaps blood.

John savours the sight of a totally broken Sherlock at his mercy. He's sure he could do absolutely anything to him right now, and this thought is intoxicating. To capture this moment for posterity John takes out his phone again. Sherlock briefly closes his eyes when John starts filming him but a low disapproving chuckle from John make his eyes snap open again. Sherlock stares into the camera as sweat breaks out all over his body from the burning pain he's forced to inflict upon himself.

“Imagine what your brother will think when he hacks my phone again and finds this little video. You think he'll like what he sees? I bet he does. I bet he's fantasised about this, you, on the floor, hurting and bleeding. I think I might invite him over when you are a bit more advanced, to show him your progress.”

And despite the searing pain in his crotch Sherlock can feel himself getting hard again. Of course John notices as well and smiles.

“God, Sherlock, it does turn you on when you fantasise about your own brother. You filthy thing. I'll make you show him your raw red arse with my come leaking out of it, and you will love it, you will spread yourself wide open for your brother and beg him to finger you with his gloved hands while you are kneeling on the floor, moaning like the dirty slut you are.”

Sherlock's hand on his cock speeds up at John's words and a dazed expression settles on his face.

“I'll show him all the welts and bruises on your body and tell him in detail what I did to you. How I hit you with a hairbrush until you passed out. How I flogged you with my belt over the kitchen table. How you begged me for it, to hit you really hard, to make you hurt.”

Sherlock's fist blurs on his cock as he pushes up into the slippery, burning tightness. Sweat and tears burn in his eyes. He's holding himself up on one arm and the hand John has stepped on is swollen and hurts but nevertheless, he feel his orgasm approaching. He tries to warn John, tries to ask for permission, but his mouth is full of wet cotton and his head is spinning and this feels so god while John whispers all those dirty things he's been thinking about but never dared to act upon.

This time Sherlock is able to calm himself as John grabs his wrist and pulls his hand away from his cock. John is kneeling between his spread thighs and gently removes the gag while brushing his damp hair from his forehead. Sherlock is so grateful he wants to melt against John's body and curl up there until the ache passes. And John pulls him close and strokes his hair for a few minutes and Sherlock just breathes and sobs as he sinks even deeper into subspace.

“I've got you, Sherlock, it's ok, I've got you.”


The day ends with Sherlock obediently draped over their kitchen table. John has removed the plug and made Sherlock lick it clean. Sherlock groaned as he tasted John on his tongue. Now John is watching his come dribble out of Sherlock's hole, pushing it back in when it starts to run down Sherlock's crack. He's still using the tiger balm but Sherlock has learned to breath through the throbbing burn.

“I could do this all night.” John says in a dreamy voice. “My finger breaching you... god, the sight of it. My white come seeping out of your red hole. I can feel your pulse down here, Sherlock.”

Sherlock moans and rocks back onto John's finger. He can now take him quite easily.

“Do you remember that I want to put my whole fist inside you?” John's voice is dark and smooth, promising sweet agony.

Sherlock nods. “Yes, John.” His voice is raw from screaming into the gag earlier.

“Do you want that too?”

Sherlock nods again. Anything; he'll want everything John wants. “Yes, John.” He gasps as John adds another finger, pushing in deep.

“Well, not today. I just want to play with your hole a little while longer.” John continues to finger Sherlock until he gets thirsty and takes a beer from the fridge. “Try to hold it inside.” John asks as he gets up, and Sherlock does, clenching his sphincter to not let any of John's come escape. After John has sat down again onto his chair he only teases Sherlock's hole with the tip of his forefinger while he sips his beer.

“Hm, you look delicious. Your hole is so red and swollen. Are you sore?”

“A bit.”

“I won't fuck you today again, then.” John says gently and Sherlock's sigh in response is equal part sorry and relieved. “But I've been so hard all afternoon I have to come again. And you are so beautiful like this.” John's finger caresses Sherlock's perineum. He has put cloth pins on Sherlock's ballsack again and teasingly flips against them. Sherlock moans. He's still hard as well.

“Can you finger yourself a bit for me. I need my hands for myself.” John asks as he unzips.

The angel is awkward as Sherlock is lying on his belly but he manages to put his index finger inside him up to the second knuckle. He plays with his hole, rotating his finger, and can feel John's come inside himself. He hears John behind him, taking another swig of beer and removing the gloves before he starts fisting his cock hard and fast.

Sherlock can smell him and his mouth waters. He pushes in deeper, almost dislocating his shoulder.

“I'd love to come all over your back but your wounds are too fresh. I won't risk infection. God, but imagining you covered in my come... Jesus, Sherlock, what are you doing to me.” Sherlock is panting as hard by now as John is.

“Did you like licking her arse?” John asks suddenly, and Sherlock can hear how aroused he is.


“The next arse you'll eat out will be mine. I'll have you on it for hours, until your jaw hurts so badly that you won't be able to talk for the rest of the day. What a way to shut that mouth of yours up for good, your tongue up my arse.”

Sherlock shudders and writhes on the table. His balls are pulled tight against his body, the cloth pins causing a sharp pain on that sensitive spot.

“Get up, on your knees, I want to come on your face.” John huffs and Sherlock hurries to scramble to his feet as to not miss John's load. He has barely sunken onto his knees in front of John as the first spurt of hot come hits his cheek. Sherlock opens his mouth wide to catch as much as he can.

When he's spent John admires his work. Sherlock's face and hair are streaked with glistening pearly come. “Lovely...” John murmurs, reaching down. It only needs a few strokes of Sherlock's abused cock to wring the second orgasm that day from him. He comes all over the kitchen floor and is elated as John orders him to lick it up. Sherlock crawls onto his hands and knees as he eagerly slurps his semen off the linoleum.

“Thank you John. But I'm so thirsty, John. Please, can I drink some more piss.” Sherlock begs John, looking up at him through his lashes. John takes the bottle from the fridge again and pours the yellow liquid down Sherlock's throat. He swallows greedily until the bottle is empty. But John has had a beer after all, so he fills it up again while Sherlock holds it, licking John's cock clean when he's finished.

“You are turning out to be quite the enthusiastic toilet slut. I never imagined...”

Afterwards, John takes Sherlock to the bathroom, washes him carefully with lukewarm water, paying especially tender attention to his groin and arse to remove all the residue of the tiger balm before patching his wounds up again.

“I think you need some rest now. You'll be allowed to sleep in your bed tonight, but I'll tie you up and plug you. Before that, however, you need some food. Yes, Sherlock, you do. But I'll make you lick it from a bowl on the floor like a dog with your hands cuffed to the radiator.” John pets Sherlock's head while looking directly into his eyes.

Sherlock's pupils dilate. He likes this idea very much.

Chapter Text

John is true to his word. He cuffs Sherlock naked to the radiator in their kitchen (with handcuffs Sherlock has nicked from Lestrade ages ago) before going out to get some Chinese. At least John locks the door; no use Mrs Hudson finding Sherlock in his current state, well fucked, abused and beaten raw.

At the restaurant, John chooses extra hot fried rice for Sherlock, which John serves him in a bowl on the kitchen floor, next to his chair. John himself sits at the table above Sherlock, looking down from time to time. When Sherlock hesitates, John kicks the bowl in Sherlock's direction, indicating him to get to work on his dinner.

John has uncuffed Sherlock from the radiator, but now his wrists are tied with gaffer tape behind his back. Sherlock can't use his hands to brace himself, he has to rely solely on his abdominal muscles to balance his weight, which makes the process of eating rather sloppy and very messy. Rice and vegetable drop onto the floor, and quickly Sherlock's face is smeared with greasy stains. The longer it takes, the harder it becomes for Sherlock to hold himself up, and after about ten minutes he almost slumps face down into the bowl. He pants into the mess he's made, and John can see the effort it takes Sherlock to get up again. Rice and sauce stick to his face and hair, filling his nostrils; his chin and cheeks are glistening with fat.
Under different circumstances, John would beat him until he'll eat up, but right now John knows that another thrashing would just be impossible to bear. Sherlock's wounds are too fresh and have to heal a bit before any form of corporal punishment can be undertaken. So John eats his fried noodles in silence while watching Sherlock trying to get some food inside himself, thinking about a suitably harsh penalty. He can see, however, that Sherlock is doing his best to eat up.

Eventually, John bows down and grabs Sherlock's curls, kicking the bowl away. Sherlock is grateful for John's help, even if John pulling his hair hurts. But instead of allowing him to get up, John pushes Sherlock's face down onto the floor and directs him him to lick the floor clean. Sherlock struggles to obey as his tongue swipes over the not to clean linoleum. When all the rice is gone, John starts dropping some of his own noodles, forcing Sherlock to slurp them up as well. Sherlock hurries to comply, eagerly shuffling forward to please John, accepting his place as some sort of human bin and nothing more.

Sherlock's hole is still empty as it has suffered from the Tiger Balm. A plug might be too much right now, John reckons, but nonetheless he wants to put something inside Sherlock. His gaze finds his chop sticks on the table. Now, that could be a nice idea...

“Hold still.” John says as he grabs Sherlock's hips and slightly spreads his legs so Sherlock's arse is raised in the air while his face rests on the dirty floor. Very slowly John inserts one of his chop sticks into Sherlock's twitching anus. It slides in easily. When it's half-way up Sherlock's rectum, John takes another; Sherlock ends up with all four chop sticks up his arse, panting with excitement. John admires his work before starting to rotate the sticks, wiggling them, pushing them in and out, careful not to hurt and penetrate Sherlock's intestinal tract. Sherlock stays very still, just breathes and lets John use his hole.

“You look delicious.” John hums in appreciation, lazily teasing Sherlock with the chop sticks. “This is so depraved and yet you are enjoying it.” Sherlock nods and moans in response, low and needy. “If I push to hard, I might seriously harm you. Or one of the sticks could slide fully inside you. We'd have to go to A&E to remove it. Imagine all the nurses and doctors giggling and joking about the stupid fag who fucked himself with chops sticks until one ended up his arse. God, the humiliation... I can see you blushing all over, Sherlock. I'm sure some nurses would probe your anus with gloved fingers, trying to locate the chop stick, perhaps even looking for other objects. Hm, doctors might want to take a good look as well, perhaps even taking pictures?”

Sherlock moans again. His cock has started to get hard at John's words, dripping precome onto the floor. John doesn't bother to give him even a few strokes, though, just arches an eyebrow and makes Sherlock lick up the salty, wet drops as well.

This gives John an idea. "I want you to wet yourself, Sherlock, right here, in front of me. Come on, kneel up." John pulls Sherlock up on his knees; his cock hangs full and heavy between his legs. Sherlock has to take a few deep breaths to calm himself down. He needs to relax if this is going to work. To encourage him, John pinches his left nipple very hard. Sherlock shudders and releases a few drops of piss. "There you go, you gorgeous, filthy thing. Hm, that's lovely, isn't it? To just let it all out?" Sherlock nods as hot urine runs down his thigh. Looking down, Sherlock gasps at the sight.

After getting started it becomes easier. He just lets it flow, quickly kneeling in a puddle of cooling piss. John gets a teatowel and starts to mop up a bit of the urine, only to wring the cloth out above Sherlock's head. Piss starts to drip down his face as John repeats it again and again. Sherlock pants and opens his mouth to catch some drops. His dish had been very spicy; Sherlock is thirsty.

“You want it straight form the tab?” John asks while opening his own fly. Sherlock scoots closer, greedily opening his mouth, feeling the chop sticks still inside himself as he moves. John presses the tip of his soft cock onto Sherlock's lower lip and just lets his urine flood Sherlock's mouth. He slurps it down with gusto and even sucks John's glans into his mouth to actually milk John's cock with his lips. John still has one hand in his hair to steady him and keep him from swallowing him down. This is not supposed to be a blow job.

Afterwards, Sherlock is not allowed to clean up; John only rubs him down with a clean towel before he yanks him to his feet and drags him to the bedroom. Walking is awkward with the long chop sticks still inside him, so Sherlock can only scuttle down the corridor. Despite his bruises, Sherlock will not sleep in the bed tonight. He has to curl up on a blanket John throws him onto the wooden floor before cuffing Sherlock's wrists around one foot of the bed to keep him in place.

Slowly, John starts to extract the chop sticks one after another, only to replace them with a medium sized smooth glass plug afterwards. Then John leaves Sherlock to take a shower and watch some telly in the quiet sitting room. The knowledge of Sherlock on the floor next to the bed is both reassuring and very arousing.

When John eventually goes to bed that night, Sherlock has rolled up on the rug on his side and is breathing evenly. His pale body is bruised and covered in bandages, his hole stuffed and his face dirty. He looks used and squalid but still ethereal and beautiful. John can't wait to continue to break him. Such a challenge; such a reward.

The next morning, Sherlock is woken by John rubbing his impressive morning wood against the crack of his arse. Before he's even fully awake, John has pulled the plug out and presses his big cock inside Sherlock, who just gasps as he tries to relax to accommodate John's quite substantial girth. John grabs Sherlock's hips and only stills briefly when seated fully inside. Sherlock is on his knees in front of him, his bruised back bowed and stretched as he's still tied to the bedpost. His vertebrae are popping out from under smooth pale skin; even his ribs are quite visible like this, as skin is pulled taught under John's hands.

“God, you are still so fucking tight. Can you feel me?”

Sherlock, somewhat drowsy, just manages to huff out: “Yes...”

“Beg me to fuck you.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, then another. “Fuck me, John. Please, fuck me hard.”

And John does, slamming into Sherlock's shivering body rough and fast, chasing just his own orgasm. Sherlock's half-hard cock hangs neglected between his legs as John is not bothering with him. Thankfully, John has at least used lube this time.

Bowing down over Sherlock's back, he growls into Sherlock's ear: “I want to hear you beg some more.”

“Please, John, use me.” Sherlock pants. “Do what you like with me. Fuck my hole, my mouth... I'll take it. Everything... stuff me with your cock... please, I need it so badly. I want to be your good slut, just give me what I deserve. Oh god, it hurts... John, please, it hurts so good. Make me bleed, make me cry. Please, please...!”

Sherlock is almost yelling by now as John plunges into him, speeding up as he can feel his orgasm approaching. He comes buried deep inside Sherlock, pulsing load after load before slumping over Sherlock's sweaty back to recover and get his breath back. When John eventually pulls out he watches his come dribble from Sherlock's hole, running down his quivering thighs.

“You filthy whore, look at you, come leaking from your well-fucked arse. Come over here, clean me up with your mouth.”


Sherlock spends the day chained to the bed, on his knees, servicing John with his mouth. There are cloth pins on his ballsac and silver clamps on his nipples; John pulls on the heavy chain dangling down over Sherlock's chest now and then, making Sherlock first gasp and later just sigh in agony. When Sherlock is not sucking John's cock he's licking at his arse, pushing his tongue deep inside John's body until he thinks he might have dislocated his jaw.

Around midday John unties him and takes him to the bathroom to clean him up. John washes Sherlock's face, torso and groin with a damp cloth before giving him another enema. Only this time, he has Sherlock fill the bag with his own piss.

As Sherlock is crouching on his hands and knees in the tub John makes him beg again. "What do you want, Sherlock, tell me?"

Sherlock blushes as he mumbles: “Please, John, I am dirty. Give me my own piss. Make me clean.” And John does, opening the nozzle to watch the yellow liquid stream inside Sherlock's welcoming body. Sherlock writhes and moans as he feels his own urine drip back inside himself and expand his bowels.

“Tell me how this feels?” John asks in a low voice when the bag is empty and Sherlock has been allowed to get up on his knees, the nozzle replaced with the plug once again.

“Incredibly.” Sherlock breaths. “I can feel my own piss slosh around inside myself. God, John, this... is so hot, please, let me come... please.” He actually whimpers with need.

John starts to stroke Sherlock's hard and leaking cock with one hand while he massages Sherlock's rounded belly with the other. Sherlock bucks into his fist, throwing his head back, almost sobbing with pleasure. His balls are pulled tight and the pins must hurt like hell, but he doesn't seem so care.

“How long do you think you can hold it?” John asks and Sherlock just shakes his head and whispers “It doesn't matter.”

“Yes, it does. You still have open wounds on your body. I won't risk an infection.”

“I can keep it a while longer.” Sherlock gasps. “I promise. Just, please, John, don't stop.”

But when John can feel cramps setting in in Sherlock's abdomen he stops wanking Sherlock and orders him to get over onto the toilet, leaving him alone so that he can remove the plug himself.

“Wash yourself afterwards.”


Because he's been a good boy, John feeds Sherlock some oranges and apple slices afterwards and even allows him to drink some water. But Sherlock misses the salty taste of piss, though, and keeps kneeling onto the floor until John has finally mercy and gives him his daily dose of urine, very pleased to watch Sherlock gulp down a whole pint of steaming hot piss.

"Thank you, John." He sighs happily, quite content with having become some sort of human urinal.


John fucks Sherlock twice more this day, always hard, deep and brutal. His hole is read and burning by the end of the day, and finally John allows him to come, watching while Sherlock fucks his own fist. The cloth pins are still in place, as is the glass plug, and John slaps Sherlock's face again and again, calling him a filthy whore and a needy slut, while Sherlock answers with “Yes, John, sorry, John”, begging for more. His cheeks burn and show bright red marks; he even bit his lip. He shudders when John eventually removes the cloth pins and finally comes as sharp pain shoots up his spine. The nipple clamps stay in place.

When he's finished, John makes him rub his come all over his face and take a selfie while John pulls the chain attached to the nipple clamps tight around his fist.

“Shall we send this to your brother, hm? Would you like to show him what a dirty comeslut you've become?”

“Please, John, don't...” Sherlock whispers, suddenly too afraid to keep hi smouth shut.

This earns Sherlock another enema, this time spiced with cayenne pepper and chili oil. He cries for hours afterwards, chained to the bed again, crouching on the hard floor, blindfolded and gagged. The rubber ball of the gag has been dipped in chili powder as well, and John had even rubbed it into Sherlock's eyes before tying a scarf around his head. His whole body burns as if on fire but John just watches him, amused.

Sherlock doesn't sleep that night but writhes in agony on the floor.

John loves it.


The next morning, when John removes the blindfold and the gag, Sherlock's lips are sore and his eyes are red-rimmed, puffy and swollen. He begs John on his knees to forgive his impertinence, sobbing, crouching at John's feed, promising to never disagree again. John allows him to suck him off to make good, filming his efforts with his phone.

“Relax your throat.” John strokes Sherlock's hair back as he fucks his mouth. He has put Sherlock on the bed, turned on his back, and kneels above his body, pushing his cock deep into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock's hands are still cuffed and tied to the headboard, arms stretched above his head. His legs are tied together at the ankles and bound to the the end of the bed.

He drools but tries to relax to swallow even more. Thick beads of spit cling to John's cock when he pulls out, only to push back in regardless of Sherlock's coughing; until Sherlock almost chokes. God, the sounds he makes, a low, desperate keen of pleasure that vibrates through John's body. John stays fully seated for long moments to enjoy the feeling of absolute control, relishing the wet, hot heat, even pinching Sherlock's nose so he has no choice but to open wide. When Sherlock does, John makes him suck in his balls as well until Sherlock's mouth is stuffed with cock. Sherlock almost suffocates while trying to swallow all of it, cock and balls, making undignified slurping noises. John pushes in deeper and deeper until he eventually pulls out and comes all over Sherlock's face; he doesn't clean him up but just lets him lie there on the bed, come drying on his face.

“Tell me what you are?”

“I am your comeslut.” Sherlock sobs into the camera as ejaculate drips out of his mouth, running down his chin.


As it has been two days now, John turns Sherlock over on his belly and starts to remove the bandages covering his welts. To keep Sherlock even more under control, John has once again pulled a plastic bag over Sherlock's head. It gets smeared with come on the inside as Sherlock tries to even his breathing to stay conscious. He's lying in wet, gooey heat, inhaling John's semen with every breath, reminding him what he's there for.

The wounds are healed by now but make a beatiful pattern on Sherlock's back, red scars criss-crossing on pale, smooth skin. John strokes the marks tenderly with gloved fingers, telling Sherlock how awesome he looks.

John's fingers trail lower and lower over Sherlock's back until they reach Sherlock's arse cheeks. John slowly encircles the plug a few times before pulling it out in one go, making Sherlock gasp in shock. He can feel his hole twitch at the sudden emptiness and whimpers.

"Don't worry, I'll finger you instead."

But before he starts, John removes the bag and gives Sherlock the plug to suck on insted. He eagerly swallows it, tasting his own musk and John's come.

"God, you are starting to become the perfect fucktoy." John whispers as he steadily pushes two gloved fingers inside Sherlock's rectum. It's especially tight as Sherlock isn't able to spread his legs and John doesn't use any lube, only his spit, dropping dollops of saliva now and then on Sherlock's hole. But that doesn't seem to be enough for John.

“Clench you hole. Make it difficult for me. Don't be a slut.”

Sherlock desperately wants to open up to John, but as John orders him to put up resistance, he does, tightening his ring of muscle.

He bites down onto the plug and groans in pain when John forces a third finger inside him, the stretch of Sherlock's anus deliciously enwrapping John's knuckles. Moving in and out, John can hear Sherlock gasps in agony, especially as John starts to spread the fingers inside Sherlock, opening him up. Sherlock grunts and John can see his sphincter flutter as it gives way and relaxes.

“Oh, you want to be wide open and gaping, I see.” John grins as he reaches over for the speculum sitting on the bedside cabinet, gleaming in the sunlight filtering through the window. Sherlock remembers their first session and shudders. Luckily, this time the device slides in much more easy. Thank god John has finally used some lube.

John slowly opens Sherlock up, who shivers against the cool air that hits places usually not that exposed.

“God, this is hot.” John sighs, again rubbing his fingertips over Sherlock's stretched rim.

Until the doorbell rings.

Suddenly, John is gone, leaving Sherlock tied up and spread open on the bed. The door is left ajar, so Sherlock can hear Lestrade coming up the stairs.

“You think he's ready?” Lestrade asks with a smirk in his voice.

“As ready as he'll ever be.” John answers as he leads Greg down the hall.

“Well, you know, I'm just road testing. It's not me you have to convince, it's Mycroft.”

Lestrade actually brims with anticipation as they enter the bedroom. The sight awaiting him takes his breath away.

Chapter Text

Lestrade steps up to the bed on which Sherlock lies, tied down, with a speculum up his arse, spreading him open, dried come on his face and in his hair, sucking on a butt plug.

“Wow, I see... You have made some progress with him.” Lestrade voice shakes with appreciation. He slowly circles Sherlock's stretched hole with his index finger a few times, before slowly inserting three fingers into his gaping anus. When Greg's fingers brush the soft, sensitive, pink walls of Sherlock's rectum, Sherlock moans, low and needy.

“God, you reduced him to a drooling fucktoy. Does he take everything with pleasure, or do you have to push him a bit.” Lestrade isn't looking at John, he stares down onto his hand being swallowed by Sherlock's body.

“Well, you know him, Greg. He's difficult. I have to be quite firm with him.”

“Have you put your whole hand inside him yet?” Lestrade asks as his fingers tease Sherlock's hole.

“No, he's not ready for that. But, as you can see, we are working on getting there.”

“Mycroft is getting a little bit impatient by now. Irene phoned him and reported your session. Afterwards, Mycroft had a rent boy come over, and it got a bit out of hand – so to speak.” Greg smirks. “We had to tie that whore down in the end. You know, Mycroft doesn't like that very much. He wants them ready and gagging for it, not crying and spluttering 'Uh, that hurts, nonono...” Greg imitates a camp high whine and both men laugh. “One of Mycroft's minions had to take that slut to his discreet private clinic afterwards. Not so much because of the fisting but because of the beating. Mycroft was... agitated. Got pretty nasty. The cane he uses is quite fierce. That boy passed out several times during the session. Even bled on the upholstery of the car. Mycroft was not amused. That boy won't work for some time in the future. Luckily, Mycroft had something on his pimp to shut him up from complaining, otherwise...” Greg shrugs, all the while caressing Sherlock's open anus.

John looks grave.“You listening, Sherlock? See how patient I am with you? You should thank your brother on your knees that he got me to train you. Well, you will thank him on your knees... when you're finally worth it.”

John just grins when he sees the utter confusion on Sherlock's face. “I'll explain it later. Just for now, we struck a deal, your brother and I, when he first abducted me. He didn't really offer me money, it was something much more intimate. Because, like you, he doesn't consult amateurs.”

“You mean, he didn't know...?” Greg sounds partly astonished, partly amused. Then his fingers find Sherlock's exposed prostate and press down. Sherlock moans loudly and almost arches of the bed. “Shut it, whore.” Greg barks, giving Sherlock's arse a fierce slap with his free hand. The other continues to rub the knot of nerves. With Sherlock writhing beneath him, humping his cock on the duvet, Greg turns expectantly towards John.

“No, Sherlock thought he was very clever, as if he was kind of seducing me...” John explains.

Both men snicker; Sherlock feels his cheeks flush bright red as his cock drips precome on the bedsheets, making him squirm in the cold wet spot.

“Look, he's even blushing. Never dreamt to see the day...” Greg muses.

“Wanna see him blush some more?” John offers darkly.

“Oh god, yes.” Greg breathes.

“I think a good long thrashing will make his cheeks glow nicely.”

Greg just grins even more wickedly as he removes his fingers. “By the way, I like it that you don't overuse lube.” He says while pulling his belt out of its loops.

“Thought he better not get used to it too much. I don't want to spoil him.” John retorts.

Greg nods approvingly before wrapping his belt around his fist, pulling it tight. Sherlock shudders and closes his eyes as Lestrade begins to viciously beat his buttocks. After the first ten lashes the plug is removed from Sherlock's mouth. “I want to hear you scream and sob.” Greg declares, and sets to work again. The hard smacks echo through the bedroom, leather sharply licking on sensitive bare flesh.

Sherlock sobs. He cries. He begs – but not for less, for more. Greg shoots John an amazed glance as he delivers yet another ten thrashes for good measure on Sherlock's already red arse. After a few more strokes, however, Greg's arm starts to hurt.

“Can I fuck him?” He asks in a rough voice.

“Be my guest.” John answers, as if politely offering snacks.

Sherlock feels slight panic mixed with arousal as Greg takes his trousers of and starts to climb onto the bed. But when he squats above Sherlock's thighs he finds the angle unsatisfactory; Sherlock is lying flat on his belly, making penetration difficult. Therefore, John decides to untie Sherlock's ankles. When his legs are free, Sherlock eagerly clambers onto his knees, spreads his legs and pushes his arse high up in the air.

“Wow, you really did good work here, John. Look at this slut, offering his pretty arse like a bitch in heat.”

John presses a condom wrapper into Greg's hand, who rips it open quickly and starts to roll it on, much to Sherlock's dismay.

“I want your come inside me, please, John, let him come inside me...” The kick to his arse he earns for this demand nearly sends Sherlock off balance.

“You shut it, fucktoy. Who comes inside you is none of your business. You are just a hole. Repeat it: I am just a hole.”

“I am just a hole, John, for you to use. Sorry, John.” Sherlock mumbles; he's sure the kick will give him a large black bruise within the next hour. He loves it, and will wear it with pride. He even imagines John ordering him to show it off, perhaps to Miss Adler at his next visit.

“I'd actually would quite like that.” Greg remarks as he slowly removes the speculum form Sherlock's arse. Sherlock lets out a low moan, both a response to removing the instrument and to Greg's offer to shoot his load up his body.

“You are too kind, Greg. I'm not sure he has earned such a treat.” John still sound sceptical.

Sherlock wants to beg, to trade, to promise John a reward if he is allowed this favour, but the pain in his arse reminds him of his position and he stays quiet instead.

“Let me indulge once in a while.” Greg retorts, putting the condom aside.

Sherlock's empty hole gapes for a few seconds, then flutters shut. It looks deliciously vulnerable. Greg can't help himself, he bows down and sucks while his right hand sneaks between Sherlock's spread legs and starts to massage his balls. Sherlock gasps and almost comes at once from the sudden stimulation, so deprived is he of another man's touch. But Greg senses his arousal just in time and squeezes his balls so fiercely that Sherlock screams and tears spring to his eyes. He might be pissing blood for the next few days, if he would be allowed to piss at all. Sherlock can imagine John already pondering an adequate additional punishment for demanding Lestrade's come, and denying Sherlock to empty himself might be one idea he entertains.

But for now, Sherlock savours Greg sucking him a bit more, even probing Sherlock's loose hole with his tongue. When Greg eventually removes his mouth and replaces it with his cock, Sherlock's rectum is loose and greedily suck the fat glans in. Lestrade is big, even bigger than John, almost freakishly large, and Sherlock shudders and keens while Greg steadily pushes in until he's seated ball's deep into Sherlock's body.

“Yes, please, yes... god, you are so big, oh my god. Please!” Sherlock babbles and gasps while being filled to the brim, his hands still tied to the headboard. He is unable to put up any resistance to what the men do to him.

“Hmm, he's still so tight.” Lestrade sighs, lazily caressing Sherlock's reddened arsecheeks with one hand.

“Well, you are only the second man to fuck him, Greg.” John says. “But I'm sure, in a few weeks, he'll be able to take us both at the same time.

At this prospect, Greg starts to thrust rhythmically, setting a quick pace. It feels like Sherlock might be split in half as Greg ruthlessly pounds into his willing but not quite adjusted body. John watches the scene, palming his rapidly hardening cock through his jeans.

“There's still one hole unused.” Greg suggests, slightly out of breath.

John smiles darkly as he unzips and scoots up on the bed. He deftly unties Sherlock's hands and stuffs a pillow against the headboard to lean back against, offering Sherlock his heard leaking cock, just a few inches away from Sherlock's greedy mouth. Even as Sherlock's arms are shaking from being tied up for long hours, he nevertheless pushes up on his elbows and swallows the offered cock as if it was the most tasty sweet he's ever encountered. Despite his eagerness, John still grabs the curls at the back of Sherlock's head to pull him down until his nose is buried in John's wiry pubic hair. Greg pounding inside him from behind shoves John's cock even deeper down Sherlock's throat , and Sherlock splutters and chokes with every thrust but sucks as if his life depends on it.

When John comes, Sherlock swallows every drop, licking the glans clean, his lips massaging the ridge of John's cock and suckling the foreskin until John withdraws.

“God, what a comeslut you've made of him. I'd never thought he might have such an appetite for cock... you should rent him out. Why not make a few bobs from that? Gives him some more experience...”

“Might as well.”John smiles a devilish smile as he turns onto his stomach and pushes his arse up into Sherlock's face to continue his oral service, this time by licking John's arsehole. Sherlock sets to work with dedication, imagining being forced to suck off a row of strangers until his face, mouth and belly are filled with their come. The taste of John's arse does the rest as Sherlock pushes his peaked, stiff tongue deep inside him; his orgasm crashes over him, unstoppable even by the fear of the severe punishment John will surely deal out for this transgression. Greg feels Sherlock's muscles clench and speeds up his thrusts, fucking Sherlock so hard that he sees stars and has difficulty breathing as his face is pushed deep between John's buttocks.

“We could bring him down to one of the holding cells some Saturday night.” Greg grunts as he has eventually stilled. “When we have some heavies in. They'd love to fuck the living daylights out of the world's only consulting detective.” He doesn't withdraw his cock, though, but lets it soften inside Sherlock.

“Just give us a call.” John offers, at which Sherlock raises his head, half dreading and half desiring this idea. John has to remind him of his duty. “Back down, you are not finished yet. Don't you get overexcited by the prospect of getting fucked stupid by some East End thugs. First you have to learn how to please me.”

To proof his willingness, Sherlock greedily continues sucking on John's rectum. He can feel Greg shift a bit behind him and suddenly something warm floods his arse. Sherlock is by now so used to liquid sloshing around in his bowels that he just moans and lasciviously starts to squirm against the sheets he'd already decorated with his come. The friction is cool and slippery and feels so exquisite that he hopes John will let him lie here forever.

“I'm filling his lovely arse with my piss, John, and look at this horny slut, rubbing himself against the mattress as if he didn't come bare five minutes ago.”

“Take it, Sherlock.” John orders, finally moving away. He turns back around and watches Greg emptying his full bladder inside Sherlock's anus. “Try to keep it inside. I prepared you for this.”

Sherlock desperately clenches his hole when Greg finally pulls out, but all the plugs, the fingering, the speculum and last but not least Greg's enormous cock have stretched him so much that it is no use. After a few moments, Greg's piss, mixed with his come, starts to ooze out of Sherlock, slowly running over his balls and dripping down the back of his thighs. He is sobbing excuses as John crawls away for him. Both men stand next the bed, watching Sherlock soil the already ruined sheets with piss and more come.

“Oh, Sherlock, we tried that. Look at the mess you made. I'm so disappointed. Greg's piss, so generously provided, just streaming out of your hole. I get the impression you don't cherish his gift.”

“I'm sorry, John. Greg, I'm so sorry. I'm not worthy of your attention. Punish me any way you like. I want to become a good piss slut, please.”

“Speaking of...” Greg says, his voice hard and unforgiving, “now that the linen are soaked anyway, piss yourself like the dirty slut you are.” As encouragement, John gives Sherlock another hard kick, and this time, he falls onto his side; a long streak of piss squirts out of his arse. Sherlock spreads his legs so that John and Greg get a good look and - quite naturally by now, due to John's training – urine starts to flow from his soft cock until he's lying in a pool of piss that slowly soaks the sheets. The sensation of piss streaming out front and behind, mingled with the humiliation of being forced to do this in front of other people, makes Sherlock's head spin in a mixture of mortification and arousal.

When his bladder is empty, John makes Sherlock clean up Greg's cock with his mouth, licking away the residue of piss, lube and come before Lestrade gets dressed again and leaves, shaking John's hand and promising to report Sherlock's progress back to Mycroft.

When John returns to the bedroom, Sherlock hasn't moved. He still kneels in his and Greg's come and piss on the edge of the mattress

“You are totally useless, Sherlock. You can't even hold in another man's piss and come for a short while.” John scolds him coldly, his voice dripping with disdain.

Sherlock has no words to reply to that. He just pulls the soiled, wet sheets around himself and crawls off the bed, crouching at John's feet.

“Help me learn my place, John”, is all he mumbles.

John grabs a fistful of damp curls and brutally jerks Sherlock's head up, slapping his face again and again while hissing: “It's your own fault, you know that, don't you, Sherlock? Your own damn fault. Only your fault.”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock pants between smacks, tasting blood when John splits his lip. “Teach me. Punish me. I need it. Badly.”

It takes a few minutes for John's red hot anger to simmer down to a darkly determined ire. But eventually he releases Sherlock's hair and shoves him away as if repelled by the broken figure at his feet. “Stay like this. I get everything ready.”

Chapter Text

First of all, John makes Sherlock crawl into the bathroom, were he is subjected to a cold shower until his teeth chatter and his lips turn blue. Sherlock has to kneel in the bath tub while the icy water cascades over his used body, making his nipples peak and his balls draw tight. Only when piss, lube and sperm has been thoroughly washed away does John haul Sherlock out of the tub by his dripping wet hair, dragging the naked, shivering mess Sherlock's been reduced to into the kitchen.

There, John shoves Sherlock down onto the floor before once again hand-cuffing him to the radiator. John pulls the cuffs so tight that they bite into the sensitive skin at Sherlock's wrists, making him wince.

“Don't make a sound!” John hisses, grabbing his cane he had a while ago placed within easy reach on the kitchen table. “You have earned this!”

The beating that follows is quite severe. Sherlock has to bite down hard onto his forearm as not to scream in pain. He ends up with a cut to his left eyebrow, a split lip and numerous dark bruises covering his back, arms and thighs. Yet he manages to stay silent while John is ranting under his breath, calling Sherlock useless, hopeless, a wimpy sissy, a disgrace, unworthy of John's time and efforts.

John only stops when his arm starts to hurt. He breathes hard through his nose and rolls his shoulder to calm down a fraction. The only other sound in the kitchen is Sherlock quietly sobbing while blood drips from his face onto the linoleum. His eyes are closed as he waits for John to continue his punishment.

But instead of the expected next round of flogging John grips Sherlock's chin and rubs his thumb through the blood on his lower lip. “Look at me.” John whispers, and as Sherlock's eyes flutter open, John tells him in a dangerously low tone: “I'm going out now. I leave you here. When I return, I'll bring a few mates back with me. And you'll serve them. If you disappoint me again, I'll report back to your brother that you are a dead loss. You know very well that this might not just be a figure of speech, don't you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock dares to nod, but only once.

John is gone for hours. Sherlock watches the hands of the kitchen clock move round and round as he crouches down onto the hard, cold floor. His whole body hurts while his arms and legs fall asleep. Sherlock tries to jiggle his limbs but his movements are restricted by the tight cuffs. He only succeeds in scraping the skin on his wrists, so he ends up just resting his cheek against the iron radiator, falling into some kind of pain-induced trance. The blood dries on his face and his injured eye starts to swell shut. John had hit him in the vicinity of his kidneys, a rib might be broken, and just sitting up and breathing becomes increasingly difficult.

It's dark outside when Sherlock hears the front door downstairs opening. Listening, he can make out five different pairs of feet ascending the seventeen steps, accompanied by unfamiliar loud, rough voices laughing and talking.

The group enters the flat through the kitchen door. John has indeed brought four other men with him. They are in their thirties, strongly built, with broad shoulders and hands like shovels. Builders? Workmen? Sherlock blinks up at them through his fringe, now long dry and curly, trying to focus his good eye on the stranger's faces, unsure what to make of them.

“Jesus, mate, you haven't been taking the piss.” One of the men, a sturdy ginger in a striped sweatshirt covered in brick dust, exclaims. “Look at this beauty.” His eyes roam over Sherlock's lithe, pale body.

“I told you, guys, all laid out and ready to be used.” John answers as he moves around the group, looking sternly down at Sherlock. “Aren't you, love?”

Sherlock's mouth is dry. He can only make a coughing sound that doesn't seem to satisfy John.

“Aren't you, Sherlock? You told me this was your dirty little fantasy. Being mercilessly fucked by a bit of rough. I'm only giving you what you are gagging for.”

Sherlock nods now, once, because John's look has become a heady glowering.

“That little slut seems truly floored, mate.” Another man, this one sporting a not too clean chequered flannel shirt, barks out.

“What happened to him?” Ginger asks.

“Oh, he fell down the stairs...” John grins darkly.

“How many times?” A third man asks, wearing black jeans and a grey hoody.

The whole group roars with laughter. Sherlock closes his eyes and swallows bile.

“Now, gentlemen, please, be my guests. Have at him.” John has opened a drawer and hands out condoms. “Sherlock, sweetheart, don't you think you could be a bit more... accommodating to our guests?”

Sherlock remembers fantasising about a scenario like this. Only, for real, it makes him feel vulnerable and exposed. Fear pools ice-cold in his belly; he doesn't know these men. They could do anything they want to him. But then he remembers that failing John again will lead to the end of his education. He can't allow this, not now, when he truly starts to embrace subspace. Besides, he was promised to be eventually given to his brother. Well, now that would be quite an experience, Sherlock imagines. He won't miss out on that, he decides.

Therefore, he shuffles a little backwards and gets up on his knees, spreading his thighs while bracing his forearms against the old radiator as he presents his naked arse to the men. “Fuck me, please.” He whispers, but it's loud enough in the small kitchen for all of them to hear. Sherlock glances up at the group from under his lashes and smiles invitingly if shy.

The next moment, a calloused hand starts to kneed his buttocks, pulling them apart, exposing his rosy pucker.

“God, boys, look at this posh little twat. He's so tight, I wonder if I can get my finger inside him.” Ginger says as a thick plump finger starts to rub at Sherlock's entrance before pushing in without any lube. Sherlock whimpers.

The finger is worked in steadily deeper before a second digit is added. Sherlock inhales sharply and feels tears spring to his eyes; his abdominal muscles clench.

“Shh, don't fight it, pretty boy.” The man behind Sherlock mumbles. Zips are being opened, and suddenly the musky smell of male arousal fills the small room, making Sherlock's mouth water.

The stretch burns as Ginger starts to move his hand faster, in and out, in and out. Tears run down Sherlock's face by the time the man attempts to add yet another finger without any lubrication.

“Please, don't...”, Sherlock begs in a thin voice, and is actually relieved when he can feel a cold dollop of spit hit his hole. Still, the third finger pushing in hurts so much that Sherlock temporarily can't breath.

“Come on, don't you like this?” The deep voice is mocking Sherlock. With an encouraging slap on one of his arsecheeks Sherlock is told: “Fuck your tight little arse on my fingers, cockslut. Now!”

Sherlock takes a deep breath and starts moving, pushing back despite the pain. Cold sweat is running down his back as more hands start to stroke his body, pull his hair, pinch his nipples. Chequered shirt even pushes two fingers into Sherlock's mouth, deep, until Sherlock gags. His split lip starts bleeding again and a copper taste lingers on his tongue. Unable to swallow, saliva and blood drip from Sherlock's mouth as he is reduced to an object made to pleasure others, regardless of his own wants and needs. Sherlock's lewd moans echo loudly through their dingy kitchen while he enthusiastically fucks himself on the stranger's finger up his arse. John watches him, palming the front of his trousers as Sherlock arches his naked body, writhing under the hands of those total strangers.

Eventually, Sherlock is shoved forwards and pressed face first against the radiator. He can hear a condom wrapper being torn open, and then a fat cockhead sheathed in latex presses inside him. Sherlock wants to yell, he needs lube, this is brutal – but a hand clamps down over his mouth, silencing him. Sherlock looks up through sweaty curls, and there's John, standing over him, muffling his cries with his strong grip. John's eyes hold Sherlock's gaze, telling him that he is right there, that he has to see what Sherlock is able to take for him. Knowing John likes what he sees, Sherlock relaxes and surrenders.

Ginger fucks him hard and fast. Sherlock is again and again shoved against the radiator until his elbows are sore. The cock inside him is really big, and the minimal lubrication the condom has provided is not nearly enough to make this only remotely comfortable, but the raw obscenity of it all makes Sherlock's head swim. He is already fucked sore when Ginger comes inside him, grunting like a pig.

Knowing that there will be three other men to use him as well makes Sherlock shiver with a mixture of anxiety and excitement. This is pushing his boundaries in a way he truly appreciates.

Now black Hoody takes his turn, unceremoniously pushing in. Gladly, Sherlock is still gaping, and Hoody's cock is smaller than Ginger's, slim but long, so it doesn't hurt that much. John removes his hand and extends it to take the used condom from Ginger while Sherlock tries to get his breathing back under control.

“Open!” John demands, and Sherlock parts his lips and throws his head back. John grins as he holds the come filled condom above Sherlock's face and slowly empties it into Sherlock's wide open, greedy mouth. Gooey strands drip slowly onto Sherlock's tongue – it was an enormous load – and when he can taste the stranger's sperm, feel it fill his oral cavity, Sherlock makes a choking sound of pleasure. “Swallow!” John orders, and Sherlock gleefully does, licking his lips afterwards.

“God, that bitch truly loves its come.” Ginger laughs appreciatively, and warmth spreads through Sherlock's body as he can see John's proud expression. He revels in the men's attention, trying hard to be a good obedient slut - for John. He'll do anything for John.

Meanwhile, Hoody is pounding into him, grabbing Sherlock's hips so fiercely as to add another set of bruises. Their sweaty bodies make obscenely wet sounds as they slam against each other. Sherlock can feel Hoody's hairy balls rub against his shaven perineum and rolls his hips to provide more friction. Hoody stutters, and then thrusts into Sherlock even deeper three, four times before collapsing above him.

When Hoody is finished, it's Chequered's turn. His cock is thick but short, resulting in him hitting Sherlock's prostate again and again with every thrust. Sherlock can feel himself getting hard, dripping pre-come onto the linoleum.

As Hoody is allowed to pour his come into Sherlock's mouth, Sherlock again waits hungrily to receive everything. He moans and cranes his neck, even tries to suck onto the slippery latex. He loves to experience the taste of come, all its different flavours, and wants nothing else in his mouth for the foreseeable future. He might even prefer it to piss.

Chequered fucks him so hard that Sherlock's head hits the radiator and he starts to see black spots dancing in front of his eyes. His voice by now is raw with screaming, as he begs the man to use him, to give it to him, to hurt him, to fill him. When suddenly the man inside him stills and pulses, Sherlock can feel it and gasps both in bliss and disappointment that it's over.

Eventually, the last man enters him while he's allowed to suck on Chequered's condom. He'd begged for it. “Please, John, feed me more come. Please, it tastes so good, I love it, please...” And John had been kind and had given Sherlock what he so clearly craved.

By now the fourth man can push easily inside Sherlock's willing body. The man leans back and is half lying on the kitchen floor, letting Sherlock ride his stiff cock while the others cheer, pull Sherlock's hair to slap his face and call him come dump, fucktoy and greedy slut. Sherlock's erection juts out in front of him, neglected and dripping wet, but he knows better than to expect to have it taken care of. He's just a hole, after all, made to pleasure others. He bobs up and down on the cock inside him until his eyes roll back in his head and his voice breaks. He yearns to get his mouth stuffed with some cock but doesn't dare to ask for it. If John wants him to, he'll tell him.

When the fourth man is finally finished with Sherlock, he's a sweaty, debased mess. His wrists and arms are grazed open and bleeding; bruises bloom dark on his pale skin. Saliva, blood and come run down his throat and chest, while pearly pre-come pools onto the floor beneath Sherlock's by now almost purple cock. The men stand around him, watching him while sipping cold beer directly from the bottle, smoking and smirking. The whole room smells of blood, sex and agony.

Sherlock is moaning like a debased whore, silently begging for release. His body burns and soars with pain as he's been fucked raw for what feels like hours, but he doesn't care. He's high on endorphins, and as the content of the last condom is poured over his face he can only mumble “Thank you, John, thank you...” while wantonly lapping up the come.

The men are allowed to take pictures afterwards. John even unchains Sherlock so that he can spread his buttocks with his hands, exposing his red, swollen and gaping arsehole, crouching on the floor, arse in the air. The men spit in his hole and tease him a little while longer with their fingers until Sherlock almost cries with the need to come.

Eventually, John pulls Sherlock up on his knees. The men continue to slap him and spit in his face, and Sherlock turns towards them, offering his body, grateful and happy. They love to aim for his mouth and Sherlock opens wide to swallow their spit that tastes like lager and tobacco. They even empty their beer bottles over his head while Sherlock writhes on the linoleum, slurping up his own pre-come mixed with the sour alcohol. Only when the floor is clean does John allow Sherlock to touch himself in front of those four strangers, and they watch mesmerised as Sherlock rubs his cock and rolls his balls in his palm. Eight large hands stroke his face, chest and back while John's strong fingers pull hard at his nipples; despite his blissed out state, Sherlock remembers to ask for John's permission to come.

But it's only granted after yet one more challenge: Sherlock has to put a beer bottle up his arse and fuck himself on it to completion; he isn't be allowed to use his hands. It takes Sherlock quite a while, but John has fetched some lube so Sherlock is eventually able to sink down onto the green glass cylinder. It feels amazing and the men film Sherlock on their phones as he stretches his hole beyond what he thought possible, impaling himself while squatting on the floor, reduced to a moaning, needy thing.

He's so far gone that at first it doesn't register that Ginger has taken his flaccid cock in hand and is lazily pissing over Sherlock's shoulders and back. Soon, the other three men join him, glazing Sherlock's body in hot yellow urine. They aim for his face and crotch alike, and Sherlock squirms and opens his mouth while spreading his legs to allow their piss access to all parts of his body. The yellow liquid hits Sherlock's chest and arse, splatters onto the floor, and it's so unbelievably hot that Sherlock can't control his body any longer, despite his want to prolong this sweet humiliation. His orgasm crashes over him as he throws his head back, baring his throat, eyes wide open, and then he shoots load after load over the kitchen floor, gasping while making inarticulate keening noises.

As the waves of pleasure ebb, Sherlock is not able to even sit up any more and slumps down into the mess on the linoleum, lying on his side, his chest heaving as he's trying to get his breath back. With one weak hand, he continues to rubs the piss all over his body, his face, and the smell of it, the feeling of urine and come dripping from his hair is the last thing he remembers before he literally passes out.

He comes back around as he hears the front door being pulled shut, blinking a few times, but he doesn't get up as John enters the kitchen. Instead, he starts to slurp up the mess around him, first only licking, tasting with his tongue, before bringing his hands up from under his body to slowly pour the disgusting mix over his face and down his throat. John sits down at the kitchen table and watches as Sherlock cleans the kitchen on his hands and knees, nuzzling his face into cold pools of piss, drenching his hair with it before finally getting some towels to mop the mess up.

Afterwards, John takes his time to pull the beer bottle from Sherlock's anus. His hole stays gaping open and, suddenly, John can't resist. He takes more lube as Sherlock crouches in front of him and starts pushing all his five fingers inside Sherlock's body. Sherlock gasps, shivers and moans, but John stops when his knuckles start to breach Sherlock. Despite his rectum being nicely stretched, it's still not loose enough to take John's whole hand. Yet, John enjoys the view.

“We are getting there, Sherlock.” John mumbles affectionately. “You've done quite well today.” Sherlock almost purrs like a cat and John has to remove his hand as Sherlock eagerly starts to push back against his fingers. No need to rush this.

That night, John baths Sherlock before tending to his wounds. His eyebrow needs three stitches, but otherwise the injuries are superficial. Next, John makes Sherlock drink a whole bottle of water and sees to it that he eats proper dinner. Later, as Sherlock starts to curl up on his blanket on the floor at the end of the bed, John silently pats the mattress next to himself, and Sherlock happily climbs up into the bed where John gently holds him and strokes his hair until they both fall asleep.

Chapter Text

When John wakes the next morning, Sherlock has already left the bed. John finds him in the kitchen, on his phone, stirring sugar in his tea, just wearing his blue silk dressing gown. It falls open as Sherlock turns to walk off into the living room, and John can see black and purple bruises on this torso and thighs from the beating he took last night. The swelling on his eye has receded but he still looks as if he's been in a fight. There's also a slight limp to his movements; he must still be sore from being roughly fucked by four man merely 12 hours ago.

John makes himself some coffee while he listens to Sherlock's deep voice scolding some unfortunate caller.

“Seriously? - Where? - Yes, of course I know where that is. - No. - Don't be obtuse. - Oh, for god's sake, Dimmock, don't touch anything. - Yes, I'll be there as soon as possible.” Sherlock hangs up and flips his phone in his right hand, standing in the middle of the sunny living room. When he looks up his eyes meet John's over the rim of his tea mug. Sherlock swallows, then puts the mug down onto the desk and slightly tilts his head without breaking eyecontact.

“So...”, John turns his back to Sherlock as he pours milk into his coffee. “We have a case then?”

John senses Sherlock slowly approaching, his bare feet hardly making any noise on the carpet. He stops and lingers in the doorway, leaning against the frame as John turns again to face him. Sherlock smiles invitingly, looking positively pornographic with his clingy silk robe hugging his pale, lithe body, his dishevelled curls a dark halo against the light; a debauched fallen angel, watching John from hooded eyes.

“You'll like it.” Sherlock promises.

“Will I?” John arches an eyebrow.

“Yes, you will.” Sherlock licks his lips while his hand slowly trails down his chest, circling one nipple before reaching lower until he wraps his fingers around his already half-hard cock. He starts stroking himself, keeping his eyes fixed on John.

“You didn't ask permission.” John states.

“I didn't know I had to.” Sherlock purrs while his cock visibly hardens in his fist, the exposed glans already glistening wet.

John smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. “Come over here, slut.”

Sherlock slowly saunters over, his dressing gown slipping from his left shoulder, exposing more white skin decorated with a dark purple bruise.

“Good, look at you.” John reaches out and twists Sherlock left nipple, hard, until Sherlock gasps. “You look like a well-fucked whore.” Sherlock's hand speeds up on his shaft as his eyes flutter shut.

“On your knees, slut.” John breaths, and Sherlock sinks down in one fluid motion, kneeling before John, still fisting his cock. John takes his chin between thumb and forefinger and pushes his face up. “Look at me.”

Sherlock opens his eyes. His irises are nearly black, his pupils only encircled by a small ring of silver-grey.

“What are you?” John asks in a low voice.

“I am just a hole.” Sherlock whispers.


“A slut.” John pushes his free hand into Sherlock's hair and yanks. “Your slut.” Sherlock gasps.

“That's right, Sherlock, you are my slut. And I'll decide what's best for you. Now, take that hand of your cock before I'll break your fingers.”

Sherlock's hand stills abruptly. He's panting, but isn't so foolish as to doubt John's words for one second.

“You'll only touch yourself when I tell you to. I thought you'd understood that.” John growls.

“Please, John...” Sherlock whimpers as John still strains his neck with his fist in his curls.

“Please what?”

“Remind me of my place. Punish me.”

John loosens his grip to Sherlock's hair, then looks thoughtfully down at the man at his feet while taking another sip of coffee.

“Give me your left hand.” John eventually demands, sounding very calm and collected.

Sherlock reaches his shaky left hand up and John takes in his own, stroking it tenderly.

“You've got lovely hands, Sherlock. Long, slim, dextrous. Musicians hands. Beautiful. But you should know by now that I'll do anything to keep you in check.” John murmurs, before, with one brutally swift motion, he twists Sherlock's left pinkie forcefully to the side. A cracking sound fills the silent kitchen, and a scream escapes Sherlock's throat as his bones splinter.

“This is what a whore gets if he disobeys me. I've been kind, Sherlock, it only was the little finger of your left hand. You should be really grateful.”

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock sobs, cradling his left hand in his right. His pinkie dangles from his fist in an odd angle and has already begun to swell.

“Now, get my pants down. Time for your breakfast.”

Sherlock, while still crying silently, first tries to pull John's underwear down with only his right hand, but as that is not working, he has to use both. His face contorts in pain, but John demands regardless: “Hold my coffee mug.”

Sherlock does, keeping it level with John's cock while John fills it to the rim with dark yellow piss. The rich smell of morning urine spreads through the kitchen. Only this time, Sherlock is not allowed to drink it.

Instead, John gets out a bowl and some cornflakes and pours his piss over it. Afterwards, he feeds the mixture to Sherlock, stuffing his mouth with the filthy munch. Sherlock is coughing and gagging at the taste but John just tells him firmly: “If you throw up, I'll make you lick your puke off the floor. Now, eat up. The longer it takes for you to finish your piss whore's breakfast, the longer it takes for me to bandage your finger. Besides, you have a crime scene to attend, if' I'm not mistaken?”


“What happened to you? You look like you got run over by a bus.” Dimmock asks as Sherlock sweeps inside a luxurious flat in Westminster barely half an hour later.

Sherlock doesn't deign to answer that question, only barks “Where?”

Dimmock points towards the bedroom, and so it falls to John to explain with an excusing smile: “He got into a fight while on a chase last night. I had to splint his finger and patch him up at three in the morning because, of course, his Nibs wouldn't go to A&E like any mere mortal.”

“Ouch.” Dimmock pulls a face as he follows Sherlock into the bedroom. John shakes his head and trails behind, putting on a pair of nitrile gloves. The memory of the last time he wore some makes his cock throb; he's glad he decided on the longer coat instead of the Haversack jacket.

The bedroom is painted a dark shade of pink and in its middle, on a heart-shaped mattress, lies the body of a young man. His limbs are remarkably hairless but that is not the only feature of interest here. The man is dressed up in blue lace panties and wears shiny black hold-up stockings as well as black patent leather high heels. His wrists are still tied in front of him with the same blue lace ribbons that bind his ankles, the two cords connected by a third, immobilising the man and rendering him helpless. A large black dildo protrudes from the man's mouth, stuffed in right up to the rubber balls.

Sherlock seems to hesitate a second before bending down, moving a bit stiffly. He looks at the dildo and blushes a little (perhaps because it reminds him of the toy currently pushed up his still sore arse) then scrutinizes the knots. He has to kneel on the bed to take a good look, and John delights himself in the fantasy how the plug inside Sherlock must shift and graze over his prostate as he pushes his bum up in the air. God, the man is a tease! John decides there and now to fuck Sherlock so hard later that he will see stars.

“And?” Dimmock's voice seems to come from far away.

“Accident.” Sherlock proclaims as he gets up, biting his lower lip to stifle a small moan.

“You sure?” Dimmock enquires, which is answered with one of Sherlock's epic eyerolls, impressive despite the cut to his eyebrow.

“Inspector Dimmock, if you'd taken just one close look at those knots even you would have seen that they are slip-knots. He first tied up his ankles, then his hands, using his mouth to pull the knot tight. That's why his hands are bound in front of him. If a second party had been involved, they surely would have bound the hands behind the back. Then he fumbled a bit with the connecting cord, but still managed to fasten it with his mouth. Afterwards, he started to suck the dildo, which he had fixed to the side of his bedside cabinet. Look, it has a sucker on its base. And here, on the furniture, you can still see the round mark where the dildo was attached. But, as he got excited, the cords got entangled, so he couldn't free himself. And he seems to have swallowed the toy too deep. It blocked his windpipe, he panicked – and good night Vienna.”

Sherlock had been swirling around the bedroom, manically gesturing while rapidly firing off his deduction. His cheeks are now flushed an even deeper crimson, and while Dimmock might attribute this to the rather embarrassing circumstances that poor sod on the bed kicked it while felating a rubber dildo, John knows that Sherlock's rosy complexion has to do with another toy altogether.

“Ok, ok.” Dimmock mumbles, scratching his head, still looking a bit doubtful.

“If you don't believe me, take a look at his laptop. I'm sure he filmed himself while he was engaging in those auto-erotic practices. Now, if you excuse us, John and I have a rather pressing appointment with your superior officer.”

With that, Sherlock leaves and John follows suit, just shrugging his shoulders in an apologetic gesture. Dimmock nods in John's direction as they both share a look of 'what can you do?' - and then Sherlock and John are inside the lift that takes them to the ground floor.

“You were right. That was an interesting and rather inspiring case.” John smiles up at Sherlock, who grins back at him and licks his lips.

“The toy or the bondage?” Sherlock asks, pitching his voice into a suggestively low register.

John's smirk broadens. “The knickers.”

Sherlock's flush deepens, spreading down his throat.

“I have some shopping to do. Take a cab over to NYS and apologies to Greg. Thoroughly. Afterwards, you come back home and I'll dress you up like the slut you are.”

Sherlock's mouth has gone dry at this prospect. John moves closer and kisses him, deep and lascivious, before whispering against Sherlock's lips: “I told Greg he can do anything he wants with you. Aren't you excited what he's up to?” John even gropes Sherlock's cock, his hands hidden beneath the deep folds of the Bellstaf. He can feel that Sherlock is painfully hard; the front of his expensive woollen trousers is already a little damp, as John had seen no need for pants.

Sherlock can only nod. Well, he's soon to find out what Greg has in store for him.


John is browsing the rows of hangers filled with shiny, frilly garments in all the colours of the rainbow at Intimissimi on Oxford Street, wondering how many shapes and cuts are available: French knickers made of transparent lace, tiny G-strings with only a square centimetre of slippery satin to cover up the most private parts, panties decorated with sparkling Swarowski stones; there's even a shape called Brazilian cut...

John politely refuses the help of a heavily made-up shop assistant (wondering briefly how she might react when he'd start to describe the person he wants to surprise with some lingerie as a 6 ft.2 lanky bloke with a ten inch cock, shoe size 12 and legs literally two miles long) and finally decides on a pair of dark purple silk panties, a black lace suspender belt, black stockings and a short satin kimono in matching purple. A pair of black velvet high heels he buys at Dune's.

Back home, John lays his shopping out on Sherlock's bed – adding a few toys he wants to use during their session – and then waits, caressing the fine garments with his fingers. Just imagining Sherlock wearing these makes him so hard he seriously entertains the idea of wanking over them, decorating them with his come for Sherlock to suck and lick off before trying them on. But in the end, John abstains, suppressing his impulses.

It will be much more delicious to come all over those flimsy pieces of slutty underwear with Sherlock inside them, moaning and panting.


Meanwhile, Sherlock is lying across Lestrade's desk in his office at NYS, trousers around his ankles, his shirt shoved up his back, as Greg gives him a good hard spanking with a wooden ruler. Sherlock's flushed dripping cock is trapped between his abdomen and the table top, and as he writhes and squirms he is able to achieve some much needed friction. The big plug John had ordered him to shove up his still red hole this morning sits still firmly in place, grazing his prostate with every stroke to his already bright red arse.

Despite having been strictly disciplined for fifteen minutes now, Sherlock is gasping and begging for more. Greg truly admires his stamina.

“John got you nicely trained.” Greg whispers, caressing Sherlock's burning arse cheek to give his arm a break. “You genuinely enjoy this, don't you?”

“Yes, Sir.” Sherlock pants, wiggling his bum. “Please, Sir, give me more. I've been such a naughty boy, I need more.”

So Greg gives it to him, dealing hard and fast strokes alternating from one buttock to the other.

“You won't be able to sit for a while, Sherlock. But then, I imagine John will make you kneel anyway. Now, let me take a look at how big that toy is you stuffed up you greedy arsehole.”

With that, Greg finally stops his thrashing and starts to twist the plug, very slowly pulling it out.

“God, Sir, please, Sir... I'm coming, please...” Sherlock whimpers, literally humping the desk as Greg extracts the toy, stopping when the widest part is stretching Sherlock obscenely and rather painfully. Greg's index finger strokes over Sherlock's rim, pulled taught around the black rubber, and Sherlock's hole starts to flutter as he can't hold on any longer, coming onto the table with a rough, bitten off cry.

“Wow, you are sensitive...” Greg mumbles as he continues to play with the toy, pushing it back inside before pulling it nearly out again. He starts to fuck Sherlock with the massive black plug without remorse, enjoying the spasming of the red hole in front of him. Sherlock can feel the stretch and burn and splutters incoherent profanities like “Fuck! God, yes! Shit, fuck... Oh my god! Fuck me!” to spurn Greg on to give it to him properly.

When Lestrade finally decides to remove the plug, he orders Sherlock to hold himself open. Sherlock grabs his still crimson arse cheeks with shaking hands, exposing his gaping hole. His left hand throbs in pain but he ignores it, riding high on endorphins.

“Lovely... so lovely”, Greg praises him. “I'm going to put some stuff inside you now, Sherlock. I'm sure you don't mind me taking pictures, do you?”

Sherlock can only shake his head, his sweaty curls sticking to his temples. He is beyond speech, blissed out by his orgasm as well as by the delicious humiliation Greg's treatment is promising.

Luckily for Sherlock, Greg has some lube stored in one of his desk drawers for when he's having a relaxing wank from time to time. He squeezes a big dollop inside Sherlock's reddened opening before taking the telephone receiver in hand.

“We don't want anyone disturbing us, Sherlock, won't we?”

“No, Sir.” Sherlock pants.

Greg takes the phone receiver in hand and dials a number.

“Mycroft Holmes's office, Miss Wren speaking.”

“DI Gregory Lestrade from New Scotland Yard here. Can you put me though to Mr Holmes in an... urgent personal matter, please?”

Sherlock is staring up at Lestrade, twisting his neck, unsure if he should loath the Inspector or thank him.

“Of course, DI Lestrade. Mr Holmes has been expecting your call.”

There's a short silence in which Greg puts the phone on speaker. Suddenly, Mycroft's crisp voice fills the office.

“Greg, what a pleasure. How are you?”

“Rather good, Mycroft, thank you. I've got your little brother bend over my desk, showing me his gaping cunt.”

There's a deep chuckle on the other end of the line. Sherlock blushes a bright beet root.

“Hello, brother mine, enjoying yourself?”

“Y-yes, Mycroft...” Sherlock moans, because Greg is again caressing his rim with two fingers of his free hand.

“Did Lestrade smack you posh little backside? He's very good with that, don't you think?”

“Oh god, yes...” Sherlock sighs as Greg's fingers push inside him and start to stroke the walls of his rectum.

“Hm, I wonder what he's up to next. Shall I stay in the line?”

“Yes, Mycroft, although we might sound a bit... muffled soon, as I'm going to fuck your brother with the receiver.”

“You dirty bastard. I'm sure he'll be enjoying it, though. He's always glued to his phone anyway.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes at this lame pun, only to gasp half in shock and half in ecstasy as Greg slowly starts to push the grey receiver up Sherlock's arse.

The DI watches enthralled and can't help saying: “Wow, it's amazing what he can already take, Mycroft.” And it really is. Greg is easily able to fuck Sherlock's willing hole with the phone as Sherlock moans lewdly while being penetrated by the hard, unyielding plastic. Over the speakers, he can hear Mycroft's voice, deeper now with obvious arousal: “So, he's taking it all? That must look stunning. God, he'll be my perfect fucktoy once his training is finished.”

Sherlock is so turned on by his brother listening in to his abuse that eagerly starts to push back against the object pressed inside him.

“Jesus, Mycroft, you should see that horny slut. He's fucking himself on the phone. Come on, Sherlock, take it all.”

Suddenly, the receiver is deep inside him. As Greg allows Sherlock to remove his hands, his stretched hole slowly closes around the twisted cord.

“Mycroft...?” Greg asks.

“I can hear neither you nor that moaning cockslut anymore, so I presume the receiver is fully inside him? Just take a picture and send it to me, please, for confirmation.”

Greg does. A few seconds later, they can hear rustling of fabric through the speakers, and then the wet glide of skin over moist flesh.

“Yes, little brother, I'm stroking myself over a picture of your violated arse. Good, it looks rather lovely, all red and stuffed to the rim.” Mycroft's voice wavers slightly at the end of the sentence. “Now, pull it out, Greg, I want to hear him moan.”

Greg starts to pull at the phone cord and very slowly the receiver slides free again, smeared with lube. Sherlock is groaning unashamed, panting “Yes, oh god, yes... feels so good. Feels amazing... stretch my hole, please more...” while he can hear his brother's heavy breathing over the speakers.

As the receiver finally slips free, Greg makes Sherlock lick it clean.

“Can you hear that, Mycroft? That is your filthy brother, licking his juices from the phone he'd just had up his tight little pussy...”

“Is he good with his tongue?”

“Very good.”

“Then I propose you make good use of his skill set and let him eat your arse out. No, wait, first stuff his greedy hole with something big. What else do you have on your desk? Mind, it should be a little bigger than a fountain pen.”

Greg's eyes roam his untidy tabletop, covered in papers, folders and a panting mess of a consulting detective, lying in his own come.

“How about a stapler?” Lestrade eventually suggest.

It's a big, rather old-fashioned tool, large and black. Nevertheless, it is rather roughly stuffed up Sherlock's arse before another pic is send to Mycroft, which is met with an approving sigh.

“Might as well staple some papers with you, later, training your anal muscles...” Greg smiles darkly before taking off his trousers, getting on all four on the floor.

“Come on, posh boy, eat your daddy's arse.” He growls.

Sherlock slides off the desk and crawls behind Lestrade, spreading his cheeks carefully to expose a dark, furled hole. It looks delicious but Sherlock is shy at first, only tenderly circling the tip of his tongue over it. As Lestrade starts to moan and pushes back against Sherlock's face, however, he becomes bolder, licking broad stripes from Lestrade's heavy sac all the way up to his tailbone. It's getting wetter and messier, and quickly, Sherlock's face is slick with saliva.

“That's it, come on, fuck me with your clever tongue.” Lestrade encourages him, and Sherlock does, pushing the tip in, slowly loosening Greg up. It tastes fabulously - musky, sweaty, dirty – as Sherlock licks deeper and deeper inside Greg, who is almost shouting with pleasure by now.

“Jesus, Mycroft, you are in for a treat when he'll does this to you. So good... come on, deeper. Yeah, that's it, suck me. Harder.”

And Sherlock does, sucking on Greg's swollen hole, spreading his cheeks further apart with his thumbs to reach more of him. He has no idea how long he's been servicing Lestrade like this. His jaw starts to hurt but he knows he's not allowed to stop. He listens to his brother's soft moans over the phone, relishing the feeling to pleasure both men at once.

Finally, Sherlock can feel Lestrade's hole flutter against his lips and his balls drawing tight, while his panting goes even more ragged. Mycroft asks: “Are you close, Greg?” To which Lestrade only grunts as an answer.

“Come all over his face, come on, Greg, do it.” Mycroft almost yells over the phone, and Sherlock's greedy mouth is suddenly pushed back and away as Greg gets to his feed, grabbing his cock in his shaking fist.

Sherlock catches on and sits back on his heels, looking up at Greg, his face pink and damp, and the sight of Sherlock, totally debauched crouching in front of him, silently begging for his come, finally does it for Lestrade as he shoots thick white streaks all over Sherlock's face.

The DI collapses back into his leather chair and only after he's got his breathing back under control does he remember to take another pic, his unsteady fingers fumbling with his mobile. This time, the image received by Mycroft shows Sherlock's face dripping with come. It is pooling in his right eyesocket, his long dark lashes coated creamy white, as Sherlock licks his lips to taste.

Mycroft makes a few choked sounds as he comes in his office at Whitehall, and Sherlock closes his eyes to imagine his brother stroking his big cock to completion over a picture of his come streaked face.

“Oh, god, brother mine, if you could see me now. I came all over my fingers. I'd allow you to suck me clean if you where here. It's rather a lot, I might have ruined my morning suit.”

Sherlock grins at the thought, by now sucking Greg's come from his his own fingers as he pushes the gooey mess into his mouth.

“Now, Greg, what else did John train that whore of my brother to be?”

“A human urinal, Mycroft.” Lestrade smiles darkly in anticipation.

“Right. Then I suggest you use him as such. Piss all over him, then make him get dressed and go home. He has to keep his shirt on all the way, of course, but no one will see him dripping with your piss under that great coat he chooses to wear all the time. Still, he will feel you all the way, your scent clinging to his skin.”

Greg is already drenching Sherlock as Mycroft is speaking, his cock aiming for Sherlock's chest. The soft splatter of piss on skin, soaking Sherlock's clothes, is the last thing Mycroft hears before he hangs up and starts to dab his fingers with his silken pocket square.

Chapter Text

Sherlock pulls the Belstaff tighter around himself in the cab. He didn't dare to take a bus or the tube, as he's still wearing his shirt soaked in Greg's piss. Despite the session in the office at NSY, Sherlock is already hard again. The idea of the cabbie smelling the piss on him, the sheer humiliation of being forced to keep that wet shirt on, is enough to spark hot arousal between his legs. He wants to palm himself but doesn't dare to, hence the driver sees what he's up to on the back seat. Sherlock doesn't trust his coat to hide the evidence of his erection.

The piss is by now cold and makes him shiver, his pebbled nipples straining against the damp fabric. The cotton clings to his torso, sticks to his back, hugs him like a second skin. God, he desperately wants to show John what a good piss slut he's become. He truly admires his brother for the fantasies he entertains. Mycroft surely knows what Sherlock needs.

When he arrives home his arse still feels a little sore, and winces as he climbs the stairs. Greg did take him hard after all, but Sherlock is a little proud of himself that he finally got Lestrade's seal of approval. The DI seemed sated and satisfied when Sherlock had left.

But now, as he enters 221b, his thoughts return to John. who'd wanted to do some shopping earlier... Sherlock is rather excited what John might have got him.

John is sitting on the couch, skimming through the paper with a mug of tea by his side as Sherlock walks into the living room. He stands next to the coffee table and waits until John lowers the paper before slowly unbuttoning his coat. As the heavy wool falls open, Sherlock strokes his hand down over the damp shirt, usually crisply white but now soaked in pale yellow urine.

John watches as Sherlock's uninjured right hand slides lower and eventually gives his cock the much needed friction as his long fingers palm himself through his tight black trousers. His hard nipples are visible through the nearly translucent cotton and John licks his lips as he imagines pinching them until Sherlock weeps in agony.

“Did you get in a cab like this, you dirty slut? Soaked in another man's piss?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock replies, trying to keep his voice low and subdued.

“God, you are a filthy thing, Sherlock.” John smirks. “But I see that Greg's been pleased with you.”

“I think he was. He came all over my face.”

“Lucky you that he allowed you to wipe it away before leaving. Come here.”

Sherlock sheds the coat and sinks down onto his knees in front of John. He's still touching himself, just a light tug, but it's enough to keep him rock hard.

John reaches out and tenderly touches Sherlock's face, stroking his thumb over Sherlock's bottom lip until Sherlock parts his lips and sucks the finger into his mouth. He suckles and licks while humping his fist, and his eyes flutter shut as his tongue caresses John's calloused thumb.

“Mycroft wrote me a text. He seems to be satisfied with your progress. So I think you earned yourself a little treat.”

Sherlock's eyes snap open and a light flush spreads over his cheekbones.

“But you need to recover first. I understand Greg took you rather roughly...” John removes his thumb with a wet pop as he abruptly stands up and walks over to the kitchen. Sherlock tries not to be disappointed – or at least not to let his disappointment show.

But John isn't that easily fooled. “How about we get some Chinese again tonight?” He asks with a smirk as he gets the menu pinned to the fridge door. “I have some new ideas how to use the chop sticks.”


Sherlock has to keep the soiled shirt on as John makes him collect the take-away from downstairs as the delivery man rings. His face is burning with shame while his erection is tenting his trousers – and John simply loves it.

Sherlock has to kneel beside the sofa while John eats, but is occasionally fed a bite of chicken or rice. When John's finished, he first clears the table, before bringing some rubber bands back from the kitchen, as well as a long soft hemp rope.

“Unbutton your shirt.”

Sherlock obeys, and as the cotton has mostly dried in the warm flat, it parts over his chest, hanging loosely open, revealing Sherlock's milky skin. John splays his hand over it possessively.

“Open your fly, get your cock out.”

Sherlock, still kneeling, shoves his trousers down to mid-thigh and his cock springs free as he didn't bother with pants today. John gives it a few light strokes that have Sherlock shiver, goosebumps breaking out on his exposed flesh.

“Now, lets get to work.”

Fifteen minutes later John steps back and admires his work. Sherlock's hands are bound behind his back, the hemp wound tightly in an intricate fashion around his forearms from elbows to wrists. Sherlock's nipples are each wedged between two chopsticks, hold together by rubber bands, making them into bamboo nipple clamps. In the same fashion, another pair of chopsticks is fixed to Sherlock's scrotum above his testicles. A fourth pair John has attached to Sherlock's tongue that is hanging out of his mouth. As the chopsticks prevent him from pulling his tongue back, Sherlock is already drooling copiously.

He later makes the most desperate and funny noises when John starts to play with his stiff, tortured nipples. John takes his time as he pinches, pulls, licks and bites the sensitive nubs until they are bright red and raw. He imagines getting those lovely nipples pierced, two thick silver studs attached to them, but is sure he has to consult with Mycroft first.

John brushes Sherlock's damp curls back from his sweaty, tear-stained face as he praises him: “You are amazing, so lovely. I'd really wanted to fuck you tonight, but I fear you might just be too exhausted. But tomorrow, I have a surprise for you. Now, make me proud, and show me what you can endure for me.”

And with that, John leaves the sitting room, while Sherlock is to kneel there all night, bound, gagged, leaking – barely suppressing the urge to hump the thin air. But he can do this for John, he will do this for John, and tomorrow, he'll get his reward.


When John comes down the next morning, Sherlock has made a right mess if himself. His chin, neck and chest down to his stomach are slick with saliva. His balls are flushed purple (like his nipples) and look heavy and full, despite his flaccid cock that is coated in the dried evidence of Sherlock's orgasm sometime during the night. Sherlock flinches and yelps in agony as John briskly removes first the chopsticks and then the rope; the blood returning makes his extremities sting and burn. John massages Sherlock's shoulders and arms, then removes the dirty shirt from his shoulders and helps him to step out of his trousers. Sherlock's legs are shaking, so John helps him to the bathroom and into the tub, scrubbing him clean before allowing Sherlock a few hours of rest, kipping in the upstairs bedroom.

It's late afternoon when a sleep-rumpled Sherlock returns downstairs. John brews him a strong espresso while Sherlock takes another shower, scrubbing himself immaculately clean. John watches him drowning the strong coffee in one shot, leaning against the kitchen counter, arms folded over his chest.

“I told you I had a surprise for you, remember? It's in your bedroom. Dress up in the garments on your bed. I'll be with you in fifteen minutes.”

Sherlock almost bolts for his room before John has even finished his sentence.


When John steps into the dimly lit bedroom exactly a quarter of an hour later, Sherlock is sitting on the edge of the bed. He has his legs crossed coyly, and the high-heels make them look even longer than usual. The sheer black stockings look absolutely stunning on him. The short satin kimono reaches just over Sherlock's hips, barely covering his crotch; sitting like this, John gets but a glimpse of Sherlock's bulge, restrained in purple lace. The pale skin of Sherlock's upper thighs gleams in sharp contrast to the lace rim of the stocking and the shiny purple satin of the kimono. Its vee reveals Sherlock's flat chest, the skin there still rosy from his hot shower; his hair is still damp and therefore seems slightly longer, as his curls are only slowly springing up again.

Sherlock looks neither male nor female, just like an otherworldly beauty defying gender.

“Gorgeous.” John breathes as he slowly walks over to Sherlock, who has cast his eyes down onto the floor. When he sits down next to him John reaches out to run just the tips of his fingers over Sherlock's nylon clad legs. His hand travels up, up, until his fingers reach the hem of the kimono. John carefully parts the satin over Sherlock's groin before brushing his knuckles over the bulge in those flimsy panties. Sherlock gasps, leaning back a little, his hands splayed out behind his back on the mattress. He tentatively pushes up into John's touch as if asking permission to do so, spreading his legs just a little bit.

“You look absolutely fuckable, Sherlock.” John whispers, leaning in close, before pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Sherlock's jaw. “I've been thinking about this all day. You, in these tarty things...”

His hand wanders along Sherlock's torso, slipping under the cool satin again, caressing one nipple. Sherlock arches into the touch as the flimsy kimono parts. The thin satin flutters open over Sherlock's pectorals, revealing more flushed skin and the suspender belt around his waist. Sherlock's belly is almost concave, and the glistening head of his cock peaks out of the small knickers. There's a dark damp spot on their front, and John makes a disapproving sound.

“Sherlock, look, what a mess you've made in your lovely little panties. Are you getting all wet for me?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock pants, splaying his legs a little more open as he lies back onto his elbows. “I'm so wet for you. My slick hole is just waiting for your fat cock.”

John starts to caress Sherlock's glistening cockhead with his thumb, rubbing at the slit before massaging Sherlock's frenulum. His other hand cups Sherlock's balls under the tight lace and squeezes them. It feels exquisite, the thin sleek fabric stretching over hot hard flesh, the distinctly female garments hardly covering a distinctly male body.

“God, I'm going to fuck you so hard.” John murmurs as he lowers his face to Sherlock's crotch and starts to mouth and suck on his satin covered erection until the fabric is wet with his saliva. Then he leans back, and the fingers playing with Sherlock's balls wander further back, slipping beneath the satin to rub on Sherlock's cleft. They quickly find Sherlock's hole and push easily in.

“You lubed yourself up for me, you greedy slut.”

“I wanted to be ready and wet for you to just push into me and fuck me.” Sherlock sighs with pleasure as John adds another finger.

“Hmm, that's very... considerate of you.” John chuckles. Sherlock's hips starts to buck as he fucks himself on John's fingers.

“I even put three fingers up myself while I was in the shower...”

“Three? Like this?” John pushes his ring finger in as well and Sherlock moans as his hole relaxes enough to accommodate John.

“Oh god, please, yes, like this...” Sherlock whimpers as his hips jerk in invitation.

“Spread your legs wider. Show me what a good little slut you are, just gagging for it.”

And Sherlock does as he's told, bending his left knee to give John better access to his arse. John can't see his fingers vanishing inside Sherlock as his cleft is still covered by the lace of the knickers, but he can hear the obscenely squelching noises of the lube as the tight ring of muscle gives way. The lube running out of Sherlock's hole and dripping from John's fingers makes the lace covering Sherlock's buttocks go dark.

When Sherlock's hands start to fist the duvet, John has mercy on him. “Get up!” He orders as he removes his hands from Sherlock's body. Sherlock's legs a re a bit shaky as he scrambles to his feet. Not used to shoes like these, he more staggers that walks over to the old armchair in the corner. It's a lovely sight to watch this tall, slender man take small mincing steps in those shiny 8 inch high heels.

“Sit down. Throw your legs over the armrests.”

Sherlock does, exposing himself, his arse sitting right on the edge of the chair. John first ties his thighs to the armrests, winding the rope around the nylon clad legs just above his knees, then ties Sherlock's wrists to his thighs. As Sherlock is thus immobilized, John finally unzips and takes his straining cock out, only to brush the glistening head over Sherlock's lips like smearing his mouth with an obscenely phallic lipstick. Only when Sherlock's lips are shiny with precome does John order him to open wide and pushes in until his glans hit the back of Sherlock's throat.

“Swallow. All of it.”

Sherlock tries, and John pushes in even deeper, until he can feel the muscles of Sherlock's throat contracting around his cockhead. He stays like this until Sherlock's breathing has evened out, and then slowly starts to fuck Sherlock's mouth. First it's just shallow thrusts, but they get deeper and faster until Sherlock is drooling and gagging, making desperate keening noises in the back of his throat while John's hands fist Sherlock's curls to hold him in place.

“God, look at you as you get your face fucked by my massive cock. Come on, suck me, show me how much you want it.”

Sherlock looks up at him through wet lashes as his very talented tongue starts to massage the underside of John's cock as he begins to suck in earnest, his deep guttural moans resonating right up into John's balls. This feels amazing, and John would love to come like this, but he also needs to fuck Sherlock so hard and deep it might feel like being split him in half.

That's why John pulls out after a few minutes, slapping Sherlock's cheeks a few times with his hard wet cock just because he can, and Sherlock makes the loveliest needy noises as he's deprived of the boner in his mouth. Soon, saliva and precome glisten on Sherlock's cheekbones, and John decides that the next time he'll have Sherlock wear make-up as well. Smeared lipstick and runny mascara will be a nice addition to his already debauched look.

“I really need to fuck you now, Sherlock, I hope you are ready for me.” John sinks onto his knees and roughly rips the panties away from Sherlock's arse, exposing his shiny wet hole right between his spread arsecheeks. It flutters and contracts in anticipation but John decides to tease him a bit more and only rubs his cockhead over the rosy pucker again and again. Sherlock looks down at him, mesmerised, even trying to tilt his hips as if to will John inside himself by twisting his body in invitation.

“Beg for it.” John growls.

“Please, John, give me your cock. I need it. Just fuck me, please... please... oh my god! YES!”

Sherlock almost screams when John finally pushes in. His own cock is still almost entirely trapped inside those tight panties, neglected, yet hard and leaking. John even stuffs his glans back inside the knickers before grabbing Sherlock's hips again to brutally fuck him.

“I want you to come inside those fancy knickers. Make a total mess of yourself.” John huffs in a rough voice while Sherlock can only nod to signal that he's heard and understood.

Looking down, Sherlock can see John's big cock slide in and out of him as he sets a fast rhythm. It doesn't hurt, quite the opposite, and as John starts to hit his prostate with every third or fourth thrust ,Sherlock knows that he won't be able to last much longer.

When John starts to bite down on his nipples, Sherlock is done. He whimpers and sobs as he comes, his cock twitching beneath the shiny satin. Then the fabric darkens as his come starts to soak the lace.

John watches, enthralled, then speeds his movements up even more, fucking Sherlock so hard that the chair slams repeatedly into the wall. When John eventually comes, he groans like he is in pain while biting so hard down onto Sherlock's left nipple that he draws blood.

Sherlock yelps, but knows better then to try to squirm and fidget. On the contrary, he pushes himself into John's mouth, embracing the pain. John pants against Sherlock's sweaty chest until he's finally got his breath back and pulls out.

He doesn't untie Sherlock, not yet. Instead, he watches as lube and his come ooze out of Sherlock's swollen hole. It's a lovely sight, and John starts to play with the mess, pushing his index finger in despite Sherlock's whimper, only to offer the wet finger to be licked clean afterwards. They repeat this numerous times, John squatting on the floor, feeding Sherlock come from his own arse, who greedily licks and sucks.

“Let me clean your cock as well, please.” Sherlock begs, and John gets up to allow for it after rearranging the panties. Sherlock suckles onto John's soft cock, until,s suddenly, John can feel Sherlock's jaw go slack. As he looks down, he sees Sherlock's knickers turn even darker and wetter.

“Are you just pissing in your panties, Sherlock?”

“Yes, John. God, it feels so good.” Sherlock sighs.

John takes a step back and watches Sherlock piss himself, the urine eventually dripping from beneath the satin. He lets Sherlock sit in his mess for a little while longer, squeezing his now soft cock through the wet fabric, ignoring Sherlock sobbing with sensitivity.

When John finally unties the ropes, Sherlock is allowed to crawl over to the chest of drawers and decide on the plug he'll be stuffed with tonight. His kimono hangs open, one suspender has come loose and the stocking starts to roll down his leg, yet he still looks sexy as hell as he kneels onto the floor, gazing at the toys lined up for him. He seems to waver between a very large black cone-shaped silicone dildo or a string of extremely big anal beads until his eyes settle on something that looks like some kind of hollow cuff made of corrugated black rubber.

“What is this, John?” Sherlock sounds intrigued. Oh, boy...

“That's a tunnel plug. It leaves you totally open.”

“It's for fisting.” Sherlock murmurs, fascinated, turning the toy in his hands, peering through it before trying to insert his hand.

“Yes.” John confirms.

“Then let's use this. I want it. Please, John, I'm ready.” And as Sherlock looks up at him, John knows he can't deny him this.

“Tomorrow, I promise. You've been so good tonight. Tomorrow.” John whispers as he ruffles Sherlock's sweaty curls. Sherlock slowly puts the tunnel plug back and then decides on the anal beads as preparation.

John allows Sherlock to take off his ruined knickers - only to stuff them into his mouth to muffle his cries. It takes some time, effort, and a lot more lube, but finally the toy sits in place, positively filling Sherlock to the rim.

And Sherlock looks up at John, sucking on his drenched panties, his face streaked with tears, yet smiling.


Chapter Text

It feels... intense. Sherlock is kneeling in front of the coffee table, belly and chest pressed against the firm surface, his straining cock trapped between table top and his quivering abdomen.

Clench. Breath. Relax.

Sherlock's sweating, his back, arse and thighs glistening; his hair sticks to his forehead and temples, dark and curly. Breath! Inhaling sharply against the ache of being filled. Trembling all over. Exhale. Unclenching.

Sherlock spreads his legs a little wider, pushes up and against the rubber device breaching him, ruthlessly slow, gliding, all consuming. His mind has gone white, static, hazy. Sometimes he can hear John exhale, his breath ghosting over the small of Sherlock's back, making him shiver.

Breath. Opening him up. Forcing him apart.

They don't need rope for this. Sherlock got on his knees and bowed down willingly as John had given him a poignant look.

Because Sherlock wants this.

So open. Laid bare. Unguarded.

He's offering himself up...

John started with one finger, then quickly added a second. And, thankfully, lots of lube.

“Spread yourself for me. Pull your cheeks apart. That's it.” John's voice rasped, low, husky.

The squelch of yet more lube being squeezed inside Sherlock’s hole sounded obscenely loud in their quiet living room at three o’clock in the afternoon.

John had given Sherlock plenty to drink beforehand – water and sweet sugary tea – to get him properly hydrated. Then he'd been cleaned – thoroughly. Afterwards, John had again shaved Sherlock's groin, this time even depilating his cleft. The sparse hair between Sherlock's buttocks was removed with cream, leaving his tight hole a smooth rosy pink. After a long soak, Sherlock had been given a few hours for the irritation of his skin to subside.

John's finger could now easily glide in and out of him, stretching, probing.

Sherlock took a moment to breath before a fourth finger was pushed into him. He'd been panting hard by then, but John stroked the small of his back, slowly, rhythmical, until finally, Sherlock relaxed, his tight ring of muscle giving way.

In. Out. Expanding. Widening. Breaching him.

John fucked Sherlock with his fingers for a while, his free right hand idly caressing Sherlock's smooth balls. It felt good; especially when John's index finger rubbed over Sherlock's prostate. His hips bucked in response and he started to drool on the table, his hamstrings flexing.

“Ready?” John asked eventually, removing his hands.

Sherlock nodded with closed eyes, a soft groan of pleasure escaping his throat.

“Take a deep breath, love. Keep yourself open for me.”

And Sherlock did as yet more lube was squirted up his already gaping arse.

“Yes... like this. That's it. Very good. You're doing very good, Sherlock.” John sounded sure, gentle, even proud.

It felt... strange, at first. The rubber was soft and yet not. Unyielding. Ripping him apart.

It's Big. So big! Sherlock can't imagine how the toy might possibly fit his narrow passage, and yet...

As John starts to push the ribbed device inside him, Sherlock remembers inspecting the toy in the morning – black, made of thick, smooth rubber, about 9 inches in circumference, the tunnel being 2 inches in diameter.

It almost splits him in half. Destroying him. Wrecking him.

It’s nothing like anything else John has put inside him during the past weeks. The stretch is solid, ever increasing; Sherlock pants and gasps as John gradually stuffs him, easing the toy in inch by inch.

It takes ages. Because John stops after every few millimetres to give Sherlock time to adjust to the enormous strain; deliberately pulls and twists, spreading Sherlock wider and wider, easing the monstrous toy in excruciatingly slow. He will not hurt Sherlock just as this session is beginning.

Sherlock concentrates on his breathing – inhaling, holding, exhaling - but it starts to get ragged. He's panting and moaning, biting his lower lip, his hot, flushed face resting on the table.

“Gorgeous, Sherlock. God, this looks so hot. You are so open for me. So good.” John's hands are fluttering all over Sherlock's arse and back, caressing, waiting until Sherlock gets accustomed to the pain, the discomfort; the feeling of being opened beyond what he thought possible. His body giving in to the pressure, obeying, yielding.

“Does it hurt?” John asks

“No... not really.” A push, a hiss. “A bit.” Sherlock answers, his words cut off by rough gasps for air.

John hums in appreciation.

Relax. Succumb. Concede.

“OH GOD!” Sherlock suddenly yells as John shoves the tunnel a bit deeper and another ridge breaches him, fast, firm, relentless. “Stop! Please... I can't...” His legs give out and he almost slides off the table as his whole body goes rigid with pain.

Too much. Too much... he can't take this.

And John stills, kneading Sherlock's right arse cheek, giving him a moment.

“I... I'm not sure I can do this.” Sherlock whispers, tears welling up in his eyes. “Sorry.”

“You are doing so well. Breath. Don't fight it.” But the toy is still not properly inside him. There's a long way to go. John pulls out a bit, watches Sherlock's hole flutter, already swollen, the light pink turned red. John bows down, licks a bit, just with the tip of his tongue, until Sherlock's sighs and gives him a sharp nod as a sign to continue.

Slowly. Pushing in. In. Sherlock gives in. This is for him. It's all for him. He can do that. He has to do that.

When the widest part is about to slide past Sherlock's rim, however, he almost arches off the table, his thighs shaking; he's making desperate sounds in the back of his throat as he tries to suck in air. John has to stop again, leans back, strokes slick skin.

Perhaps Sherlock needs something that helps him to take the edge of things...

“John?” Sherlock sobs, slightly panicking. “Where... are you...? Please...”

“I'll be right back.” John assures him as he gets up and walks over into the kitchen. Sherlock hears him take something from the fridge.

“Please... John...” Sherlock whimpers, needy, reeling; floating on pain, unmoored. Silently crying.

“Shush, it's ok.” John is suddenly back, squatting down next to Sherlock's face, brushing his damp hair from his brow. “Here, this will help.”

John holds a small black flask under Sherlock's flaring nostrils and Sherlock can smell a somewhat chemical stench, not unpleasant, a bit like a solvent or a sharp cleaning agent. He inhales nonetheless. Immediately his cheeks heat and his heart rate speeds up as he's suddenly getting a bit drowsy.

His skin is prickling all over as his vision becomes fuzzy...

Intense. Warmth. He feels giddy. The ache subsides. Yes. No. More. Yesyesyes...

“What is... this?” Sherlock asks, a little breathless.

“Poppers. It makes you a bit more accommodating.”

It does. Sherlock grabs the table's edge with his right hand as he holds the small bottle in his left, inhaling the intoxicating fumes every few minutes. His head is pounding, but the pain recedes until it's just reduced to a numb throbbing. Everything feels light. Euphoric. It's all fine.

More. More. More. Tearing him apart. Exposing him. His soft insides. Deeper. So deep.

John opens him up further and further. Lube runs down his cleft and thighs, mixing with sweat and precome as Sherlock breaths and squirms and pants while John steadily pushes and pushes until suddenly the broad rubber rim hits Sherlock's buttocks.

John moans in triumph. He massages the small of Sherlock's back and whispers: “You did it. God, Sherlock, you took it all. This is so beautiful. Tell me, how does it feel?”

“Good.” Sherlock sighs. “Big. So big. Open. Oh god, John... I'm so open. I can't...” He's clenching, spasming around the toy that invades him, this alien object, unfamiliar, so large that John will be able to fit his whole hand inside Sherlock's body. Soon.

They are panting; this is new to both of them. It's almost overwhelming.

“Don't worry. Just stay like this. Please.” John leans back, and Sherlock can hear the rustle of fabric as John quickly sheds his clothes. Then his naked warm body covers Sherlock's back as John presses hot, open-mouthed kisses to Sherlock's sweaty neck and shoulders, licking, tasting salt. His cock presses against Sherlock's bony hip as he moves against him, smearing Sherlock's skin with sticky precome. Sherlock is sobbing with relieve, adjusting to the stretch, gaping, vulnerable, at John's mercy.

John's tongue follows his fingertips down Sherlock's spine as he eventually rises to kneel behind him. The plug sits still snug inside Sherlock's hole, not giving way. John's fingernails scrape up the tender backs of Sherlock's thighs, and Sherlock shivers, gooseflesh breaking out all over. His hole tries to twitch in anticipation but it's impossible, as he's literally filled to the rim.

“Come on. Shuffle back.” John helps Sherlock to get up from the table, gripping him around the waist to position him on the rug, on knees and elbows, his head resting on his forearms, his gaping arse up in the air. The movements make the toy shift inside his rectum, scraping over the tender walls of his colon, so deep, unbelievably deep inside him. Sherlock moans as his cock dribbles clear precome onto the carpet. He can't stop oozing; it's like being milked.

“John. John!” Sherlock pants, so turned on that he starts to rut into thin air, his hips stuttering and circling until John has mercy and touches his dripping cock, giving him just a few loose strokes as some kind of reward.

When John removes his hand, Sherlock whines, but then he hears more lube squirting and feels a shockingly cold drop hit deep inside him. “Jesus, John, oh god!” He shouts. As he halfway turns his head, he can see John coating his left hand, fingers already wet and glistening, slicking himself up to the elbow. John's eyes are dark, his face and neck flushed crimson, and his hard cock juts out in front of him, bobbing up and down, dark red, the glans fully exposed.

“Please, John, put you hand inside me.” Sherlock pleads as their eyes lock. John bites his lower lip and has to grip the base of his twitching cock to stop himself from coming. Sherlock can see a large drop of precome well up from John's slit and he licks his dry lips and spreads his knees further apart to push his arse even higher up. “Please... I'm so open for you. Fill me up. Stuff me. I need you. Now!” Sherlock's voice is deep and rough as he begs for John's fist.

The rubber somehow diminishes the sensation at first, as Sherlock just feels something firm, long and very large glide inside him. But as John's finger push deeper, past the rubber tunnel, the sensation is so intense that Sherlock groans deep in his throat. As John's arm slides in deeper and deeper, his knuckles brushing the soft, velvety insides of Sherlock's body, both men gasp in shock. John eventually stills, savouring the sight of his arm up to his elbow inside Sherlock's arse.

“Move, please, John...” Sherlock actually tries to rock back further and John has to grab his hip with one hand to stop him.

“Don't! Careful...” John bellows.

But Sherlock is almost too gone to notice. “John... John!” He shouts, pressing his cheek against the threadbare rug. His fingernails dig into his sensitive skin as he forces himself to stop moving. He even bites down on one arm so the pain can distract him.

They both have to hold their breath, and only when John is sure that he won't come right here and now does he tentatively start to wiggle his fingers inside Sherlock.

“Oh god, yes. This feels... amazing... incredible. You are so deep inside me... nghhhaahhh.” Sherlock gasps, oblivious to any discomfort, not even able to catalogue all the sensations and signals his body is firing up to his brain.

But it's when John balls his fingers into a fist that Sherlock totally looses the ability to form coherent words.

Slowly, so slowly, does John start to move his fist inside Sherlock. At first, he just twists his hand, but after a while he begins to pump it in and out of Sherlock's spread hole. The lube squelches against the rubber and starts to drip from Sherlock's arse; John imagines it being come.

It's beautiful. Sherlock is is so tight, his soft, warm flesh hugging John's hand and forearm. Obscene. Hot. John licks his lips, breathes, moves.

The noises Sherlock makes... desperate, high whines. John needs more of this, needs to feel more of him. He removes his free right hand from Sherlock's arse and brushes over his hip bone until it rests against Sherlock's sternum. Slowly, carefully, John pulls Sherlock back and up until he's kneeling upright, with John's left shoulder a steadying, anchoring pressure against the small of his back.

Sherlock is impaled on John's left arm, circling his hips, rocking, gliding up and down like a puppet, fitting John's hand like a glove, sheathing his arm. John twists his fist again and Sherlock makes a hissing noise.

“You'll keep this up your arse from now on. God, I want you open like this at all times. You could become a perfect come dump, men could just jerk of inside your hole, and I could watch it run out of you again. I want to see you filled up to the rim with thick white goo, to dip my finger in and paint your body with the come of other men.”

But John still wants more. His right hand slides slowly down Sherlock's body, until it comes to rest just beneath his navel. As he clenches, then unclenches his fist inside Sherlock, turning it, he can feel it moving deep inside his lover's body, beneath taught muscles and damp skin.

“God, Sherlock, that's me, that's my hand inside you.” And he bites and licks and kisses every inch of sweaty skin he can reach while Sherlock rises, breaths, shivers in front of him, his head lolling on his strained neck, Adam's apple bobbing as he tries to swallow while moaning John's name.

John is entranced. This is it. This is what he's been looking for with all his past lovers. But it's so rarely found. Because this is more than sex, more than pain. It's a transcending experience, for both of them. It changes the dynamics profoundly. Who's in charge here is hard to tell as they both move in unison, melting together, giving, receiving, becoming one.

Sherlock is sobbing with need by now as John is pulling his hand almost all the way out before pushing his fist deep inside him again. The noises he makes are not human anymore, it's a raw growling, keening and whimpering, but in between he huffs out “Yes” and “Please” and “More” and “Deeper” - and “John. Johnjohnjohn”.

Sherlock's orgasm hits him like a punch to the gut. His legs wobble, his back rounds and arches, and then Sherlock shoots thread after thread of thick white stripes all over the carpet. John's right hand presses against his chest again, to keep him upright; deep inside him, John can feel his muscles contract as Sherlock screams his name in total bliss. It's a sight to behold.

As Sherlock's orgasm wrecks his lean body, John sits up and pushes in all the way up to his elbow; Sherlock's head sinks back against John's left shoulder, his body staying upright while impaled on John's arm. Therefore, John dares to remove his right hand to grab his own cock. He adjust himself until he can shoot his come all over Sherlock's arse, and coats his cleft as well as the black rubber protruding from it in thick ribbons of ejaculate.

John stays like this for minutes, and Sherlock doesn't move, just gasps for air. He still feels John's fist violating his insides, stretching him, filling him. He even begs John to stay inside him as John starts to pull out, and John gives in, turning his fist a few more times until he finally dislodges his arm as he can feel Sherlock's wobbly legs start to give out.

Sherlock huffs with disappointment but sits down on his hunches. John hugs him tightly around the middle, pressing his hot face between Sherlock's shoulder blades.

“Beautiful... amazing... so amazing. Gorgeous. You are so beautiful like this...” John can't stop himself from murmuring praise into Sherlock's damp skin, and Sherlock flushes bright pink all over, down to his chest.

“Please, John, don't remove it. Let it inside me, please.”

“Yes. God... yes. But we can't do this again for a while. We have to be careful. Ok?”

Sherlock just nods. John holds onto him until their breathing has evened, his chest flush against Sherlock's back as he mouths at Sherlock's neck and nape, just licking and suckling while his hands start to brush over Sherlock's abdomen and thighs.

“You are mine. Mine.” John whispers, and suddenly the thought of sharing this superb, divine creature with anyone else is unbearable.

“I'm yours.” Sherlock breaths as he turns his head to catch John's eyes before kissing his yaw. “You can do what you want with me. Anything you want. I'll let you. I'm yours.”

John has to blink once, twice, before tenderly turning the debauched man in front of him in his arms, stroking his face, his hair... and then they kiss. Deep, passionate, without holding anything back. John arms – one sticky with sweat and ejaculate, the other with lube – hug Sherlock so tight as to never let go, feeling the rise and fall of his ribs and his knobbly spine while he slides his tongue against Sherlock's, soft, possessive, claiming him. Owning him.

Eventually, John gets a flannel and a bowl of hot water from the bathroom and starts to wash Sherlock's lithe, trembling body. He catalogues all the bruises and other marks he's left on the white skin over the past weeks, kissing welts and scars, as Sherlock looks on from brightly radiant eyes. When Sherlock is cleaned up, John gets the violet satin kimono from the bedroom and drapes it over Sherlock's narrow shoulders, before pulling him into his arms on the couch.

The plug stays up Sherlock all evening as they sit on the sofa, kissing, holding each other, and every time John wants to look at him Sherlock bends over and shows John how open he is for him.

Only late in the evening does John get up to take a much needed shower and make some tea. Meanwhile, Sherlock has gone to the bedroom to retrieve the box of toys. Now, as John is sauntering back into the living room, still drying his hair with a towel, Sherlock kneels on the floor, holding up a leather strap with a gleaming silver buckle.

“What is this for?” he asks, with a mischievous glint in his eye as he cocks his head to one side, scrutinising his new discovery.

“It's a spider gag.” John explains.

Sherlock arches an eyebrow. “It doesn't look like a gag. How does it work?”

John shows him.

The evening could have ended with Sherlock on his back on the coffee table, his head dangling from one side while John holds onto his calves, pulled up almost to Sherlock's shoulders to spread him open and reveal his still gaping hole. The spider gag forces his mouth open, and he drools copiously, spit running down his cheeks and into his open eyes as John fucks his face, pushing his cock deep down Sherlock's throat, who is humming in pleasure beneath him.

From time to time John stills deep inside him, his cock blocking Sherlock's airways as his balls seal Sherlock's nostrils; John only starts to move again when Sherlock jerks on the table, his limbs starting to jitter due to lack of oxygen. Meanwhile, Sherlock's flushed cock is lying on his heaving stomach, and he desperately wants to touch it but has to hold onto the table's edge as to not being shoved off it by the sheer force of john's thrusts down his throat.

Their moaning and Sherlock's choking and spluttering almost drowns out Sherlock's phone. As it doesn't stop ringing, John finally reaches out to answer, buried deep in Sherlock's mouth.

It's Greg.

“What?” John barks.

“Is Sherlock available? I need to talk to him.”

“Not right now. He's... a bit preoccupied.” Sherlock's eyes go wide with the lack of air. John removes his cock an inch to allow the man beneath him to breathe.

“Finish whatever you two are up to right now. I'm sending a car round. This is important. Comes from very high up. A former minister. Found dead in a very exclusive sex club you two might be familiar with. Sherlock's presence was specially requested by the owner, a Miss Irene Adler.”

John pulls out abruptly, leaving Sherlock coughing as he gasps in surprise.

“We'll be right there.” John assures Lestrade, cradling Sherlock's head to help him into a sitting position. The phone goes dead and John starts to unbuckle Sherlock's gag.

He has to rotate his strained yaw a bit, and his voice sounds raw when he asks “What happened?”

“Quick shower for you. Better take a cold one. Then get dressed. There's been a murder at Miss Adler's establishment.” John cups Sherlock's chin in his palm. “We'll finish this later.” He promises, as his thumb swipes through the saliva coating Sherlock's face.

“And the tunnel?”

“Oh, I think we'll leave that in.” Sherlock's eyes go wide. “Might be an incentive for you to quickly solve the case.” John winks as he makes for the bathroom.

Sherlock slowly follows him on wobbly legs. “But John, don't you think... I don't know? What if I have... an accident?” Two bright red spots bloom on Sherlock's prominent cheekbones.

“Well, as I said, you better hurry to solve it then, don't you think? Despite, you were cleaned out and didn't eat. You should be alright. For a while.” John grins cheekily as Sherlock steps into the shower, looking sceptical.

“Get on with it, the car will be here any minute.”

Chapter Text

The taxi ride is somewhat tense. Well, no wonder... their session has been interrupted but Sherlock is still plugged and open, reminding him of his place, anchoring him somewhere in subspace. Yet, he has to concentrate on a case. It's difficult.

When they arrive at Miss Adler's house in Belgravia, there's no police cordon, not even a copper at the door.

“Mycroft...” Sherlock mutters.

“Or someone even higher up.” John remarks.

Sherlock just arches an eyebrow.

Before they can even ring the bell, the door is opened by a visibly shaken Sergeant Donovan. To John's astonishment, she's not wearing one of her familiar suits but a tight black mini-dress and black high heels.

She gives them a sour once-over, but it lacks her usual spite.

“Come on, this way.” She says by way of a greeting, then escorts them down the hall and into the basement of the house.

Down there is a corridor that formerly led towards the kitchen, scullery, coal cellar and pantry. Now, there are half a dozen closed mahogany doors. It is utterly silent.

Donovan looks over her shoulder, frowns, then pushes a door to their right open.

The room beyond has no windows. The walls are bare brick. There's a neon tube on the ceiling, illuminating the scene in white, cold light.

A naked man has been tied to a St. Andrew's cross. Well, it's supposedly a man, judging from body hair and general appearance, but his face is covered with a mask and his genitals are missing. They are shoved down the throat of a very young girl, the bloody testicles still protruding from her mouth. She's naked, tied to a chair, and looks as if she suffocated, her face ashen blue, eyeballs protruding.

The smell of blood, piss and shit is nauseating. There's a big rusty pool on the floor beneath the cross, and the ceiling is splattered with dark red traces. John is reminded of scenes he witnessed far away a lifetime ago under a desert sun and has to swallow hard while breathing through his nose. Donovan remains standing by the door, looking slightly sick.

“You may enter. Anderson's been over the place.” She sounds somewhat choked.

“Anderson?” Sherlock exclaims, seemingly more affected by the attendance of his most hated forensic officer than by the scene in front of him. “Oh, for god's sake...”

He marches into the room, stands in the middle, turns, scans everything, taking in all the minute details.

“How do you know he's a former minister if he's still wearing that mask?” John asks to break the silence.

“He seems to have been a regular. Popped in weekly, always with a very young... companion.” The DS explains.

“Do you know who she is?” Sherlock walks over to the young girl, kneels before her, looking right up her spread thighs. Sally has to avert her eyes.

“Not yet.”

“John?” Sherlock beckons him over and John stands behind him, examining the dead body.

“She's young.” He swallows. “Very young. Barely developed breasts. Her... private parts don't seem shaven, so no pubic hair yet... I would have to look at her teeth but I'd say she's about... ten.”

“Jesus!” Sally mutters.

Sherlock pulls on some nitrile gloves before walking over to the man on the cross. His arms and legs are tied to the rough wooden beams with leather belts. Sherlock is careful not to step into the dried pool of blood and excrements on the floor, so somehow stands next to the device as he carefully starts to loosen the ribbons that close the black leather mask around the victim's neck. The mask dehumanises the body; it has only a hole for the mouth, otherwise it's like a bell cover, fastened around the throat.

It takes a moment for Sherlock to be able to remove the hood. The face revealed is pale, due to the blood loss that led to the man's death. The eyes are open but stare into nothing

“What's his name?” John asks as Sherlock pulls the man's face up by his sparse brown hair to take a good long look. He seems vaguely familiar.

“May I introduce the right honourable Sir Peter Saint Clair, former Minister of Defence.” Donovan spits out.

Sherlock holds the man's head up with his left while pulling his lips back with his right hand, examining the teeth as if on a horse market. Then he preens up the man's nostrils. “Cocaine addict.” Sherlock mumbles. When he kneels down to examine the wound at the groin John has to close his eyes for a moment.

“Clean cut. The victim didn't struggle. He was tied up and didn't know what was coming. I'd say a scalpel was used, or a very sharp razor blade. But because of the precision I think it was a medical instrument. He bled to death. Got what he deserved, in my opinion.”

“And the poor lass?” Donovan asks.

“Wrong place, wrong time.” Sherlock gets up, swirls around and leaves the room. “Where's my brother?”

“With... the proprietor.” Donovan answers.

“Then take us to them... now.” Sherlock requests, sounding even colder than usual.

Sally leads them up to the first floor, knocking sharply on a door before pushing it open. It's some kind of morning room, furnished with sofas and chairs, all pushed to the walls, leaving a wide space in the middle. There, on a fluffy white carpet, kneels Kate, naked. In front of her – furious, hair loose, barefoot (with surprisingly tiny stockinged feet), otherwise dressed in a dark red evening gown – is Irene Adler, riding crop in hand.

Kate seems to have got a fairly thorough beating already. Her naked body is covered in welts. She's bleeding from her nose as well. Her meticulously pinned-up ginger hair has come loose in parts and is spilling over her shoulders. She's crying, but still holds herself upright as her employer delivers another hard blow. And another; hitting the maid over her chest. Her full white breasts tremble slightly from the impact.

“You. Stupid. Cow.” Irene hisses, before dealing another blow.

“Yes, Miss Adler. Thank you, Miss Adler.” Kate replies. But it comes out somewhat slurred.

John coughs, and Irene looks up at the three people who just entered.

“Oh, Doctor Watson. Sherlock. Thank god you came! Have you seen the mess downstairs?” Irene's arm just stops halfway into another stroke.

“Yes, Miss Adler.” Sherlock answers, feeling himself blush as he echoes Kate. All eyes are suddenly on him. “Therefore, I strongly advice you to get your temper under control and help me with sorting out this... mess as soon and smoothly as possible. If you could finish this, so that we could start to deal with your problem...?” He gestures vaguely over to the snivelling woman on the floor.

Instead of taking offence at Sherlock's condescending tone, Irene drops the riding crop and smiles. “Sergeant? Would you be so kind to take this silly bitch to the next room and start to... interrogate her. Make sure she answers to you properly.”

Donovan doesn't bat an eyelid as she walks over to pick up the riding crop, then nudges Kate with one of her high-heeled feet. The maid clumsily gets up and stumbles over to the door. Sally's face is unreadable as they leave the room, but her grip on the crop is firm. Sherlock quickly makes some reassessments of the Sergeant on his hard drive.

“So, what do you have so far?” It's Anderson asking, leaning against the mantelpiece, glass of Whisky in hand. Sherlock completely ignores him and directly addresses Irene.

“You have a dead, castrated paedophile in your basement, who was killed while engaging in sexual activities with a minor. As both are tied up, there must have been a third party present.”

“Really?” Anderson sneers. “Is this groundbreaking analysis all you have to offer, genius?”

Sherlock continues as if he hadn't heard: “The girl is about ten years old. Not English. I think she came from Eastern Europe, probably one of the Baltic states. She's been in London for only a couple of weeks. Marks on her wrists and ankles suggest that she was kept in chains. In a windowless room. She's very pale. But otherwise she was treated well. No signs of torture or starvation.”

“I told you he'd be of service.” Mycroft steps up from a dark corner of the room, his hands clasped behind his back, eyes boring into Sherlock's. His tie is loose and the first button on his collar undone. Sherlock stares at his brother's exposed throat and suddenly feels hot all over. Does he know what state Sherlock is in, right now? Mycroft usually misses very little.

Irene sighs and drops into a fluffy armchair as if her strings had been cut, unaware of the tension between the brothers. Anderson hurries over to hand her a drink, which she accepts without looking up at the man.

“Anything else you'd like to share, brother dear?”

“Do you have some kind of video surveillance in operation, Miss Adler?”

“Certainly not. This establishment caters to very specific needs, as you are well aware, Mr Holmes.” It's not entirely clear who of the brothers Irene's addressing. “Discretion is of utmost importance.” She states, sounding suddenly very tired.

“But how do you guarantee that your staff is safe, especially regarding the somewhat exotic tastes of your clients?” Sherlock asks.

“Well...” Irene hesitates. “We check their credentials. Every client needs to provide references.”

“So you know who was with those two tonight?” John steps up to Sherlock's side.

“Not by name, no. But as they always arrived as a party of three, I thought they were father, daughter and mother. I certainly knew Lord Saint Clair. He was recommended by another member. The girl never spoke.”

“Jesus...” John sighs under his breath.

“What, Doctor Watson? They all seemed quite content with the arrangement. They have been visiting my house weekly for nearly a month now. I don't judge the proclivities of my guests.” She gives John a pointed look and Mycroft coughs.

“So they played happy families in your dungeon and all had a jolly good time.” Sherlock interjects. “But what changed tonight that it ended in the girl dead and his Lordship being castrated?”

“Well, perhaps you should ask that Lady Saint Clair?” John suggests.

“I will.”

“She's not in England, apparently.” Mycroft declares. “We checked on her to inform her of her husband's death, but she's been in Spain for the past three weeks. Menorca.”

All faces turn towards him.

“So, who was with them during those past sessions?” Sherlock asks slowly. “Who admitted them?”

“Kate did.” Irene answers, somewhat defensively. “I was busy.”

“And what could Kate tell you?”

“Only that the third person wore a mask and a long coat. She wasn't even sure if it was a man or a woman.”

“And you really don't monitor the guest rooms?”

Irene gives a sharp nod.

“So, how does it work then? Are customers admitted and then ushered to their rooms, or is there some... mingling beforehand?” John enquires curiously.

“Well, obviously, the visitors have to make an appointment in advance. In the evenings, we provide a bar for those guests who wish to... mingle, as you put it, Doctor Watson. It seems that the young girl was taken immediately downstairs by that ominous third person, presumably to make preparations, while his Lordship went over to the bar to have a drink and... to watch. For a little while. We had a session in progress. I greeted him. He obviously liked what he saw, but after about fifteen minutes he went downstairs as well.”

“When were they found? And by whom?” Sherlock asks.

“They'd reserved the room for two hours. When they didn't check out in time, Kate came to me and informed me. We gave them another quarter of an hour, but then I went downstairs to have a look. I do have a master key in cases of... emergency. That's when I found them.” Her face stays calm and collected. Sherlock is suddenly sure that it hasn't been the first time that Irene Adler had encountered violent death. “I instructed Kate to let the fire alarm go off. That quickly cleared the premises. We have some very discreet security guards on hand. They ensured all parties left with the very minimum of fuss. When everyone was gone I called your brother.”

“You let that lot go? Just like that?” John asks sharply.

“I had two members of Parliament here tonight, an American media tycoon, an Academy Award winning actress and the wife of a Russian oligarch. Of course I let them all go. Could you imagine the diplomatic imbroglio if they'd been interrogated by the police, and later been sold to the press?”

Mycroft sighs heavily and massages the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger.

“Did anyone see this mysterious third person leave?” Sherlock enquires matter-of-factly, trying to get back to business. Accusations won't lead them anywhere.

Irene just shakes her head. “Not as far as I know. Why do you think Kate got this thorough thrashing?”

“So it's quite possible that this third person – man or woman – just mixed with the crowd at the bar and left with everybody else when the alarm went off... Did you recognise a newcomer?”

“I was engaged in a private session for an hour, therefore I couldn't watch the bar. And people can, of course, pop in and out from the other rooms. But DI Lestrade is talking to the staff at the moment. Perhaps someone saw something.”

“I need the transcripts of those interviews.” Sherlock looks at his brother and Mycroft nods.

“Any idea so far?” Anderson asks, feeling obviously ignored.

Sherlock fixes him with a cold gaze. “This was something personal. You don't just cut someone's penis off and stuff it into a child's mouth to choke on it. Revenge? Jealousy? Perhaps a former victim of Saint Clair's predilections?” He starts pacing, only slightly wincing as the plug up his arse shifts. Colour rises in his cheeks and John has to look down to hide a lewd grin.

“We should find out who the girl was, where she's from...” Anderson cuts in.

“Unimportant. Some child sex slave from Eastern Europe.” Sherlock makes a dismissive gesture but John coughs and mumbles “Bit not good, Sherlock.”

“What? Oh please, in a place like this? Come on, John. Bit late to claim the moral highground.” Sherlock huffs.

“She was someone's daughter, Sherlock. She should have been at school, not in a brothel.” John gives Irene a sharp look but she just shrugs and glances over to Mycroft.

“You are, of course, right, Doctor Watson. I will advise Miss Adler as not to condone such activities at her premises in the future.” The elder Holmes placates in a soothing tone.

“You knew what he was into?” Sherlock asks his brother, a slight accusation in his tone.

“That's my job, little brother. Why do you think he had to resign from the MoD?” Both Holmes's engage in one of their legendary staring matches - perhaps a little bit more heated this time - until Sherlock looks finally away.

“I'll see if I can unearth some CCTV footage from outside Saint Clair's home to shed some light on the identity on our mysterious third person. If I should find anything, I'll pass it on to you, Sherlock. Miss Adler, I'm sure we can sort this sordid business out discreetly. Meanwhile, I have to bid you all good night. There's still a country to run.” When Mycroft passes his brother on the way out, he stops short and looks him up and down, an almost predatory smile ghosting over his face. “When this is all over, we should have dinner at my club. Just the two of us, brother dear.” His voice is low and velvety smooth. Sherlock blushes at the thought of what is resonating with this invitation.

At the door, the elder Holmes pauses and turns one last time. “By the way, should the press get wind of this incident, there'll be consequences. Serious consequences.” Then Mycroft is gone. The temperature in the room has suddenly dropped a few degrees.

After a moment, it's John who breaks the silence. “Well, I think we should talk to Kate again. What do you reckon, Sherlock?”

“That seems to be quite a good idea. Miss Adler, I will be in touch.” Both men don't deign to look at Anderson when walking out of the room

Out on the corridor, John leans in and whispers: “Now, how desperate are you to find out what Sergeant Donovan can do with that riding crop?”


They walk into the room next door without even knocking and quietly close the door behind them. Thank god, all the rooms at Miss Adler's etablissement are soundproof; because Kate is by now screaming as Sergeant Donovan lets yet another shower of fierce blows rain down on her body. The sobbing woman crouches on her hands and knees in the middle of the room, her hair loose hiding her face. Her arms and legs are quivering and she clearly has trouble staying on all fours. Angry red welts cover every visible inch of her body, from neck to feet. But Sally's arm doesn't waver.

Both man take a seat on one of the sofas and watch. Sally barely glances up before she continues: “You were there to watch over the guests, you lazy whore. Now you've brought disgrace over this house and your mistress. How are you planning to make up for this?”

“I'm so sorry Sergeant.” Kate heaves, her voice hoarse from crying. “I deserve to be punished.”

“Oh, you bet you do. This is just the beginning. Don't think for one second that you will keep your position. You'll be demoted. You know what that means, don't you?”

“Yes, Sergeant.” The maid sobs.

“Have you seen what Miss Adler did to the new sub who refused to swallow her client's come? The Mistress had her lazy mouth sewn shut and fed her nothing but come via a nasal tube for a month.”

John's eyebrows shoot up as he files away this idea for later use. Sherlock squirms in his seat.

“Please, don't...” the woman on the floor whimpers.

“Now, tell me again, what were you doing while those murders happened in the basement? While you were on duty to watch over the proceedings?”

Sally lowers the riding crop and squats down in front of Kate, pulling her head up by her tousled hair. The maid's face is a mess, mascara, snot and blood mixing on her distorted features. Her eyes are wide with fear. As she doesn't answer immediately, Sally pulls more fiercely, then slaps Kate's cheeks hard a few times, accompanying the smacks with her repeated question: “What. Where. You. Doing. Fucktart?”

“I... I had a private... client.” Kate is finally able to utter, her voice breaking.

“Did Miss Adler know about this client?”

“No.” It's a barely audible whisper.

“So, you fucked someone, while downstairs one of your guests was castrated and a little girl got brutally killed?” Sally's voice is almost gentle now. Kate just nods, casting her eyes down onto the floor. John sighs and shakes his head. When Sally looks up and over, their eyes meet.

“On your back, slut.” Sally orders. “Spread your legs and show us your wet pussy.”

Kate hurries to obey, exposing her shaven cunt. Her vulva is glistening pink. Sherlock remembers licking her and shivers. John senses his unease and leans over. “No, look at her, Sherlock.” He murmurs in Sherlock's ear.

Sally has started to finger Kate a bit, already two fingers up inside her to the knuckles. “Still hot and swollen. He took you hard, didn't he?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Well, it'll be only anal for you for the next weeks. Doctor Watson, I'm sure you know where Miss Adler keeps her first aid kit.”

“Please, no, please...” Kate starts to beg, but Sally's finger inside her speed up as her other hand clamps down over Kate's mouth. The maid doesn't resist.

“Don't make this worse for you, Kate. Doctor Watson is at least a medical professional. I'm sure he's very apt with the needle. Now, be a good girl, will you?”

Kate has started to silently cry again but nods.

While John goes downstairs to get the first aid kit from one of the staff rooms, Sherlock and Sally arrange Kate on a large desk between the windows. There's a table lamp which they position at an angle that John will have a perfectly illuminated operation area. Finally, they tape Kate's ankles to the desk's legs. When the preparations are finished, Sally tenderly strokes Kate's inner thighs, alternating the caress with brushing her knuckles over Kate's wet cunt.

“Hadn't thought this was your cup of tea, Holmes...” Donovan teases Sherlock, looking at him over her shoulder. “I know your brother is a regular here, but I hadn't put you down for this sort of thing. Any sort of thing, to be honest.”

Sherlock smiles a tight smile. “And how would you happen to know that my brother frequents this etablissement?” He asks coolly, tilting his head while watching Sally's apt fingers play with Kate's clit, only mildly curious now but not even blushing.

“Because I do as well.” Donovan grins, and before Sherlock can say anything to that, John enters. He's not only brought a first aid kit, but also a catheter.

“You might need that for a while.” He explains, and Kate's eyes go wide, but otherwise she holds still, having given up on struggling against her fate.

First, John inserts the tube of the catheter up Kate's urethra. Sherlock assist him in holding the lamp, while Sally still Kate's twisting hips. Afterwards, John cleans Kate's vagina with a disinfectant that has the woman hiss in pain.

“I'll inject you with some Lidocaine. I'm actually not that much a sadist.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” Kate sounds relieved as John draws up a syringe and injects the fluid into each labium. Sally watches mesmerised, then suddenly bows down and starts to snog Kate, deep and messy, one of her hands fondling Kate's full breasts.

John leans over to Sherlock, not taking his eyes off the action on the table. “How are you?” He asks.

“I'm ok. But didn't you promise me to explore Sally's skill set?” Sherlock almost pouts.

“All in good time.” John answers before giving Sherlock a quick but dirty kiss.

John's hands are steady as he threads the needle and sets to work a few minutes later. Sally makes Kate watch the proceedings, stroking her tits while holding her head up. Kate rests on her elbows and has a good view between her legs, witnessing how her sensitive flesh is tightly sewn shut underneath John's deft hands.

It doesn't bleed much. Instead of suffering from pain, Kate gets rather wet from the experience and starts squirming, her breath hitching; John has to remind her to stay still by pinching the inside of her thighs hard.

“God, this is... wow. Oh my god. Fucking awesome.” The maid whispers.

John's thorough and takes his time, checking the sutures every second stitch. It takes altogether fifteen stitches until Kate is sewn properly shut, only the catheter tube protruding from the seam between her legs, angry dark yarn against slightly swollen, sensitive skin. Finally, John once again dabs disinfectant over the fresh seam and admires his work.

“How long... how long do you think Miss Adler will leave me like this?” Kate asks with a weak voice, but her nipples are hard, her breathing is ragged and her pupils have dilated.

“I don't know.” John answers, as he hooks a bag up to the catheter tube. “But I might be able to put in a word for you if you put your phenomenal mouth to good use right now.”

“Wait. I want to touch it.” Sherlock steps between Kate's still spread legs and let's his fingertips ghost over the sutures. He can feel her pulse beat fast and hot against fingers as he starts to rub her pussy while Donovan has started to kiss her again. Kate moans and almost melts into the touch, and when Sherlock sinks onto his knees and brings his tongue against the stitches, she nearly arches off the table. Sherlock and Sally exchange a quick dirty look, before the DS grins: “Come on, posh boy, give it to her.”


It's a complicated arrangement on display in that room a few minutes later, like an obscene sculpture garden. Kate has been cut loose and is kneeling on the floor between Sally's spread legs, sucking and licking her cunt with abandon, holding onto dark brown, well-muscled thighs.

Sally has shed her dress and pants and is now just in her black bra and black high-heels, wielding the riding crop.

Sherlock is lying naked on the desk, on his back, his head hanging off the other side of the table, like they did it back at Baker Street.

John has just unbuttoned his fly and is now shoving his hard cock down Sherlock's throat, while Sherlock is choking and moaning around him, his noises of pleasure every now and then interrupted by sharp gasps of pain as the tongue of Sally's crop bites into his marble skin.

She aims for the sensitive flesh at the insides of his spread thighs, the soft crook where legs meet groin, and, occasionally, Sherlock's heavy testicles. A broad smile is plastered onto her face as she more and more forcefully rocks her hips to meet the insistent tongue sneaking in and out of her.

“Does she make an effort?” John asks a little breathless as his cock hits the back of Sherlock's throat and the man below him splutters while fighting for air.

“Oh, yes.” Sally sighs, accompanied by a guttural laugh. Another smack hits the taut skin stretching over Sherlock's iliac crest, and he arches his back, almost howling in agony.. “And he?”

“He's a quick learner.” John pumps in and out of Sherlock's throat while Sherlock grabs his hips to steady himself.

“Well, who'd thought...” Sally marvels as the crop hits Sherlock's balls and he whines, a low vibration in his throat that has John's eyes almost roll back in his head. He starts to fuck Sherlock's mouth in earnest now and Sally, sensing how close both men are, speeds her ministrations up, now aiming solely for Sherlock's hard, dripping cock.

“Sweet Jesus, this is a dream come true.” She murmurs as she watches red welts rise on Sherlock's pale skin.

Sadly, it only takes a few more strokes for Sherlock to come, shooting thick white spurts all over his belly and chest, even hitting John's stomach, which is enough to drive John over the edge as well. He pulls out quickly afterwards, so that come and saliva run down Sherlock's chin as he sits up and coughs for breath.

John hugs Sherlock from behind, kissing his neck, before resting his chin on Sherlock's bony shoulder to watch the two women in front of them. Sally has by now dropped the riding crop and is instead holding tight to Kate's hair, almost breaking the woman's nose as she humps the maid's face, glistening with cunt juice and saliva. They both moan and pant until Sally goes rigid, her usually stern features for a moment softening in pure bliss.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” She exclaims as she finally releases the bunch of red hair, allowing Kate to slide to the floor. “That was... wow.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.” Kate sighs contently.

Sally quickly picks up her pants and dress but then glances over towards the two men who still embrace one another. Sherlock's head rests back on John's shoulder, his face flushed, eyes bright and burning. 'God', Sally thinks suddenly, 'what a beautiful bastard.'

Aloud she says: “That plug of yours, that looks interesting.”

“Next time we come to the yard I promise you a full cavity search.” John smiles and Sherlock shudders, which earns him a playful swat on his biceps.

Sally grins. “You know, junkies have no limits when it comes to hiding their stash? I'll probably have to put my fingers into all his orifices.” She winks as Sherlock pales. “God, I seriously have to piss.” She shakes out her dress when John nudges Sherlock off the table.

“Sherlock, I'm sure you can be of service here. As well That's the least you can do to make your previous behaviour up to Detective Sergeant Donovan, don't you think?”

Sally slowly turns as Sherlock sinks onto his knees, licking his lips. He is genuinely thirsty after all.

“Seriously?” Sally asks, glancing down at the posh git on the floor.

“Seriously.” John replies, and Sherlock obediently opens his mouth. Sally feels her cunt heat and her nipples peak as she steps up to Sherlock, giving him a good long look at her wiry pubic hair, still glistening with her juices and Kate's saliva. Sally spreads her legs slightly, and Sherlock slowly leans forward. His tongue darts out to taste her, the tip just touching her still swollen clit, before he places his mouth over her vulva, coaxing her open with his tongue. She tastes warm and sweet, until suddenly salty piss floods Sherlock's mouth. He seals her with his plush lips while he keeps on sucking, drinking eagerly, swallowing as best he can, and is rather proud of himself that he spills very little. Sally holds his head in place with a hand in his hair, making sure he doesn't pull away. Not that he wants to.

When the stream runs dry eventually, he continues to lick and lap until the DS is clean, suckling at her labia, even nestling his nose and cheeks into her black curls to be marked with her scent.

John smiles down at him and pets his head: “Good boy. Now, back to Baker Street. Don't forget you have a case to solve.”


When they all have got dressed again – apart from Kate, who at least wrapped her bruised body in a woollen blanket - Sherlock remembers that he actually has a question for the maid.

“Do you, by any chance, remember the name of the person who vouched for Lord Saint Clair to have him admitted.”

Kate looks up at him from dazed, hooded eyes. She's obviously about to pass out from exhaustion any moment, but still wrecks her brain to answer. “Wait, I think it was something Irish. It's on the tip of my tongue. Yes, of course. Jim Moriarty.”

John and Sherlock share a look of utter astonishment before Sherlock dashes from the room, with John close behind him.

Chapter Text

Sherlock dashes down the stairs and is half-way out the front door of Irene's white town house when Lestrade steps into the hall.

“Oi! Sherlock! John? What's going on?”

John turns while running after Sherlock, shouting over his shoulder: “Listen, Greg, we'll catch up with you later, it's just...” when Sherlock abruptly stops, door-knob in hand, and outright freezes, so that John bumps into him. He can feel how hard Sherlock breathes, which can't be attributed to just running down a flight of stairs.

“It's ok, Sherlock. I'm here”, John murmurs, placing a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

“Could someone please tell me what's going on?” Greg demands.

“Moriarty.” Sherlock whispers, then coughs, to say louder: “It's Moriarty.” He's still not looking at Greg or John, instead fixes the door frame with a piercing gaze.

“Shit!” Lestrade mutters. “How do you know?”

“He vouched for Saint Clair.” John states.

“Ok.” Greg brushes a hand through his silver hair. “Does Mycroft know?”

“I'm pretty sure he does.” Sherlock spits out, but John only shrugs. He can feel a violent tremor run through the man in front of him. Greg has noticed as well.

“All right. I have to... conclude some interviews here.” The DI states, sensing that his presence is somewhat counterproductive at the moment. ”Thanks for passing this on. You better get going.” With that, he steps back into one of the downstairs rooms.

John slowly turns Sherlock around to face him. “Let's go home, ok?”

Sherlock just gives a curt nod. In the cab, he doesn't let go of John's hand, clamping down on it so hard that John's knuckles hurt. But John doesn't mind.


Sherlock had sometimes dreamed about the pool; the three seconds it took his brain to catch on that John was wired, that the words he spoke were not his own, but whispered into his ear; that John had been forced to say those words. Still, three seconds can be a very long time...

Sherlock had dreamed of red dots ghosting over John's face. He'd dreamed of a vest stuffed with Semtex, of blinking lights and wires, of feeling useless and impotent despite wielding a gun in his hand.

Those dreams stopped when John had started to train him, to use him, to hurt him past endurance. During their sessions, Sherlock's mind came to a halt, and afterwards he was simply too exhausted to think much, or even dream.

Therefore, he was completely unprepared when the memories came crashing back over him. The smell of chloride, the humid warmth, that creepy singsong voice in his head!

That night he'd nearly lost John. And, with a sharp ache, he had realised at this fucking swimming pool that he wouldn't have been able to bare his loss. This epiphany had given Sherlock strength that night, had made him bold and brave.

But that had been before they became... whatever they were now. Friends with benefits? Partners in crime? Master and servant? Lovers?

Anyway, the thought of loosing John now made Sherlock panic, nauseous, terrified. He simply couldn't imagine his life without John, who'd become his core, his anchor, his conductor of light in an ever darkening world.

It wasn't allowed to happen! Sherlock would not allow it to happen. He'd do anything to prevent Moriarty from taking the most important person in his life away from him. Even a deal with the devil himself.


John is aware how tense Sherlock is when they get back to Baker Street. He's already powering up his laptop when John walks through the door mere five seconds behind him. He didn't even take the time to shed his Belstaff.

When Sherlock is cursing his empty inbox, John decides to make tea. The sun is coming up outside by now, promising a beautiful morning – but Sherlock has no eyes for it as he's on the phone, making calls in half a dozen foreign languages while his tea goes cold on the desk in front of him.

John watches him, frowning.

At eight o'clock, Sherlock's laptop finally answers his muttering with the sound of an incoming email. During the next four hours, Sherlock double-checks all the witness statements, and even watches some recorded footage Lestrade has send him from the interviews. At noon, the forensics report arrives, followed an hour later by the post-mortem. Mycroft must have pulled some strings to speed up the proceedings.

Yet, it's nothing new to be learnt from all the data. No one recognised a newcomer, there are no fingerprints or DNA samples that couldn't be matched to employees or the victims themselves in the dungeon, and the post-mortem doesn't tell Sherlock anything he didn't already know.

At least not about the dead ex-minister. One thing that might be a bit surprising – and fills John almost with relieve – is that the girl had still been a virgin.

“So, she wasn't raped. That's at least something.” He tells Sherlock, trying to cheer him up a bit, while the detective is brooding gloomily over yet another crime scene report.

“At least not vaginally.” Is the clipped answer John gets.

He has to take a walk afterwards to get some fresh air.

When John comes back after an hour strolling through Regents Park, Sherlock is sitting on the couch, smoking, shouting into his phone again – at least in English this time. John would normally chastise him, but at the moment he's acutely aware that Sherlock needs this small pleasure to take the edge of things; so John let's him be.

“What do you mean? Are you an imbecile? - Seriously? - I know! - No, now you'll listen to me... - I need this list! - I don't care if Miss Adler is indisposed! - Then tell her...”

John has heard enough. He retreats into the bathroom, to take a prolonged, very hot shower.

When he returns into the living room some fifteen minutes later, just clad in a snug pair of black boxer shorts, Sherlock has put both the cigarettes and the phone down and stares off into nothing.


“Not now, John.” He makes a vague gesture with his delicate right hand as if to dismiss John like he's an annoying insect. Only, that's not on.

“Sherlock!” John demands more sternly, and that finally gets Sherlock attention and snaps him out of his reverie.

“What?” He blinks rapidly for a few times, trying to focus on John as if seeing him for the first time today.

“It's been almost 24 hours. We have to remove the plug now, or there could be serious damage to your... body.”

“Not now, I'm busy.” Sherlock replies, aloof, then shifts a bit on the couch. “I'm fine.” He mutters, as if to assure John that everything’s just as usual.

“And I am a doctor, and I'm telling you that we have to remove the toy from your rectum – now. Take your trousers of and bend over the coffee table.”

“John, you don't seem to understand...” Sherlock can't finish his sentence as John jerks him up and over with a fierce grip to his shirtfront, hissing while fighting with Sherlock's tight trousers: “No, it's you who doesn't understand. You need a break. And that thing has to exit your arse – now. It's up to you to decide if we do it the nice or the dirty way.”

Sherlock doesn't really struggle but isn't cooperating either. “If you insist...” is all he says in answer to John's little speech, as if John had just proposed a game of whist.

“In fact, I do!” John barks as he yanks Sherlock's trousers and pants down, revealing his beautiful arse still open and stuffed with the large black toy. Despite – or perhaps because – of all the stress John has endured over the last 18 hours, it looks mouth-watering.

“Just pull it out then.” Sherlock urges.

“It's not that easy, Sherlock. Remember how long it took to work it in?”

“Are you seriously expecting me to spend the afternoon bend over the coffee table while you play with my arse, while Moriarty is on the loose?” Sherlock asks, his tone acerbic.

“Why not? Is there anything else you can do right now?”

“I could think!” Sherlock shouts, trying to pry over his shoulder to give John one of his scathing looks.

“Sometimes even your brain needs some rest.” And with that, John pulls, and Sherlock screams, stifling the noise by shoving his fist into his mouth.

“Hurt, doesn't it? Are you sure you prefer it like this?” John enquires, holding Sherlock firmly down.

Sherlock is quiet for a moment, panting. Then he nods.

“Sherlock, this can seriously injure you...”

“I deserve it.” Sherlock whispers in response, cutting John short. “I deserve to be punished. I'm useless. I can't keep you save. I can't keep anybody save.”

John stills.

“That's not true, Sherlock. And that's not what this is about...”, he says as he starts to rub soothing circles into the small of Sherlock's back.

“A ten year old girl is dead, choked on a cut off penis, because I didn't dare to shoot that Semtex vest!” Sherlock shoves back at John, freeing himself from his grip, and tries to get onto his feet with as much dignity as a half-naked man with his trousers and pants around his ankles can muster. But he doesn't seem to register the state of his clothing right now. “It's my fault! I had Moriarty in front of a loaded gun and I didn't dare to pull the trigger because sentiment got the better of me. So stop being gentle with me and just get it over with. Hurt me. Punish me. Use me. It's just transport, have you forgotten?”

Sherlock spits those words into John's face, who is still crouching on the floor, feeling bile rise in his throat. He slowly gets up and grabs Sherlock's arm, just as the detective is about to bend over the table again.

“Stop this, Sherlock! Stop this right now. This is not about... For god's sake! You saved my life that night, not only by not blowing us all up... but by staying alive. I wouldn't have bothered anymore if you'd...”, John swallows and can't look at Sherlock as he continues. “This... thing... between us... it's something else. Even when I say that I'm punishing you, it has nothing to do with who you are. It's... it's a game. An intense game. Played by strict rules. But I'm not here to destroy you. I'm here to teach you that there's something else to life, something more. That doesn't mean you are not good enough the way you are. Because you are.”

“John...” Sherlock’s voice is raw and trails off after just this one syllable.

“I know you'll catch him in the end. Moriarty. Because you are amazing and brilliant and unique.” John smiles a wicked smile. “I also know that I will shag you so hard afterwards that you won't be able to walk for a few days. I'll beat you till you scream. I'll bite you until I draw blood. To make you loose control, to give up. To surrender. Because that's what you want, Sherlock Holmes. That's why you started all this in the first place.” John's voice is just a hot whisper against Sherlock's ear now, and finally, Sherlock allows himself to give in and leans his forehead onto John's shoulder. John holds him, anchoring him with one hand to the small of his back and the other at Sherlock's nape, until he can feel Sherlock's shoulders relax a fraction.

“Just give yourself a break. One hour. That's all I'm asking for. Then you can get back to the case. You can even take your phone with you. Ok?” John asks in an unusually soft voice.

“Ok.” Sherlock mumbles against John's collar bone. John tenderly ruffles his hair before pulling away.

“I'll run you a bath. That'll help. Just... get fully naked in the meantime.” He playfully swats Sherlock’s bare arse as he once again walks over to the bathroom.


The bath did help Sherlock to relax and loosen his muscles. Now he feels warm and a bit sleepy as he kneels on all four on a clean towel spread out on his bedroom floor, with John squatting next to him, slowly stroking his back. Sherlock's head hangs low between his elbows, so he can watch what John is doing in the large wardrobe mirror behind him. At the moment, he's slowly twisting the plug inside Sherlock, trying to loosen his entrance a bit more before pulling the first ridge free.

It hurts.

And another.

God, it hurts!

And another.

Sherlock can see his rim being stretched even more over each ridge popping free. It’s both gruesome and fascinating. He tries to breathe steadily, but a burning pain is shooting up his spine, sharp, white, hot, tightening his chest; it lingers, making him want to recoil, to scramble away, to scream. He doesn’t.

Sherlock is panting hard by now and has trouble staying up, his wiry arms shaking, but John has been adamant that he stays upright and watches. So he does.

“Breath.” John reminds him, patting his sweaty, quivering thigh. “Nearly there.”

“I can't...” Sherlock huffs, as another ridge slips free. He already starts to feel slightly empty, which is disconcerting. He misses the stretch. At the same time, he fears the widest part breaching him. He clenches, clamps down on the toy, his whole body trembling. “Stop. Please, John...”

He feels raw, hollow, teetering, closes his eyes, takes a few deep breaths. Don’t hyperventilate!

“Wait.” John pets him again - his arse this time – and hurries over into the kitchen. He returns with the small popper's bottle and offers it to Sherlock, who gratefully takes it, sniffs...

Yet he still yells, a high, bitten off cry, as the toy is finally pulled free. And then he is staring at his reflection, jaw dropping.

Because he's gaping. His anus is wide open, the rim only slightly wrinkled, a bit red but otherwise looking delectable. Fuckable. And he stays open. His knees are slightly spread, and his arsehole is on full display. Vulnerable. Ready. Some of the excessively applied lube is dripping out of him, running down over his perineum, his balls and inner thighs, and it's deliciously debauched. Sherlock cants his arse upwards a bit more and presents himself, in awe of what his body can be transformed into. A soft moan escapes his mouth.

John is equally fascinated, entranced. He touches his index finger to Sherlock's ring of muscle and encircles the fluttering rim tenderly.

“You are amazing.” He breaths. “So open.” He pushes his index finger a little deeper inside, caressing Sherlock's soft inner walls, and Sherlock hums in appreciation as he watches. As John finds his prostate, the sigh becomes a gasp. John rubs the spot again and again, and Sherlock starts to get hard as precome dribbles on the towel beneath him.

“Look at you.” John whispers, enthralled. “Your greedy, wet cunt.” He takes Sherlock's phone from the bedside cabinet (he had allowed for Sherlock to take it with him in case he gets an important call or email) and takes a picture. “I'm sure I could stuff this phone inside you now easily.”

“If Mycroft called he'd be a real pain in the ass, then.”

They both giggle. “Been there, done that, I thought?” John smirks, and then they both start to snigger helplessly.

“Will you fuck me?” Sherlock asks, breathless with laughter.

“No.” John grins and shakes his head.

“Please!” Sherlock demands, smirking lewdly. “Look at me. I'm just waiting to be stuffed.”

“Greedy bastard.” John presses two fingers down onto Sherlock's prostate to shut him up.

“Oh, god!” Sherlock sighs, rotating his hips enticingly.

But suddenly, the blissful pressure is gone, as John gets up again. He takes a bottle of lube from the bedside cabinet, and Sherlock’s eyes light up in anticipation - that is wiped from his face when he sees what John also grabs: a latex glove.

“Please, don’t do that, John. I can’t… not right now.” He’s begging. He knows he shouldn’t but he can’t help it. No. NO!

“Oh, I won’t.” John answers, stroking Sherlock’s curls back from his face, pulling his head up while crouching down in front of him. “But you will.”

“No.” Sherlock mouths, trying to shake his head, but John’s grip only tightens.

“Oh yes, Sherlock. You will.”

It’s not easy. Sherlock has to twist his body, looking over his shoulder in the mirror to observe what he’s doing. He’s holding onto the bed post with his left hand as not to topple over, up on his knees. The glove is by now coated in lube, and Sherlock has almost succeeded to press his hand fully inside his open, abused hole. The rim stretches around his knuckles, burning, bright red now, sore. Sherlock almost dislocates his shoulder as he pushes deeper still, forcing his fist past the ring of muscle, enduring, aching.

John is sitting on the bed, filming Sherlock on his phone, his cock in the other hand, lazily stroking himself. “Come on, don’t stop, all the way in.”

Sherlock tries. Turns. Twists. Moans. Presses in, in… and gasps when his knuckles breach him, sliding inside with a wet squish. His hole closes around his wrist, encircling it like an obscene bracelet. He stares, unable to think, mind wiped clean. It doesn't hurt anymore, it just feels exceptional. So good.

“Oh my god.” John huffs, and Sherlock sighs as he twists his wrist and slowly, so slowly, balls his fingers into a fist – deep inside himself. His eyes almost roll back in his head.

“Jesus, look at your greedy hole... tell me, how does it feel?”

“Amazing. Intense... Oh god, John.” Sherlock’s cock is bobbing in front of him, dark pink and dripping. Yet he can’t touch it. It’s maddening.

John abandons the phone and leans over to kiss him, deep. Both their eyes are open. It’s sloppy and messy, their tongues eagerly darting out, teeth nipping teasingly. Sherlock watches John as John watches Sherlock fisting himself in the mirror.

“I think you are truly ready for your brother.” John whispers against Sherlock’s lips before biting down until they can both taste blood. Sherlock whimpers with need, bucking his hips.

“I did just send him a picture of you, with your right hand up your own arse. I’m sure he’s by now already unbuttoning his fly, playing with his fat cock while looking at his little brother doing unspeakable things. I bet he gets off on it.”

Sherlock's cock is twitching as he thinks of Mycroft, seeing him like this. Exposed. Forced. Debauched. Taking it. And loving it. Thankfully, John reaches down and wraps the fingers of his right hand around Sherlock’s erection, smearing precome all over the shaft before gripping it tightly; John's left hand is on his own cock, tugging in sync.

“He’ll fuck you till you scream. He has specially made toys at the Diogenes, you know. He showed me once. Very large toys. I’m sure he’ll use them all on you. Dildos the size of my thigh. You won’t be able to walk afterwards.” John murmurs hotly into Sherlock's ear while stroking him, all the while jerking his own cock in a loose grip. “He’ll rip you apart. He might even cut you open to enlarge your hole. Turn you into his very own cunt.”

Sherlock’s shaft is gliding between John’s fingers, slippery with precome. He looks down, watching his wet cock head appear and disappear in John’s fist, then stares back over his shoulder, wanting to push even deeper but is restricted by anatomy. Stupid! His transport failing him, again.

“I’m sure he’ll dress you up in little fancy knickers, like a proper slut. Parade you around the club. Let all and sundry fuck you, even two or three at the same time. In all your holes. They'll take turns. And he’ll make you, holding you down, come dripping out of you, yet you'd still want more. Perhaps you’ll be allowed to lick his arse afterwards. But only if you’ve been a good boy. Will you be a good little boy for your big brother, Sherlock? Will you do as you are told?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock moans, turning his head back around, meeting John’s gaze. Blood runs from his lower lip, over his chin, and John licks it up with just the tip of his tongue, savouring Sherlock’s taste. The room smells like a battle field, of blood and sweat and musk, Sherlock’s wrecked panting providing the perfect soundtrack. And suddenly, John can’t stop it, he has to kiss him, now, own him, mark him. Sherlock is his. He wants to claw him open, slide under his skin, wants to know him and possess him, his body, his mind. Wants to be the only one. Ever.

It’s more biting than kissing, hard and brutal. John growls as his hand speeds up and he closes his eyes, licking into Sherlock’s mouth, stroking him, stroking himself, faster, lines blurring, faster, no limits, faster, their bodies melting, coming undone, FASTER, becoming one.

And then Sherlock makes a keening sound deep in his throat that vibrates through both their connected bodies, shooting thick white stripes all over John’s fingers, abdomen and chest, while John presses against him, tugging, touching, coming as well, plastering his semen all over Sherlock’s hip, groin and thigh.

“Jesus”, John mumbles, resting his head against Sherlock's collar bone, fighting for breath. It takes a minute before he can sit upright again. “Are you alright?” he asks, absent-mindedly brushing one of his come-covered hands though Sherlock’s curls.

Sherlock slumps forward and leans against John’s chest, his cheek resting onto a glazing drop of his own ejaculate. His face contorts in pain as he eases his hand out of himself in one swift move. “I think so. Could you...?” His arm is shaking, muscles cramping.

John peels off the glove, still glistening with lube, before kissing Sherlock’s knuckles, his palm, his wrist, then gathers him up in his arms. They end up in a pile of limbs on the bedroom floor, John leaning against the mattress with his lap full of a totally spent consulting detective with his eyes drooping and his cheeks still flushed. They are both sticky, covered in come, lube and sweat, but neither of them cares right now.

They stay like this for a short while longer, John stroking Sherlock's chest and abdomen, watching them in the mirror. They both look gloriously ravished.

Eventually, John turns Sherlock’s pliant body over to check for damages. His hole is still open and leaking lube, but not gaping anymore. There’s no blood or fissures. John’s sure Sherlock's rectum will be back to normal in a few hours.

When they eventually get up, Sherlock would have slumped forward and probably crashed face first into the mirror had John not held him upright. “Easy...”, he murmurs, and Sherlock giggles again before turning to kiss John almost chaste on the lips, just one short peck, his gaze lingering as if he’s about to ask a question, but then decides against it.

They share a quick shower, and, while getting dressed afterwards, Sherlock's phone pings. He's once again absorbed by the case. Apparently, there has been a new development.

Chapter Text

"What is it?“ John asks as Sherlock stares down on his phone.

“A text from Molly. Apparently, she found something on the dead girl... she wants me to come to Bart's to take a look myself.” He's already shrugging on his Belstaff.

“Um, ok, want me to come with you?” When Sherlock just storms down the stairs, John decides he might as well follow.

Only, as they reach the pavement outside 221b, Sherlock's arm already in the air to flag down a cab, John feels his own phone vibrate.

“From Lestrade. There's something on the CCTV footage he wants us to take a look at...” He tells Sherlock, reading the text he has received.

“You go.” Sherlock decides briskly. “Call me if it's something important.” With that, he flops onto the backseat of a black cab and leaves John to his own devices.

But not for long. A few minutes later, while John is walking down Baker Street in the direction of the tube station, a sleek black car pulls up at the curb. John sighs as the door is opened, but slides into the soft leather seats nonetheless.

“Hello Mycroft.” John greets Sherlock's brother as the car manoeuvrers back into the London traffic.


Sherlock's footsteps echo loudly in the silent corridors leading down to Bart's morgue. There's not a soul about, and isn't that quite a pun in a place like this, Sherlock thinks and smiles to himself as he pushes through yet another fire door. He's actually a bit excited what Molly might have found. Finally a useful trace, linking this crime with Moriarty?

And what might Lestrade have come across on the video footage? Some development, at last! Sherlock hates gridlock. It makes his mind do funny things and his body crave increasingly unhealthy sensations. He needs to move forward, or at least move, to distract himself from his own destructive impulses.

Later, he will vaguely remember a slight disappointment when he finds the morgue empty upon entering. Usually, Molly awaits him here, brimming with badly disguised eagerness and something else Sherlock has a while ago chosen to simply ignore.

But now he has no time to wonder what's going on here. He smells it just a fracture of a second before a wet cloth is pressed over his face. He can't turn around, and there's no time to struggle, as his legs immediately give out beneath him while his vision darkens.

“Jo-” a name crosses his mind, but even that thought is interrupted when Sherlock's six foot tall frame slumps down like a puppet with its strings cut, already unconscious before his head hits the concrete floor.


“Doctor Watson.” Mycroft tilts his head as a way of greeting. He's dressed pristine as ever – charcoal three piece suit, light grey shirt, dark red tie, fob watch and the ubiquitous umbrella – but there are also dark circles under his eyes, and he looks somewhat haggard. “Please, allow me to drive you over to New Scotland Yard. I presume my brother is busy elsewhere?”

“He's on his way to Bart's, as you must very well know when you are aware of my destination.” John has long ago stopped wondering how on earth Mycroft knew this stuff.

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock's brother gives a sharp nod, then glances out of the window. “How is he?”

“Fine?” John answers.

Almost casually, Mycroft enquires next: “How did he take the... Moriarty reveal?” But John can see right through him. Fucking one brother rather teaches you a lot about the other.

“Not that well, as you can imagine. But I was able to distract him for the time being. That doesn't mean he won't have questions... later.”

“Of course.” Mycroft nods. “We'll be prepared.”

“We? I didn't fuck around with this creature. There's nothing I have to blame myself for. You, on the other hand...” John doesn't finish the sentence. The unspoken accusation hangs between them like a rotten smell.

“Yes, Doctor Watson, pray continue.” Mycroft's voice is smooth, but John detects ice underneath.

“You had him. And you let him go. And now he's back and tormenting your brother. What the fuck, Mycroft...”

“No need to get vocal, John. I assure you, I am totally in charge of the situation.”

“Two people are dead, Mycroft. One a little girl, for god's sake! And apparently, Moriarty frequented your favourite sex club. Doesn't look too good to me.”

“Well, I introduced him to Miss Adler. I thought he might like her. As it turns out, it seems to have been mutual attraction. But there's not much harm in that. Saint Clair was a useless waste of space, as a politician and as a human being. What Moriarty did actually saved the public some valuable resources.”

“And the girl?”

“Collateral damage; a concept you should be familiar with.” Mycroft's tone is almost as acerbic as Sherlock's. John swallows, fists clenching, but he tries to stay calm.

“What do you really want, Mycroft?”

The elder Holmes sighs. “I want to remind you of your responsibility. I believe we came to an understanding, Doctor Watson. Don't forget what's your role in this game.”

John is silent for a moment, but then he can't suppress a question: “That's all this is to you, isn't it? A game?”

“Of course.” Mycroft sounds bored to death and just a little amused at John's outburst, but a throbbing vein at his temple gives him away.

“I don't believe a word you say. You were almost in his pants yesterday evening at Irene's. Not very subtle, Mycroft.”

“So what?” Sherlock's brother suddenly fixes John with a hot, piercing gaze. “Remember, we have an agreement. You took my money to pay off your debts. Do you want to beck out now? Have you, after all, formed some sort of emotional attachment to my little brother?”Mycroft's sneer is downright offensive.

John doesn't rise to the bait. When he just stares ahead, Mycroft scoffs in indignation. “Seriously, John? I assumed this was just a job for you. But if you turn out to be emotionally compromised, I have to revoke our contract. As Greg tells me, Sherlock might be ready anyway. Therefore, I thank you for your services, they are no longer required.”

John is silent for a moment longer. There's a war waging inside him, but the only outward tell is the clenching and unclenching of his left fist as Mycroft continues. “In acknowledgement of your thorough proficiency, I grant you a weekend at my country house. With Anthea. I have a real torture chamber there, not the fake props Irene provides. Collected all over the globe, some presents from the most feared dictatorships in the world. I have an Abu Ghraib waterboarding facility as well as an electrocuting device from Cambodia, once used in Tuol Sleng under Pol Pot. I'm sure it will meet your requirements.” The elder Holmes smiles a reptilian smile as he looks over at John to access the appeal of his offer.

John swallows, thickly, then shrugs. “He'll need me until the case is over. You know, he'll be preoccupied until he's solved it. Just give me a few more days to prepare him and detach myself, ok?” John tries not to sound too eager but is not sure if he succeeds. One never knows with the Holmes's brothers.

But as they are just about arriving at NSY, Mycroft only gives a curt nod. The driver opens the door and John gets out, glad to escape the suffocating closeness.

“Remember, John, don't get involved.” Mycroft reminds him as the door closes and the car pulls away. John waits a moment, then takes his phone out to check for a message from Sherlock.

Nothing. John tries to call him and ask if there's any new development, but the call goes directly to voicemail. Which is not unheard of, since the reception at Bart's is kind of patchy. After leaving a message, John just shrugs, puts his phone away and walks over to the desk Sergeant, to sign in and look for Lestrade.


When Sherlock comes round again, he doesn't know how much time has elapsed. His tongue is swollen, his vision still blurred, and, as he can't feel his extremities, brief panic flutters in his chest. Breathe, he tells himself, as he tries to raise at least his head to get a better look at where he might be. His eyes burn and his skulls pounds, but there are bright lights and metallic objects, silver walls and white tiles... still the morgue then, he realises, feeling somewhat anchored.

“Ah, there you are.” A familiar singsong voice trills from somewhere at the periphery of his perception, and Sherlock shudders, unable to control the nausea coiling in his stomach. Suddenly, he can sense warmth as the man moves closer and comes to stand somewhere in the vicinity of his left shoulder. Sherlock tries to move, to raise an arm or leg or do something, but it's no use. He's not only too weak, he's also tied down onto something, flat on his back. His hands skitter over a cold, smooth surface – a stretcher? One of the stainless steel morgue tables?

“Now, look at you, shaking like a newborn foal. I would let you up, you know, but I fear you could stumble and fall. Might ruin your looks.”

Sherlock wants to give an acrid retort, but only now senses that he can't open his mouth. It's sealed with something – adhesive tape? A bandage? Leucoplast? Whatever it is, it ensures that just a muffled sound escapes his throat.

“What was that? Sorry, I didn't get that.” Moriarty leans in, and Sherlock can suddenly see his face, upside down above his own, those cold black eyes not dead at all, but sparkling with mischief and something even more dangerous.

Sherlock tries to move fast, to headbutt that lurking spectre, but he's too woozy and Moriarty not close enough. Instead, an icy hand tightens around Sherlock's throat and squeezes as he's pushed back down.

“You know...” Something bright flashes before Sherlock's eyes, “I could just open your throat, cut your larynx and slice your vocal cords. But then, I love your voice, Sherlock. I want to hear you beg. And scream. Later.”

The grip around his throat loosens somewhat, Moriarty's palm just cupping his Adam's apple. The next thing Sherlock feels is a sharp pressure just below his chin and he jerks against his bounds again to escape what's coming. “Stop this!” Moriarty hisses. “I can't guarantee for anything if you don't stop thrashing about.”

Sherlock freezes, but not soon enough. Suddenly, there's a stinging pain at his neck, and then he can feel warm fluid ooze down his throat and clavicle. He balls his hands into fists as he tries desperately to stay quiet.

“Don't you wonder where little Miss Hooper is?” Moriarty asks as he starts to slice off the buttons on Sherlock's white dress shirt, moving steadily down his torso. “She was rather surprised to see me. I fridged her.” At this admission, Sherlock's head jerks up in horror, which leads to Moriarty's scalpel slipping, cutting rather deep into the soft skin of Sherlock's stomach. It starts to bleed instantly, a dark red stain blooming onto the crisp shirt.

“Oh, no, just quite literally. She's in that big walk-in freezer over there. Don't know, though, how long she might manage, just wearing her lab coat. What do you reckon, Sherlock?”

Sherlock just shrugs helplessly, yet still careful as not to risk another cut.

“Ah, come on, you can do better. Show me with your fingers.”

Sherlock wrecks his brain to calculate something according to temperature, Molly's weight, height and the size of the freezer, but Moriarty must have given him something else than just Chloroform – GHB? Rohypnol? Ketamine? - because he can't come up with a sufficient answer. Jim waits, having by now cut off all the buttons, parting the thin fabric to take a look at Sherlock's pale body. His roaming hands distract Sherlock further.

“Now, now, Mr Holmes, have we been a naughty boy?” Moriarty smiles darkly as he takes in the bruises.

Sherlock, just to avert Moriarty's attention, shows him three fingers. “Thirty minutes? Hm, that's an optimistic estimation, given that I've injected her with a muscle relaxant. Might affect her breathing capability... who knows? I'm not a doctor? Speaking of... I'm rather curious what you and the good Doctor Watson have been up to lately. While you were out, I took a look at your phone. Quite a show there, Sherlock.”

Sherlock can feel his face heat up in humiliation. Oh, god! All those pictures John had taken! He has to close his eyes, unable to endure the lewd smirk Moriarty gives him.

“Your call history shows me that some of the more adventurous images were also send to your brother. Ah, all those old English families have an inkling to inbreeding, I've been told. Quite unhealthy, don't you think, Sherlock? Only, with you and your brother, at least there's not the risk of degenerate offspring. Small mercies.”

Sherlock opens his eyes again and just stares back at Moriarty, frozen in horror. There's nothing he can do but listen as that sweet Irish lilt continues: “You know, I've got contacts with the press. There's a lovely little journalist, named Kitty Riley, writing for one of the big tabloids. She's very keen. What do you think she would do with a tip-off like this. I can already see the headlines: Famous consulting detective engages in perverse sex games with older sibling. Perhaps they'd put it a tit more fanciful, though. You know, employ some four letter words...” Suddenly, Moriarty's face is only inches away from Sherlock's, who can feel the other man's spit hit his face as he hisses: “This would not only ruin you, it would kill your brother's career as well. Did he tell you what was done to me on behalf of the British government?” Sherlock minutely shakes his head, staring up at the enraged grimace hovering over him, desperately trying to hide how terrified he truly is behind a blank face.

“He interrogated me. Quite thoroughly. For weeks.” Moriarty's tone is soft again, yet his eyes burn with hatred. “He's very good at it, I have to admit that. It's always a pleasure to deal with a professional.” The grin he shoots Sherlock is full of menace. “What do you think your Mummy and Daddy would think if they'd come to know that Mycroft wants to bone his little brother?” Sherlock makes some undignified sounds at this as he tries to protest.

Suddenly, Moriarty moves away again and starts to roam the morgue. “You know, this is getting boring. I always liked or little tete-a-tetes. You were rather amusing sometimes.” Moriarty lifts a sheet, covering another gurney, preens under it, than puts it back down, smiling. “How about I remove that gag from your mouth? You only speak when asked, of course. Otherwise I'll send those pics to my friend. Agreed?”

Keep him talking, Sherlock thinks. Bide your time. Someone will come. John will come. Because John always comes to rescue me.

Sherlock nods. If he's allowed to speak he's sure he might somehow talk his way out of this. Not to forget Molly.

As the tape is roughly torn away from his face, Sherlock howls in pain. He can taste blood in his mouth from his sore lips and coughs to clear his throat. He is thirsty as well, and longs for a sip of water, but is sure he won't be treated to such niceties.

Instead, Sherlock can feel Moriarty's hands stroke his face, his cheekbones, cool fingertips caressing his neck, brushing through the streak of blood there, lingering, before continuing their journey further down. Sherlock realises that Jim is painting something on his chest with his finger dipped in blood – letters? - but he's still too hazy to translate. He doesn't even dare to breath, just tries to hold those dark eyes with his, almost pleadingly, as Moriarty starts to splay his hands over Sherlock's concave abdomen, stopping at the waist of his trousers.

“If I had known earlier...” Moriarty mumbles, suddenly close to Sherlock's ear. And then his palm travels further south, pressing down onto Sherlock's groin, who inhales sharply, flinches and squirms, trying to escape, to get away from this touch. But Moriarty just gropes him tighter, until a gurgling sound escapes Sherlock's mouth as he desperately struggles to swallow down the bile rising in his throat.

“Please...” he whispers.

“Shh.” Moriarty presses his crimson index finger to Sherlock's lips to silence him. “Remember, you promised to stay quiet.”

Sherlock swallows, hard, and briefly closes his eyes. That gets him a soft smack to his left cheek.

“No, no, no, Sherlock! Look at me. Look what you are letting me do to you.” Moriarty traces Sherlock's upper lip, dipping into his Cupid's bow, smearing blood on his face like some gory make-up. “Does it feel like this when John touches you? Or is he firmer? Rougher? You like it rough, Sherlock?”

Sherlock tries to shrug, but is restraint by the rope binding his wrists, upper arms, legs and ankles to the operation table.

“Oh, you may speak.” Moriarty condescends.

“I... I don't know.” Sherlock's voice is wrecked; his throat feels like sandpaper.

“Liar!” Moriarty's hand clamps down on his throat again, effectively blocking Sherlock's windpipe. He instinctively wants to thrash but can only fidget helplessly. “Don't lie to me, Sherlock. Never lie to me!” It's a dangerous, almost frantic whisper. Sherlock's mouth opens and closes but no sound escapes. He registers with shame that he's getting hard.

When black dots start to dance before Sherlock's eyes, the hand is eventually removed. Sherlock sucks in oxygen, but as Moriarty is apparently still waiting for an answer, he hurries to say while still spluttering: “Yes.”

“Yes... what?” That honeyed tone again, while the hand between his legs slowly unbuttons Sherlock's fly.

“Y-yes. I like it... rough.”

“Good. That's actually very good. So you might even enjoy what I have planned for you.”

Sherlock tries to detach himself from the situation as Moriarty's dry fingers wrap around his cock. He has to escape this ordeal, otherwise he might simply vomit. Suffocating on your own sick does make for a very unattractive corpse, Sherlock reminds himself. Therefore, he retreats.

Just transport. You've been through worse. Don't think about it. Don't feel. Zone out.

He's only dimly aware that, at some point, his restraints must have been cut with the scalpel. “Sit up.”

Any attempt at fighting or running is futile, Sherlock registers, as he tries to arrange his body into a sitting position. He's too weak. His head lolls from side to side and his limbs dangle from his torso as if they don't belong to him. Like a rag doll, he thinks. I'm just someone's toy now.

As he tries to move, he almost falls over and slides from the gurney. When he catches himself in the last moment he realises how slow and uncoordinated his movements are. He would probably didn't make it to the door, even when crawling on all fours. And Moriarty is still wielding a sharp scalpel, pressed to Sherlock's throat, while his other hand is inside Sherlock's pants, playing with his cock.

“Ups, I might have miscalculated the dosage. But then, you are used to being drugged, aren't you, Sherlock? It wasn't easy to find a proper vein.”

Sherlock groans as he tries to steady himself. Moriarty might as well think it has something to do with his groping.

“Now, get on your feet. I'm sick of manhandling you, carrying you around. Careful!” Thankfully, Moriarty steps away from him, removing his hand, wet with Sherlock's precome. He wipes it on his trousers, looking a bit repulsed.

When he trusts his legs to bear his weight, Sherlock slowly slides off the table and turns around. His trousers fall to his ankles as he bends over and asks: “How do you want me?” He even tries for seductive. He's not sure how much time Molly might have left. Get over with this, then, as quickly as possible.

“Oh, no, Sherlock. You misunderstood. You're so stupid sometimes, it's unbelievable. I'm not like your brother. I don't want to fuck you. I really don't engage in such base entendres. No, Sherlock, you'll be the one who's doing the fucking.”

Oh god, Sherlock thinks. Not Molly. Not Molly Hooper. He won't get it up. And even if he would, that is just too... NO!

On the other hand, it would get her out of the freezer...

Sherlock turns back again and looks over to Moriarty, who has moved again and is now standing next to one of the sheet covered stretchers near the freezer door. The grin on the man's face is outright chilling.

“See what I have here for you." Moriarty croons as he pulls back the white linen, exposing a male corpse. "He's even blond, like your little army doctor. Come over, take a look. I'm sure you two will have so much fun together. He's quite... pliant.“ Moriarty raises the dead man's arm and lets it fall back down again to emphasize his words before gesturing towards Sherlock's somewhat flagging erection. “Better keep it up. I fear we won't have much time left. The quicker you come, the earlier Molly is released.”

In retrospect, Sherlock doubts that this was the ideal moment for his stomach to decide to exit its content, but, judging by the following projectile vomiting, it couldn't been helped. When his legs give out he briefly reminds himself to better not fall forward into his own sick, and then his world goes dark again.

Chapter Text

“Look.” Lestrade says to John, handing him a paper cup of what passes off for coffee at NSY. With his other hand, the DI points at the computer screen, showing somewhat distorted black and white footage of the corner of Irene's street. John watches a car turn, then stop. Three people get out, two tall, one significantly smaller. The timestamp shows 20:08.

“See? That's when they arrive.”

John nods. “Yeah, but you can't really make out any faces, can you? It's too dark, and too poor quality.”

“Ah, but wait.” The DI smiles somewhat smugly.

He forwards the tape about 45 minutes. At 20:53, a single figure is leaving Irene's house and walks directly towards the camera. Just as the person is close enough, the headlights of a passing car illuminate a face John would recognise anywhere, despite the upturned coat collar. Slicked back dark hair, thin yet poignantly shaped eyebrows, and those intense black eyes that did bore right into his soul as the man did attach a bomb to John's chest at a darkened swimming pool.

“That's him.” John croaks, and Lestrade nods.

“Thought so. Ok, now we have a time frame...” But he's unable to continue his explanation, because the door to his office is thrown open. A visibly agitated Mycroft Holmes strides into the small room,his presence taking up nearly all the space. He's panting hard as if he'd hurried to get here – which is unheard of – but doesn't take his time to catch his breath. Instead, he huffs: “John, you said my brother is at St. Bart's hospital?”

“Mycroft, what the hell...?” John is stunned to see Mycroft in such a state. Greg crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against his desk, frowning in irritation.

“John, we have no time for your usual stalling tactics. Is Sherlock at Bart's?” Mycroft presses, his stern voice bearing no prevarications.

“Yes, I told you merely half an hour ago.” John answers somewhat perplexed.


Hearing such a profanity fall from Mycroft's usually so educated mouth shocks John into a state of acute alertness. Something's clearly very much not right.

“Greg, get a SWAT team. I'm requesting a helicopter, and will call in a few favours.” Mycroft gets his phone out and starts dialling, but is interrupted by John's hand on his arm.


Their eyes meet.

“Moriarty's old key card has been used at Bart's about an hour ago...”

John is out of the door, running towards the lifts, before the elder Holmes has even had time to finish his sentence. He can hear Lestrade call after him, but doesn't wait to listen. Whatever it is the DI wanted to tell him, it wouldn't have stopped John anyway.


Sour bile. Formaldehyde. Decay. Disinfectant...

Sherlock drifts.

He's subconsciously registering being dragged and shoved, and can neither put up any resistance nor cooperate. He's too weak and drowsy; has no control over his extremities.

His head pounds as if it might explode.

“Sherlock. Sher-lock.” The singsong voice calls him but he doesn't want to listen, doesn't want to respond. His head falls forward and hits something slightly squishy, cold and soft. It feels odd. He tries to concentrate, to focus on his movements, but there's not much room to manoeuvre; he can't escape, can't get away.

When he blinks a bleary eye open, he discovers that he has been somehow manhandled up on a stretcher again, halfway lying on it, his arms shackled to each side with handcuffs. Only, this time, he's lying face down on something ashen grey, marmorised, not as hard as the usual stainless steel operation tables.

When he opens both eyes it is to discover that he's on top of the blond man Moriarty has shown him before.

A very dead blond man.

Sherlock is usually not squeamish. He keeps severed heads and cut-off thumbs in his fridge and cooks eyeballs in the microwave. Nevertheless, being forced upon a dead body is something different. Especially as he's naked – as is the body beneath him, who's also stiff and cold. The faint smell of disinfectant is only partly disguising the sickly-sweet odour of decomposition. Sherlock stares into clouded blue eyes and feels a limp cock pressing against his own groin. When he tries to shift, it is only to discover that his ankles have been cuffed to the legs of the stretcher.

Panic washes over him. He starts to squirm, straining against his shackles. To no avail. All that happens is that his body writhes against the corpse beneath him.

It's disgusting.

It's degrading.

“Welcome back, Sherlock. I see you are finally getting in the mood.” The voice comes from somewhere to his right, and Sherlock turns his head to locate Moriarty.

The man is holding Sherlock's phone, obviously filming or taking pictures, a sly smile on his face that only gets wider when Sherlock starts to fight his restraints again with as much force as his drugged body and fuzzy brain can muster.

“It's no use, Sherlock. Those are real handcuffs. They allow for a bit of movement, but no matter how hard you struggle, you can't free yourself. It's quite arousing to see you try, though.”

Sherlock pushes up and away from the corpse as far as possible, desperate to get some space between his face and the pasty features staring blankly back at him, but his head seems to weigh a ton. He's soon too exhausted to hold it up and slumps down again, his brow hitting the dead man's sternum.

“Oh, Sherlock... do you give up just yet? All fight knocked out of you? Good. You might actually need your stamina for a more demanding tasks.”

Sherlock shudders, retches.

“Think of poor Molly. Think of the pictures I have from you with your own fist up your arse. You remember those pictures, don't you, Sherlock? Good.” Moriarty takes a step towards the stretcher, then another, reaching for Sherlock's backside, and squeezes one arsecheeck encouragingly. “Now, get the hell on with it.”

Sherlock cranes his neck to look up at Moriarty over his shoulder, not caring that pure horror must be showing on his face. “No...”, he mouths.

The squeeze becomes a sharp pinch.

“No.” Sherlock yelps, a bit louder this time, almost sobbing by now.

Moriarty frowns and tilts his head. The next thing Sherlock feels is a a fierce blow, delivered with Moriarty's open hand against the sensitive place where thigh meets buttocks. Sherlock howls in pain, but still shakes his head, tears springing to his eyes.

“Sherlock, you will start fucking this man right now or I swear your naked arse will be plastered all over the city by tomorrow morning. Now, come on. “Another blow. Pain ripples up Sherlock's spine and makes him cringe. “Look, he's already bored to death. If it's like that with John, no wonder he started to spice up your bedroom activities with a bit of BDSM.”

Sherlock simply can't move. He can't breath. His diaphragm locks as a violent spasm shakes his whole body.

He can't…

Suddenly, Moriarty's hand leaves Sherlock's arse and pushes into his hair, yanking his head up before pushing his face down against the icy cheek of the dead body beneath him

“Why not start with some snogging? Nice and slow – with tongue.” Moriarty hisses in Sherlock's ear as he squishes Sherlock's mouth somewhere in the vicinity of slightly parted unresponsive lips, already turning blue.

If Sherlock had some stomach content left, he'd surely have brought it up by then. As it is, he just dry-heaves, but the choking sounds escaping his mouth are muffled by necrotic skin.

“Get the fuck on with it!” Moriarty suddenly yells. “I'll count to three, and if you are not licking at his tonsils when I'm finished, little Kitty will have a field day. Three – two – one... ok, Sherlock, you asked for it.”

This is not happening. This can't be happening!

Sherlock sees himself, standing in a long panelled corridor, doors at either side. He is running, skittering over the polished wooden floor, desperately looking for something to calm him, to distract him from what he's about to do.

Sally Donovan is standing behind one door, grinning, her skirt held up, flashing her black knickers. Sherlock remembers sucking her cunt, drinking her warm piss while John watched.

In another room, he finds four men sitting around a table, drinking beer and playing cards. They look him up and down, and he remembers begging for their piss, wallowing in the hot yellow liquid on his kitchen floor, slurping it into his mouth while John touched himself.

Behind the next door are Mycroft and Lestrade, leaning against a heavy mahogany desk. “We should have dinner soon”, his brother offers, his voice deep and cultured, full of dark promises. Greg nods.

He can do this. He has done so many things in the past weeks...

Pull yourself together!

Useless! You were always so utterly useless!

Sherlock closes his eyes and licks into the corpse's mouth. It tastes horrible – stale, mouldy – but he tries to ignore the smell, the unmistakeably flavour of death, the feel of frigid flesh against his dry, chafed lips.

This is not happening. This.Is.Not.Happening. Thisisnothappening.

“Move.” Comes the order in the soft Irish lilt Sherlock by now hates passionately. It's accompanied by yet another hard smack to his backside. “Fuck him.”

And Sherlock does, gyrating his hips, brushing his soft cock against the dead man's limp groin.

He can feel wetness on his cheeks.

Don't think!

Sherlock is dimly aware that Moriarty is again filming him on his phone, capturing him violating a dead body.

Don't think.

The skin beneath him stays stone-cold, not warming up, not responding. Sherlock's own cock stays flaccid as well. He can't do this, it's impossible.

“I estimate Molly might have five minutes left. If you don't ejaculate by then, she'll either suffocate or freeze to death.” Moriarty has put the phone down and is now standing next to Sherlock, pulling his head up again by his curls, his fingers tracing the tears staining Sherlock's face.

“Shh, don't cry, Sherlock. I don't want to see you cry. You should enjoy this. Come on, smile. Think of John, that might help.” Moriarty touches his tongue to Sherlock's temple, licks down over his cheek and chin, tasting his tears.

No, Sherlock silently screams, he can't involve John in this. That would taint... everything.

He closes his eyes and thinks of something else, tries to evoke the memories of the four men fucking him in their kitchen; of Irene beating him with an iron rod; of licking Kate's cunt; of slurping Donovan's piss; of being fondled by Greg, sucking him off in his office at NSY.

He yells as he can feel something press inside him.

He has no idea what it is... A pen? Some medical equipment? It's not large, it doesn't actually hurt. Whatever it is scrapes over his prostate and, finally, Sherlock can feel his cock stirring as he desperately ruts against the dead flesh beneath him.

He does it for Molly. He does it for Mycroft. He does it for John – though he hopes no one will ever find out to what length exactly he went to protect them, to save them.

Oh, god!

John. John's firm touch, full of confidence. His harsh voice, giving strict orders he has to obey. He wants to obey. Because he trusts John. Because it is intoxicating to give up control. To John, who knows what he needs. To let go. John, who pushes his boundaries relentlessly, making him whole, making him want. More. John, fucking him, hard, deep and fast, without mercy. John, who beats him and torments him and gives him what he craves. Sensation. Pain. Care. Love...

Suddenly, Sherlock can feel his balls tighten. His orgasm isn't accompanied by the usual endorphin high, it's just a release of bodily fluids, without any lust or satisfaction. Somehow like relieving himself on the loo. Yet, he managed it. He orgasmed.

It has to be over now!

“God, look at you. You just defiled a corpse.” Moriarty sounds equal parts disgusted and intrigued. Sherlock doesn't care. He lies in his own rapidly cooling ejaculate and has to get away from all of this. NOW.

“Tell me how much you liked it.” Moriarty's demands, slowly removing whatever he pushed up Sherlock's arse.

“I liked it.” Sherlock whispers.

Moriarty pushes his phone in Sherlock's face. “Louder!”

“I... I liked it.” Sherlock's throat is raw from sobbing, which gives his voice a convincingly husky tone. Moriarty gestures with his free hand and Sherlock gets the message and continues. “It was... good. Hot.”

“Be a good boy and say thank you...”

“Th-thank y-you.” Sherlock stammers.

Something breaks inside him.

Sherlock slumps to the floor, curling up on himself as Moriarty opens the handcuffs around his wrists, not waiting for his ankles to be untied. He shuffles back on his bare arse, as far away from the stretcher as possible while still being chained to it. What little saliva is left in his mouth he spits on the tiles, frantically trying to remove the vile taste of death from his tongue. He's not sure if it will ever go away.

He can see Moriarty taking a picture of the corpse covered in Sherlock's semen, and then of him, lying on his back on the cold concrete floor, arms wrapped around his head, trembling with disgust.

“Look into the camera, Sherlock.” A hard kick to his ribs, then another. “Look. At. Me. Say you are mine.”

Another kick.

Slowly, Sherlock lowers his arms and glares up at the face looming above him. “Molly...”, he coughs, but Moriarty just shakes his head, smiling a dark smile.

“Not until you say it, Sherlock.”


John has taken a cab to Bart's and paid the driver fifty quid extra because he'd made the journey in record time. As he storms through the front door of the hospital, he almost collides with Molly Hooper in the foyer.

She is alone, clutching some folders to her chest. John's stomach drops.

He grabs the baffled pathologist by the shoulders and shakes her while shouting: “Where's Sherlock? Is he not with you?”

“John...”, Molly gasps. “What's the matter? Sherlock? No. Why...?”

“You texted him. You said you found something on the girl.” John knows he must sound frighteningly mad but doesn't care.

“Me? No. I didn't. Why do you think...? My phone...”, she stammers rather baffled.

“Molly, I don't have time for this. Where's Sherlock?”

“I. Don't. Know!” Molly enunciates, emphasising every word as if John's hearing is somehow impaired. “Look. I didn't text him...” She pats the pockets of her lab coat for her mobile but doesn't find it. “Strange? Where is the bloody thing....? I must have left it in the lab. I've been to lunch with some colleagues... John. Wait. John!”

But John doesn't wait. He runs down corridors and stairways, cuts corners and doesn't care if he bumps into startled doctors or grumpy nurses until he ends up in front of the double doors leading to the autopsy rooms. They are locked. And they stay locked, no matter how hard John kicks and shoves at them. He's panting hard by now, his vision red with anger, until he can feel a hand on his shoulder. He spins around an nearly hits Molly in the face, who is only saved because she instinctively takes a step back just in time.

John stares at her and it takes a moment before he recognises that she holds her key card in her outstretched hand.

“Thanks.” He gasps. “Stay here.”

He swipes her card through the reader and the doors swing open. Behind them lies a corridor lined with windowless doors on either sides.

He pushes the first one open. A post-mortem is clearly in progress. John mumbles something intelligible, sounding vaguely like an apology, as he retreats.

The second room is empty.

The third is locked.

John's skin starts to prickle all over. He looks around to find something suitable to use as a battering ram. There's a fire extinguisher mounted to the wall. John grabs it, takes a deep breath, and crashes through the door.

What he sees burns into his retina like a freeze frame. There's a figure crouching on the floor, hovering over the naked, pale frame of Sherlock – John would recognise him anywhere, under whatever circumstances. He holds Sherlock's wrists in one hand, pulled up over his head, pressed down against the concrete floor, surely painfully crushing the delicate bones. In his free hand is a mobile. He snarls something John doesn't comprehend

The next three seconds play out as if in slow motion. Upon the noise of the smashed door, Moriarty turns and starts to get up, taken by surprise. John, still stumbling forward, uses his momentum and throws the fire extinguisher in Moriarty's direction, hitting the man square in the chest. Knocked off balance, Moriarty staggers backwards and crashes into a bench, sending lab equipment and tools flying. The mobile slips from his hand and skitters over the floor, ending up under a stretcher next to the freezer.

Moriarty stares at John for a moment before his eyes flick around the room, wild and manic. John takes a step towards him, then another. But suddenly, there's a scalpel in Moriarty's hand. He wields it like a dagger, slicing the air between them. John suddenly becomes blatantly aware that he is unarmed.

In an effort to appease the cornered man, John raises both his hands while he tries to stay out of Moriarty's reach, slowly encircling the armed man, positioning himself between Moriarty and the door. Mycroft and his SWAT team must be here any minute now. All John can do until they arrive is to derail Moriarty, to divert his attention away from Sherlock while preventing his escape from this room.

But Moriarty slowly advances, making for the exit, a mad grin on his face as he threatens John with the sharp knife, gleaming in the cold neon light. John knows that it'll only take a few moments until Moriarty reaches him if he continues to block the door. He had undergone close combat training when in the army, but was way younger back than, ten pounds lighter and didn't sport a shoulder wound. John isn't sure if he'll be able to disarm Moriarty without getting seriously hurt. But he'll be damned if he lets the evil creature escape again. John stands his ground.

“Hello John.” Moriarty croons. “So nice to see you. I played a little with your pet. I hope you don't mind? He might be a little... defective, now, though.” But John's eyes don't leave Moriarty's face. He won't be sidetracked by the malicious slur. Moriarty's grin widens as he slowly makes for the door.

Until it suddenly flies open again, taking both men by surprise.

It's Molly.

“Oh, my god...”, she huffs, pressing both hands to her mouth as she takes in the scene in front of her.

“Hello, Molly. How was lunch?” Jim asks in the most jovial tone as he takes yet another step towards the door.

Sherlock shuffles behind him, pushing up into a half-sitting position, staring glassy-eyed up at Molly.

“Molly, get out.” John shouts, but the woman stands frozen to the spot in obvious horror. Moriarty sidesteps Sherlock, without so much as looking at him squatting on the floor, his eyes darting between John and Molly.

“Get out.” John repeats, his tone almost deploring.

“Did you miss me, Molly?” Jim asks, tilting his head and giving her a faux smile not reaching his eyes. He makes an obscene gesture with his tongue, and that does seem to break the spell, as Molly takes a step back.

Moriarty tries to move quickly in her direction, but, suddenly, Sherlock rolls around and lungs forward, grabbing both of Moriarty's ankles, pulling his legs out under him in one swift move. Moriarty lets out a surprised squeal as he tumbles forward, dropping to the ground like a sack of potatoes. As his body hits the concrete, he makes a wet, gurgling sound.

Blood starts to spurt from his neck where the scalpel has opened the jugular vein, a crimson spray even hitting the ceiling. Molly dashes forward and squats down next to the twitching body, pressing her hands down onto the man's throat, but John can't be arsed.

He kneels instead down next to Sherlock, taking off his jacket to wrap it scantily around bony shoulders, gathering the obviously perturbed man up into his arms.

“It's ok, it's over. I'm here. It's ok...” John murmurs while holding an almost catatonic Sherlock, rocking him back and forth while Moriarty's bleeds out merely five feet away, soaking Molly's lab coat and the hideous cardigan she wears underneath.

John is still hugging Sherlock tight when he can hear Molly finally get up and move around. She takes a strange look at the corpse lying upon the gurney Sherlock is still shackled to before pulling the sheet back over the body.

“Is he dead?” John asks.

Molly clears her throat. “Yes.”

John nods. “Can you look inside his pockets, please? We need the keys to free Sherlock.”

Molly does as she is told, her face stony. Her hands shake a little as she passes the keys to John. Afterwards, she pulls off her soiled lab coat and cardigan and tosses them to the ground.

“Is that Sherlock's mobile?” She asks as her eyes follow her clothes. There's a phone lying beneath the gurney.

John quickly unlocks the cuffs around Sherlock's ankles, then reaches over the pile of bloodied garments to retrieve the mobile.

“Yes, it's his.” John slides it into the back pocket of his jeans before taking a closer look at Sherlock. He is pale and shivering, his eyes closed, his mouth and cheeks smeared with blood. John carefully parts his jacket, barely covering Sherlock's torso, to look for injuries. There's a small cut to his throat above his Adam's apple and another shallow wound to his abdomen.

In between, over his chest, is written in crimson letters: MINE.

“Molly, can you please pass me something to clean Sherlock up a bit.”

“But the police...? I'm sure they have to see it... him... as Jim... left him?” She hesitates.

“No, they certainly mustn't.” John extends his hand. “Antiseptic fluid and some cotton will do. Please.”

Molly walks over to a cabinet and opens a drawer.

“Sherlock, please look at me.” John whispers into curls, damp with sweat and tears. “It's over. He's dead. Please, love, look at me. Please.”

But Sherlock only shakes his head. He flinches when John starts to wipe at his chest, but relaxes a bit when John continues to mumble soothing words into his hair: “It's ok, we just get you cleaned up a little. Sorry, I know, it's cold...” John's hand moves further down Sherlock's belly and the man suddenly jerks back, but John holds onto him, tight. “Molly, can you go and get some water, please.” He asks over his shoulder, hoping that Molly will get the hint.

She does. When she's left the room, John quickly brushes the cotton over the sticky mess on Sherlock's belly and groin, despite flaying arms and legs, a bony elbow almost hitting John in the face.

“Sherlock, it's ok, it's ok.” John murmurs, gathering the thin shaky frame up against his chest, petting his hair until all hell breaks loose when the SWAT team storms the room.

Chapter Text

The paramedic, who had insisted to pull Sherlock from John's arms, despite the army doctor's protest, also had demanded that Sherlock was to be admitted to the hospital overnight, as he had been drugged with yet unknown substances and was clearly in a state of shock.

Not even Mycroft was able to prevent such measures. Truth be told, the elder Holmes wasn't sure he wanted to, for Sherlock really seemed to be in pretty bad shape.

Mycroft had arrived with the SWAT team but had stayed back in their van to watch the action from a safe distance. Therefore, he wasn't aware of the details of the scene down at the morgue. John should have known that such a state of uncertainty wasn't acceptable to a Holmes.

“John, a word, please.” Mycroft stops John in the corridor in front of Sherlock's private room – a small luxury Mycroft has arranged for – barring him from entering.

“Mycroft, this is really not...”

“Are you related to the patient, Sir?” A guard in an unassuming dark suit, wired with an in-ear-piece and sporting the unmistakeable bulge of a gun under his jacket, steps up as well, staring John down.

Mycroft almost gently tugs John's elbow and leads him down the corridor. They end up in front of a humming vending machine, from which Mycroft extracts two surprisingly good cups of coffee before he starts his interrogation.

“What happened down there, John?”

“I don't know, Mycroft. I wasn't present.”

“But you... you saved... what did...?” Mycroft has to close his eyes and suddenly looks old and haggard, the stress of the last hours clearly showing on his face.

Seeing Sherlock's brother stammer and fight for words somehow softens John a bit.

“As far as I could see, Sherlock wasn't severely injured. But it seemed that Moriarty played some fucked up games with him.”

“What did my brother had to say about this?”

John sighs. “He said nothing, Mycroft. He wasn't...”, John crosses his arms and looks away. “He was in severe shock, I'd say. He had shut down. Completely.”

Mycroft nods. “Then it might be actually wise to keep him here overnight. Who knows what kind of coping strategy my little brother might devise otherwise.” Mycroft looks pointedly down his nose and John would have bristled at the insinuation, hadn't he been bone tired and exhausted.

“Can I see him now?” Is all he has the energy to ask.

“Five minutes.” Mycroft grants, before he stalks down the corridor in the direction of the foyer., twirling his ever present umbrella



The man on the bed looks frail in the greyish, washed-out hospital johnny. There's a drip attached to his arm, blue veins rising too prominently from almost translucent skin. Sherlock's eye are closed, two mother-of-pearl lids covering those ever changing pools of colour, opening right into Sherlock's soul. John has seen so much in them: fear, excitement, arousal, doubt, trust, love... Being deprived of their piercing gaze now feels like being deprived of oxygen.

“Sherlock?” A bit louder, making those eyelids flutter.

“I know you can hear me.” John says. His voice is too loud in this sterile room; the only other sound the beeping of monitors attached to Sherlock's body. “They are keeping you here overnight. I don't know, perhaps they'll run some tests on you. But I'm sure you'll be allowed to go home tomorrow.”

John reassuringly touches Sherlock's limp fingers, and suddenly, those large, beautiful eyes fly open in sheer terror.

“It's me. It's all right.” John quickly withdraws his hand, taking a step back. The monitor measuring Sherlock's heart rate beeps more insistently, the figure on its display rising alarmingly.

They just stare at each other over an unbridgeable abyss.

“Did he...”, John has to swallow hard before he is able to continue. “Did he touch you? I mean, did he... Oh, god, Sherlock, did he violate you?” John is ashamed that he can't bring himself to ask more precisely, but the words die in his mouth, crumbling to ash.

Sherlock slowly turns his head to look the other way, fixing a beige wall with a somewhat hazy stare. “Go away”, are the only two words he mumbles.

John feels like someone has landed a punch to his gut. It's a physical pain, spreading from his abdomen into his chest cavity, making him feel icy cold all over.

“Sherlock...?” But there's a knock on the door, and then the guard puts his head inside the room and signals with a stern look that John's time is up.

“See you tomorrow, then. At home.” John tries to sound cheerful and uplifting, but his tone rings false and put on in his own ears. Sherlock doesn't answer, just closes his eyes again.


Back at Baker Street, John feels restless, even after taking a long hot shower to wash away the debris of this horrible day. Finally, he settles in his chair with three fingers of whisky in a tumbler and Sherlock's phone in his slightly shaking hand.

He doesn't want to do this.

But there might be answers. The only answers he might get in the foreseeable future. So he swipes over the screen to unlock the mobile and goes through the files.

It's easy to find the new pics. It's not easy to look at them.

Sherlock, obviously unconscious. Tied down. Smeared with blood. His contorted face, slightly out of focus, blurred. Pale skin, so much of it. Eyes wide, clouded, dazed.

John takes a sip of his drink, then another. Continues browsing.

He finds the video files after about ten minutes. He makes it almost half-way through the first, up to Sherlock sobbing his name under his breath - desperate, broken – before he brings up the fifteen year old Laphroaig, clutching to their kitchen counter as he vomits into the sink.

It needs physical effort to touch the damned device again, but John forces himself to. He deletes the pictures and both videos. He would love to destroy the whole mobile, smash it to bits, melt it in their fireplace, but the phone incorporates Sherlock's whole life. He has no right to do something so drastic. That will be up to Sherlock.

He leaves the phone on the mantle as he stumbles into Sherlock's bedroom to curl up under the duvet, enveloped by their mingled scents. If he cries, no one bears witness to it.


Sherlock returns home the following afternoon. The black car delivering him as well as a new suit and shirt he's wearing are evidence of Mycroft's involvement.

John waits for him in their living room, getting up from the sofa as Sherlock enters, squaring his shoulders, feet at parade's rest.

Sherlock doesn't so much as look at him, but instantly walks towards the passage leading to his room.

John's firm voice stops him in his tracks, however.

“On your knees!”

The three words hang between them. Sherlock doesn't obey outright but doesn't move either.

“I said, on your knees!”

“John, I...”, Sherlock turns and looks over at John, uncertain, tired, wary. “I don't think I want to do this right now.”

John takes three steps towards him and stops way too close, right in front of Sherlock.

“You do as you're told, Sherlock. And I am telling you now to get on your fucking knees for me.” John's voice is low; not sharp, but assertive, unwavering.

They stare at each other for almost a minute; Sherlock's pale face closed of, pinched; John's brow furrowed, but his eyes kind and reassuring.

There's a flicker of something in Sherlock's gaze as he eventually drops to his knees. John looks down onto the mop of dark curls as Sherlock bows his head to cast his eyes onto the floor; as John had taught him to do.

“Remember, Sherlock, I know what you need.” John cards his finger through Sherlock's hair, cupping the back of his skull. “If we stop this now, we'll never get back to it. And you don't really want to stop this, do you?”

He can feel Sherlock shiver. Then there's but a minute shake of his head.

“I saw what he did to you. The pics... and some of the video.” John feels Sherlock tense in his grip and holds him down with his other hand on Sherlock's right shoulder. “That was rape. This is not. I'll do anything to overwrite what that monster did to you. And we'll start right here. Tonight. I won't allow this sick piece of shit to come between us. Have I made myself clear?”

Sherlock raises his head and looks up at John, his eyes dark. “Yes, John.” He whispers, licking his lips, leaving them wet and shiny pink. John pushes his thump inside and lets Sherlock suck it, stroking his pale cheek with his free hand.

“Good, your mouth... your filthy whoremouth. You'll service me with it today until your jaw aches, like the good slut you are. That's what you were made for.”

Sherlock hums in approval around John finger, and John smiles down on him, warm and tender.


Hours later, as dusk falls over London, Sherlock is kneeling naked on the living room floor, his hands shackled behind his back with a heavy, stainless-steel Glasgow eight. He's just wearing a pair of flimsy white satin panties, soaked by now with his precome. John had put a cockring on him sometime that afternoon, preventing him from coming but not from leaking. From time to time, John brushes the arch of is bare foot against Sherlock's crotch, nudging his heavy testicles, savouring the dampness, calling Sherlock his horny fucktoy.

Sherlock can't respond to this, for his mouth is filled with a double penis gag. He's biting down on the shorter, yet thick part that John pressed between his lips, making him suck on it before fastening the leather strap around his head.

With the larger outer part, Sherlock has been fucking John for what feels like hours. John has reclined on their sofa, leaning back, his arse just at the edge, sweaty and flushed by now. Sherlock presses the fat black dildo in, deep, his nose brushing John's tight bollocks, before pulling almost all the way out again. John, meanwhile, is pumping his own hard cock in his fist. Sherlock can see the glistening head, the veined shaft, but can neither touch, suck nor taste it.

The only thing he tastes is his own come on his tongue. Before John had put the gag on him, he had to service John's arsehole for what had felt like an eternity with his mouth. Not that Sherlock had minded. John had told him precisely what to do, how to lick, lap, suck, pierce and fuck his rim with his long tongue, and Sherlock had been more than happy to oblige. John's praise and obvious arousal, his deep voice moaning Sherlock's name, his warm skin and responding body, opening right in front of him – all that had helped Sherlock to forget the dreadful ordeal Moriarty had put him through.

This was a living, breathing body. This was John.

Therefore, Sherlock had pushed his tongue deep inside John with abandon until his jaw had almost cramped and his lips were swollen, all the while making John loose, his arse getting dripping wet, ready to be fucked.

When John had felt Sherlock starting to tire, he had gently told him to stop. “I got you something.” He had murmured, before reaching under a pillow, presenting Sherlock with the black penis gag he was actually wearing.

John had allowed him to touch and lick both sides before ordering him to lie back on the carpet and to pull his legs up to his shoulders. When Sherlock had presented himself like this, John had knelt down onto the floor and lubricated the shorter, sturdy part before slowly pushing the toy past Sherlock's tight ring of muscle.

John had savoured the sight, twisting the black rubber slightly inside Sherlock's pink hole for a few minutes, not fully pushing in but drawing it out, intensifying the experience of being entered. Sherlock had clenched at first, and John had stroked his shins, his thighs, and had whispered soothing words: “Beautiful. Relax. Open for me. Breath. That's it. Very good. You can take this. You took much bigger.”

The words washed over Sherlock, lulled him in, carried him, lifted him up.

The dildo wasn't long enough to reach his prostate, but the sheer girth, the feeling of being stretched and filled had been perfect nonetheless. John had set out to bring Sherlock off excruciatingly slow, wiggling the toy, lazily pulling out, then pushing in again, relishing the sight of Sherlock coming undone under his ministrations.

And Sherlock had given himself over.

“John. Please, John, fuck me. I need to feel... I need this. Please.”

Sherlock had soon arched his back off the floor to meet each thrust, his body flushed a delicate pink down to his navel, his hands tousled in his own curls, until John had grabbed his right and entwined their fingers to ground his lover. They both had needed this connection, the sure, grounding touch of a living human being. As their eyes had locked, Sherlock's pupils had been blown wide, two obsidian pools damp with unshed tears; John was sure he looked at least as affected.

“I'm yours. I'm only yours.” Sherlock had panted and John had pulled him up by his hair and had kissed him, long and deep.

“God, you are beautiful”, John had sighed while Sherlock had squirmed and writhed in front of him. “Your tight hole, stretched to the max. So eager, your body so pliant. You are so good, Sherlock, so very, very good. I want to see you come.”

Sherlock had nodded, his sweaty curls sticking to his temples, but John had made him plead and beg while he'd continued to fuck him with the dildo, not giving permission for Sherlock to touch himself, to finish, slowing down every time Sherlock got near his peak. Sherlock had been systematically reduced to a gasping, shivering mess, almost blissed out by the sweet agony of not being allowed to climax.

Eventually, after about half an hour, when Sherlock's voice had started to crack, John had removed the toy and sat back on his heels, a broad grin on his face. “Crawl into the kitchen. Get a cup. And a spoon.”

Sherlock had done as he'd been told, clambering shakily about on all four, skittering like a newborn foal, his hard cock and full bollocks hanging heavy between his legs. In their kitchen, he'd taken one of the Ali Miller teacups form the shelves, suppressing the urge to stroke himself or rub against the furniture to take the edge off his arousal. He had to do what John told him. He could trust John. It had suddenly been so very easy to give himself up. His head had felt light, his mind had been clear. He'd been... content. Save. Happy.

When he'd returned with the cup and a silver table spoon to their living room, John had indicated for him to resume his prior position.

“Let me fuck you.” John had said, pressing the thick dildo back inside Sherlock's quivering hole. He'd sped his efforts up, however, pounding into Sherlock's body until he had seen his balls tighten.

“Get up on your knees.” John had ordered, pulling an almost boneless Sherlock up, and then had wanked him while Sherlock looked on, resting his brow against John's shoulders. He'd watched fascinated ad John had brought the cup just below Sherlock's cockhead and caught the thick white stripes when they'd started to pulse out of Sherlock's red, glistening slit as he'd come and come. He'd nearly filled half the cup before he the spurting abated to a dribble. Sherlock had been whimpering with sensitivity by now, but John had continued to milk him until he'd been spent and dry.

Afterwards, John had given Sherlock a few minutes to regain composure and breath, before he'd brought the Glasgow eight's out. They were heavy and cold, but wrapped loose enough around Sherlock's wrists as not to cut or chafe.

“Are you hungry, comeslut?” John had asked after admiring his work and the dishevelled man in front of him – still panting, his engorged cock resting against his thighs – and Sherlock had nodded and answered: “Yes, John”, before opening wide, letting John spoon-feed him his own sticky come.

“I want to see you gag for it.” John had whispered and Sherlock had willingly parted his lips to let John deepthroat him with the longer part of the dildo. And Sherlock had gagged. And spluttered. And coughed. And had begged for more, his lips closing around the black rubber, suckling the head, swallowing it all down while John had played with his nipples until he was half-hard again. Only then had John fastened a cockring around Sherlock's root and balls before he'd dressed him up in flimsy white knickers that barely covered his groin, his balls and shiny cockhead peaking out.

Sherlock had moaned with pleasure as John had finally pushed the shorter end of the dildo gag, with which he'd previously buggered Sherlock's arse, into his mouth, filling him with his own taste. As John had pulled the leather strap tight, Sherlock had rocked his hips forward and gyrated his hips until John had gripped him hard to still him. “Stop that. God, you are insatiable. can't you get enough?” He'd hissed, and then he'd sucked at Sherlock's nipples until they'd been painfully hard and red, swelling on his pale chest like two tiny rosebuds.

“I think I'll get you a bra next for your little titties, Sherlock. Or we could pierce your nipples. Would you like that?” Sherlock had just moaned as an answer, his eyes almost rolling back in his head at the thought. “People might see them, under those tight shirts you're wearing. They might also see the lace of the bra. I'll have you show it to Donovan and Lestrade while you suck him off. Donovan can smack your pretty little arse. Or perhaps she just wants to piss all over your back as you give her boss a blow job.”

Eventually, John had had mercy and coated the dildo protruding from Sherlock's mouth with lube. “Now it's your turn, Sherlock. You know how I like it. Nice and slow.” And Sherlock had set to work, fucking John's hole with the dildo attached to his face, in and out, so close, smelling John as his puckered hole gave way right before his eyes.

Now, he can feel his neck hurt and stiffen. His shoulders are tense and his abdominal muscles quiver. Yet he keeps his pace, fucking John deep and slow, eyes open, watching John fist his hard, glistening shaft, precome dripping down over his fingers as his cockhead emerges ever so often from the tunnel of his balled fingers.

John presses his foot between Sherlock's legs and Sherlock humps it like a bitch in heat. “God, Sherlock, you are so wet. Your lovely little panties are dripping. Have you pissed yourself?”

Two bright red spots bloom on Sherlock's cheeks as John talks to him like this, not really expecting an answer.

“I know how much you like to pee in your pants, Sherlock. I know that you love to sit in your own piss, suck it from my cock, lick it up, drink it. Would you like to wet your panties a bit more now, Sherlock?”

Sherlock blinks as an answer while he continues to push the long black toy up John's arse.

“When I'm finished I want to see you piss yourself.” John pants, but his hand doesn't speed up, and it's another ten minutes before he finally comes, shooting his load all over Sherlock's face and hair. Sherlock holds still and stays inside John for some minutes after so he can ride out his orgasm as come drips down Sherlock's face. He wants to taste it, push it into his mouth with his fingers, but all he can do is stay still and smell John's musk, sweat and arousal. When he's eventually allowed to pull the rubber toy out, John's pink hole clenches and flutters. Sherlock desperately wants to push his tongue in again but John doesn't remove the gag just yet.

Instead, he takes Sherlock to the bathroom and makes him stand in the tub, fondling his half-hard cock through the thin, damp satin covering it.

“Do you feel how wet you are for me?” John asks and Sherlock nods, humming in appreciation.

“Show me how much more wet you can get for me.”

And Sherlock relaxes and lets it flow, drenching his knickers in light yellow piss until they are almost translucent. The hot liquid runs down his thighs and calves, pools between his toes. The cockring makes it a bit difficult, and it takes a while until his bladder is empty. John watches him the whole time, enthralled, his warm words washing over him: “Gorgeous, so hot, god, the things you do for me, so filthy, so dirty, I could watch you all day, pissing yourself, covered in my come, tied up, so willing, such a good slut. You are perfect, Sherlock.”

When John at last removes the gag, Sherlock's mouth feels empty. Thankfully, John replaces it with Sherlock's piss soaked knickers, making him kneel on the kitchen floor with come still drying on his face as John prepares some dinner.

It tastes like home.

It'll be all right. They'll be all right.

Chapter Text

John gives Sherlock time to heal over the next few days, to process what happened and readjust to their reality. He sees to it that Sherlock eats and sleeps, that he drinks his tea and doesn't smoke too much. At first, he'd wanted to deny Sherlock working cases, but soon John had to reconsider. Sherlock needs the cases; he has to proof to himself that nothing has changed, that he can still outsmart London's criminals.

He accepts a few private clients. Insurance fraud, blackmail, a rather curious case evolving around a stolen motor yacht (which even gets them out of town and down to Brighton overnight).

Over the past few days, Sherlock had seemed to cope quite well. Yet, during the night they stay at the hotel in Brighton, he's restless and has trouble shutting down. It might be the unfamiliar atmosphere, being away from 221 b Baker Street, lying in a bed that's not his or John's, listening to all the strange noises surrounding them... whatever it is, Sherlock can't wind down. He tosses and turns in the sheets until John is almost climbing the walls.

“Sherlock, what is it?!”

“I don't know. This mattress is killing me. The sheets are an abomination. They smell of rose potpourri, for god's sake.”

“Try to sleep.”

“What do you think I'm doing John? Yoga?”

“Well, try harder. And without so much fidgeting.”

Sherlock spends the night on the balcony, chain smoking, wrapped in the duvet he stole from their double bed. When the sun rises, he takes a long hot shower before waking John and dragging him to the station to catch the first train home to London. Sherlock is irritable due to being left to his own questionable devices overnight and far too many cigarettes, while John is equally irritable due to a significant lack of coffee. They argue about everything on their journey home, from who gets the window seat (not that either of them care, but on principle) to who's turn it is to pay for the cab.

Only when Sherlock finally sets foot into their living room does he seem able to relax. They have tea and Sherlock plays his violin while John writes up the case. The afternoon ends with John fucking Sherlock over his desk, nice and slow, before they both turn in early.

John holds Sherlock tight that night, his arms wrapped around that lean, pale body from behind, nuzzling his nose into Sherlock's nape, inhaling his unique scent (spicy, chemical, fresh sweat, rosin, stale tobacco, black coffee). His hair is soft and downy there, almost like a child's. Sherlock is dead to the world, and this time it's for John to lie awake until the small hours, drifting, apprehensive, gloomy. He knows his time is almost up.

They are woken early the next morning by a text from Mycroft.

“Apparently, my brother wants to see us.” Sherlock groans, blinking bleary-eyed at his phone's screen.

“You mean he wants to see you.” John murmurs into his shoulder, unwilling to open his eyes just yet, relishing the warmth that radiates from Sherlock's skin.

“No, us. He says he'll send a car round at noon to fetch both of us. It'll be lunch at his club. I suppose it's about the Moriarty business.” Sherlock's voice is almost bland, but John can feel his heartbeat stutter and then speed up beneath his ribs.

“Oh. Then we'll better get you prepared.” But instead of getting up, they stay in bed a little while longer, limbs entangled, rolling around in the sheets, snogging like teenagers. Only when they're both too turned on to keep their hands off each other does John finally pull back.

“Better save that for later.” He smiles down at Sherlock, who gazes up at him, eyes dark and wide. God, John could shag him senseless right now, but he's sure Mycroft wouldn't be pleased when presented with used goods. Not today.

First, they have a light breakfast. Afterwards, in the bathroom, Sherlock's body hair is thoroughly removed. John gives him an enema, before Sherlock furiously scrubs himself clean in the shower. He dresses meticulously in his tight purple shirt and a slim black suit.

When the doorbell rings John gives Sherlock an approving once-over before asking: “Ready?”

Sherlock just nods.

John walks behind him on their way down the stairs, so that Sherlock can't see his almost wistful expression.

This is it, then. The handover. Eclosion.

They stay quiet in the car as they are driven through London - that cesspool, their natural habitat - over to the Diogenes Club.


They are ushered through dusky, silent corridors into Mycroft's office. Everything in here smells of wood, leather and, faintly, of furniture polish – very distinguished, very old-fashioned, very British. Mycroft awaits them in one of the dark-brown Chesterfield chairs that group around a lit fireplace. There's a tray with fruit and nuts on a low table nearby.

The elder Holmes gets up to greet them and strolls over to his impressive desk. There's just one folder placed accurately in the middle of the blotter. Mycroft opens it and skims through the pages, dismissing the servants with a nod.

“So...”, he starts when they are alone, drawing out the word to raise anticipation. “Are you curious what we unearthed about Moriarty, little brother?”

Sherlock subtly flinches at the mention of that name. But John can see it; he's sure Mycroft saw as well.

“Not particularly.” Comes Sherlock's crisp answer.

Mycroft gives him a look. “Well, I'll tell you anyway. Apparently, he'd been kind of disowned by his organisation, after risking some of their biggest operations just to get to you. Especially the loss of the Vermeer wasn't met with approval.”

“No honour among thieves.” John smirks.

“Indeed, John. We're not sure if Moriarty wanted to get back in the good books with his former associates by exterminating you, or if he was driven by genuine hatred, but the murder at Miss Adler's seems to have been set up to specifically target you, Sherlock. Moriarty knew that I frequented said establishment.”

“How?” Sherlock asks.

“Maybe Irene told him? They are old acquaintances. He also knew that John had an interest in the place.”

“That was a while back.” John states, crossing his arms over his chest defiantly.

“Oh, but I've been informed that you employed Miss Adler's services quite recently, John. Moriarty might have recognised something as he strapped a bomb to you. Takes one to know one. Remember, I saw it as well.” Mycroft smiles. “Or maybe you told him?” His eyes suddenly harden.

“You think I put him on to Sherlock?” John bristles.

“Did you?” There's no warmth in Mycroft's face.

“How dare you...” John balls his hands to fists at his side.

“Well, you were certainly game to play with my brother. Maybe you wanted to bring a new participant in? See where that led to?”

John has to muster every ounce of mental strength at his command not to tell Mycroft exactly what fucked up games Moriarty had played with his brother. He reminds himself that the elder Holmes, for the sake of Sherlock's dignity and mental integrity, mustn't know what happened at the morgue.

“Are you telling us that Moriarty set all this up to get to me?” Sherlock interrupts a sharp retort from John. “That he killed two people just so that I noticed he was back?”

“It seems so. He wanted to get your attention. When he had it, he lured you to the morgue at Bart's. I'm still rather curious what happened down there?”

“I can't remember. He drugged me.” Sherlock states aloof.

“You should be used to that.” Mycroft murmurs, returning to his file.

“Is there a purpose to this visit, or do you just want to rile John up and humiliate me?” Sherlock asks, sounding rather bored.

Mycroft finally lowers the folder. “I wanted to see you. Ask how you cope.” Mycroft fixes his brother with an unreadable stare. “How are you, brother mine?”

“I'm fine. We're fine.” Sherlock says brusquely and a tiny bit impatient.

“Good, that's good. Then you won't mind to play a little... game, will you?” Mycroft fixes Sherlock with his unwavering gaze, determined, possessive. Greedy.

Sherlock swallows, heat rising in his cheeks. “What do you mean... exactly?”

“I think you know quite well what I mean, brother mine.” Mycroft's stares Sherlock down until he averts his eyes, casting them down at the floor. “Is he ready?” This question is directed at John.

John nods.

Mycroft sidles about his desk, never once taking his eyes off his brother as Sherlock blushes even more. Suddenly, Mycroft is close enough to touch. He tenderly brushes an errant curl behind Sherlock's ear.

“I waited for this a long time, little brother. I don't want to rush it.” Mycroft whispers, his voice hoarse with pent-up excitement.

Sherlock swallows.

Mycroft's fingertips ghost over his left temple, down his neck, dipping in his suprasternal notch. They just slip the first button of Sherlock's purple shirt open to expose a little bit more pale, milky skin dotted with a few freckles.

Mycroft's finger only flutter over Sherlock's skin, yet his pulse speeds up visibly, hammering in his throat. For a few seconds, Mycroft's lips hover just and inch away from Sherlock's impossible mouth, pink and promising, until he finally leans in and closes the last bit of distance.

It is just a light brush of lips at first, tentative. Still, Sherlock whimpers. Mycroft's thumb comes up to rest under Sherlock's chin, tilting it up and slightly to the left before he presses down more firmly, touching just the tip of his tongue to Sherlock's full lower lip.

Sherlock's mouth parts on its own volition and Mycroft withdraws with a huff of laughter, his breath warm on Sherlock's trembling lips.

“Undress him, Doctor Watson.”

John comes to stand behind Sherlock and quickly slides his jacket from his shoulders, draping it over the back of a visitors chair. Sherlock closes his eyes when he feels John's hands come around his chest to unbutton his shirt. As it hangs open, exposing a delicate red flush down to Sherlock's pectorals, Mycroft touches Sherlock's wrists and undoes his cuffs, on after the other. His thumbs rub over the thin skin on the inside of Sherlock's wrists, making him shiver. Sherlock is highly aware that his brother can feel his pulse, beating erratic. He doesn't care. It doesn't matter.

Sherlock's skin is smooth again, all bruises and cuts healed. His rosy nipples are already hard. He's yearning to be touched. John still stands behind him, his hands resting on Sherlock's hips, and Sherlock can feel his warm breath between his shoulder blades. Mycroft's fingertips trailing up his sides make him shiver.

“You look... good.” Mycroft says, tracing a prominent vein on the inside of Sherlock's left elbow. The brother's lock eyes. Sherlock knows he didn't always look like this. He remembers the itching, the sores, the ulcers... It's been a while, though.

He doesn't need that anymore.

“As I said, I'm fine.” Sherlock's voice cracks traitorously and he has to clear his throat.

Mycroft smiles again and steps back, his touch still lingering. He walks over to one of the large oak cabinets lining the walls, and as he opens it, Sherlock's eyes go wide. He remembers that John had told him about Mycroft's impressive collection of toys, but seeing with his own eyes what is undoubtedly only a small section of the devices at hand makes his mouth go dry and his knees go weak.

The upper half of the cupboard is devoted to an assortment of different canes and crops, neatly hanging on hooks. The lower half is made of drawers. Mycroft opens the second one from above and looks inside, his face frowning in concentration. His hand wavers before it delves in and comes up with a heavy looking silver chain. Sherlock stares, licking his lips.

When Mycroft fastens the clamps over Sherlock's nipples the instant pressure makes him gasp. The pegs bite, despite being sheathed in a thin layer of black rubber, but not as sharp as John's clover clamps. The chain, however, is made of solid silver, and its weight pulls strenuously at Sherlock's sensitive nipples.

Sherlock's cock is already fully hard, straining inside his pants. He's getting wet as Mycroft starts to play with his tormented nipples, thumbing over the hardened nubs until Sherlock softly moans. John's grip on his hips tightens to prevent him from squirming.

“Look how much you like this, little brother.” Mycroft hums. “I can see how hard you already are.”

“Yes...” Sherlock huffs, his voice hoarse with lust. He clenches and unclenches his fists at his side as Mycroft continues to caress him, flicking his index finger against his swollen pebbles. The pain soars through Sherlock's body like a bolt of white, hot heat, making him leak between his legs. He wished John had put a cock ring on him because he fears he might just come from this.

“Myc-Mycroft!” Sherlock groans as his brother tugs on the chain.

“He's very responsive, isn't he, Doctor Watson?” Mycroft asks.

“Oh, yes. Very.”

“Delicious.” Mycroft pulls again and Sherlock sees stars.

“We should divest him from the rest of his clothes to inspect him, I think. Shoes and socks off, please, Sherlock.”

Sherlock gets down on one knee, then the other in front of his brother, not daring to look up. His shaking fingers fumble with the laces, but he manages to untie them and get his shoes and socks off without toppling over. As Mycroft is still holding the chain in his hand, Sherlock's movements are restricted if he wants to minimise the pain.

It feels perfect, natural, to be on his knees in front of his brother, but a sharp tug at the chain pulls him to his feet again, albeit reluctant.

John's hands swiftly open his fly and shove his trousers down, allowing Sherlock to step out of them. Now he's just in his snug grey boxer briefs, a wet spot already blooming on its front. The outline of his hard cock is clearly visible beneath the thin fabric.

Mycroft has dropped the chain and stepped back a little, leaning against his desk, watching his brother undress. He smiles.

“Look at you. Wet and desperate. Take those pants of as well, show me.”

Sherlock hurries to comply. As he bows forward, the chain swings in front of his chest, the strain making his cock twitch. It's almost embarrassing how hard he is as his erection is finally allowed to spring free. He fears he might be dripping onto Mycroft's thick Persian carpet and has to close his eyes as not to think about the castigation that might follow such a lapse.

Mycroft is still smiling as he pushes away from his desk to slowly encircle Sherlock, nodding approvingly. John has stepped to the side to make room, but Sherlock knows that he watches him and his brother, observing their foreplay. Standing naked in the middle of the room and being scrutinised by two still fully dressed men who are about to use him as they please makes Sherlock's body light up with arousal. He holds himself very still, his head raised high, fixing his gaze on the painting of Queen Elisabeth behind Mycroft's desk. Concentrating on the sovereign doesn't stop his cock oozing precome, however, as it juts out proudly in front of him.

“Get over to the desk. I'm sure you remember the correct position from school.” Mycroft tells him, his voice firm, almost businesslike. Sherlock knew his brother would be good at this. His detached behaviour in the face of Sherlock's obvious arousal turns him even more on.

Oh, yes, Sherlock remembers: head stuck beneath the edge, gripping the polished rosewood with both hands, feet shoulderwide apart. He had to take it up quite often in boarding school, to be disciplined for his numerous trespasses of rules he didn't understand. Did he misbehave so frequently even back then because corporal punishment secretly thrilled him? He has no time to dwell on this thought right now, but stows it away for later contemplation.

“You haven't plugged him, I see.” Mycroft says from behind Sherlock, cool fingers parting his arse cheeks.

“No. I thought you might want to use your own toys.” John answers.

Sherlock can sense both men standing close behind him, feeling their body heat, listening to the whisper of their clothes. He feels exposed, vulnerable, being totally naked in their presence, and the thought makes his swollen cock jerk between his legs as a thick bead of precome wells up from the slit. The heavy chain pulls at his nipples, the pain sweet and agonising, toned down to a throbbing numbness, only now and then interrupted by a sharp spark that goes straight to Sherlock's groin.

“Hold him open. I have to access what he might manage to take.”

Suddenly, there are John's hands on Sherlock's buttocks, prying them wider apart, spreading him for Mycroft to inspect. He can feel his arsehole twitch in excitement as Mycroft brushes just one finger down his smooth, hairless cleft. He desperately wants to be filled.

“Very nice.” Mycroft murmurs. Sherlock needs his brother to touch him again and tilts his hips, pushing his arse up, but that only earns him a sharp slap to his left cheek. Sherlock gasps and shivers all over. “Bit overexcited, though.” Mycroft comments.

“I told you, he's behaving like a cheap horny slut since we started. He's been absolutely gagging for it 24/7. Nothing's been out of bounds. He once fucked himself on a beer bottle just to get something up his arse.” John pinches Sherlock's cheek. “Isn't that right, Sherlock?”

“Yes, John. Please, Mycroft, I need it so badly! Just fill me up. Fuck me.” Sherlock whimpers

“Then I suggest we give him a challenge.” Mycroft just talks over Sherlock as if his brother wasn't in the same room. Sherlock is reduced to a toy, a plaything, and that's exactly what he wants to be right now for his big brother – and for John.

Mycroft walks over to another cabinet, and Sherlock tries to preen beneath his fringe and the table's edge but Mycroft's back blocks his field of vision.

“Eyes onto the floor, Sherlock.” Mycroft suddenly orders without looking. He knows his brother well. Sherlock quickly obeys. The sharp intake of breath he can hear from John as Mycroft turns around is enough information. What's coming for him must be huge.

It's not huge, it's enormous. Luckily, it's cone-shaped, and therefore the upper third slides in rather easily. Sherlock has been trained well. He’s now able to accommodate such a girth, but it still takes some effort. He can feel ridge after ridge being pressed inside him, helped by a lavishly applied large amount of lube, dripping down his bollocks and thighs.

John holds him open while Mycroft pushes the toy in mercilessly. Sherlock's gasps become shrieks and then cries of pain as about half the plug sits inside him and his brother continues to fill him up.

“You can take it, I know you can. Stop fussing, Sherlock, this is what you were made for. See, about two thirds are already inside you. Come on, tell us how it feels.” John cheers him on as Sherlock is impaled by the oversized toy.

Sherlock is sweating and drooling, and his knuckles have turned white as he holds on tightly to the table top.

“It's... big. So big. God. Please, give me a minute...”

But that's not what Mycroft wants to hear.

“Stop. Whining! Or I'll have John gag you.” He hisses, shoving yet another ridge up Sherlock's arse.

Sherlock focuses on his breathing, tuning out his surroundings, concentrating only on taking, giving in to the ache. John's touch anchors him in the white fog of his agony. He bites down a scream as the plug is forced deeper and deeper. John gently massages his arse cheeks, trying to spread him even further, to make it a little easier. “Nearly there, Sherlock.” He assures him, and it helps Sherlock to relax his muscle. “You know what to say, come on.”

“More. Please, more. Give me everything, Mycroft. I need it. Destroy me. Ruin me.” Sherlock begs, and Mycroft does, pushing in yet three more ridges until the monster sits snugly lodged inside Sherlock's hole. He's almost dizzy with pain. “Thank you. You are such a good big brother. Show me how it's done. Isn't that how it's supposed to be, you showing me?” Sherlock pants.

He can feel his brother's hand stroke up his sweaty spine, lingering at his nape. “I'll show you, little brother.” Mycroft whispers. “I'll be so good to you. But it always hurts the first time. Can't be helped. We have to prepare your tight little virgin hole first, Sherlock. God, you are still so tight.” Mycroft scratches his manicured nails down Sherlock's back before giving the base of the plug a decisive twist. Sherlock bucks his hips involuntarily. “God, look at him, John. He's stretched past endurance and still... So eager. Almost greedy.”

“I... I want to be a good boy.” Sherlock moans. “I want to be your good slut, please...”

“Oh, but you aren't just my slut, Sherlock. You are not like all the others. You are my brother. We are family. Blood. That's something special.” Mycroft pulls at the plug and Sherlock yelps as the thick ridges move inside him, gliding over his prostate.

“Thank you.” Sherlock sighs again, pushing up against the plug. He can feel the muscles in his arms and legs shaking and almost cramping from the effort to hold still during this ordeal.

“Beautiful.” Mycroft says, his voice full of warmth and admiration, flicking the base of the toy one last time before giving Sherlock's balls a firm squeeze.

Suddenly, Mycroft's touch is gone. “Let's have some nibbles, shall we?” He offers cheerfully, as if this was just a usual invitation to tea. “Sherlock, get over to the fire place and kneel down. You'll be serving us.”

Sherlock can barely walk. He feels almost split in half. His achingly hard cock bobs with every tentative step, shiny and glistening. The throbbing pain in his nipples has become a hot, constant burn. His lips are bitten raw and his hair is damp with sweat. He must already look a debauched mess.

When he carefully lowers himself down onto his knees with his back to the fire, the toy invading his body feels even more like a thick, unyielding rod up his arse. John and Mycroft take their seats either side of him in the battered leather armchairs.

“Come on, get started.” Mycroft tells him, and Sherlock hands them plates with fruit and bowls with nuts from the table. Mycroft chooses a juicy slice of orange, puts it into his mouth and holds his fingers out afterwards for Sherlock to lick clean. Sherlock obediently sucks the sticky sweetness from his brother's fingertips before passing a bowl of strawberries with cream over to John. Soon, he's licking its remnants of John's fingers, twirling his tongue around his fingertips as Mycroft watches them. Precome dribbles down his cock and over his bollocks. It's maddening.

When John removes his fingers, Mycroft is leaning over. He holds a piece of melon in front of Sherlock's mouth to bite into it. But instead of letting him chew it, Mycroft closes the distance and sucks the fruit from Sherlock's mouth, his tongue darting out, licking at Sherlock's shiny lips. Sherlock opens under the onslaught, offering himself up, whimpering with need as his eyes flutter shut. Then Mycroft is gone again, leaning back in his chair, but Sherlock can see the bulge between his crossed legs, ruining the line of his bespoke suit.

His brother gives in to his heightened state of arousal by loosening his tie and popping open the first button on his shirt, exposing freckled skin and ginger chest hair. It's almost obscene to Sherlock's eyes. Yet he can't avert his gaze.

“Sherlock, get us some drinks.” Mycroft tells him in a low, seductive voice, bringing Sherlock back to the tasks at hand. As he slowly gets to his feet and strolls past Mycroft, his brother reaches out a hand and strokes over his iliac crest, just avoiding Sherlock's straining cock, before pinching his bum and sending him on his way. Over at the far wall stands a well-stocked trolley, and Sherlock mixes two Whisky soda, highly aware that John and Mycroft watch him hungrily. He returns to the small table and puts the drinks down, eyes on the floor all the time, before sinking back down onto his knees to resume his earlier routine of passing snacks around.

“Oh, wait, should I ring for tea?” Mycroft offers after he's taken a small sip of his drink. “And cake. I think we have something to celebrate today.” John agrees, a smirk lighting up his face.

Sherlock blushes a bright crimson as two servants enter the room, carrying tablets with pots, cups and plates, accompanied by an assortment of scones, clotted cream, jam and honey and a silver etagere laden with cream tarts and eclairs. He's highly aware of his dishevelled appearance, his plugged arse and the nipple clamps, but Mycroft has his employees trained well. They barely glance at the naked man on the floor who drips precome onto the hearth rug.

Sherlock isn’t offered any tea as he plays mother, but Mycroft feeds him an éclair, glazed with dark chocolate and filled with cream, stuffing it deep in his mouth. It’s too much, and some lands onto the floor. Sherlock only hesitates briefly before he bows down and obediently licks it up.

As he glances up at his brother and John, Mycroft scrapes some cake from his plate. “Help yourself, bitch.” He grins salaciously. And Sherlock does, his tongue darting out to lick the mushy residue from the carpet, sucking it up until it's clean.

“Very good.” Mycroft praises him and pulls him up by his curls to push two sticky fingers smeared with chocolate into Sherlock's mouth, making him gag. “Suck!”

Meanwhile John, after a subtle glance at Mycroft, takes the honey pot and drizzles the sweet golden molasses over Sherlock’s chest and down his belly. It pools in his navel before trickling further south. Sherlock can feel his cock throbbing, but knows better than to give in to his desire to touch himself. Yet when John lowers his head to lick the honey from his skin, Sherlock’s eyes literally roll back in his head.

“Look at you.” Mycroft whispers in a hot, filthy voice. “God, I want to devour you.”

“Do it.” Sherlock pants around the fingers he's still sucking, saliva dripping down his chin.

A hand comes up and smears cool cream onto his burning nipples, only to be licked off a moment later. Suddenly, fingers and lips are everywhere, applying cream, jam and honey all over his body, sucking it from Sherlock's lips, nipples, and, as he sits back, the huge plug shifting even deeper inside him as it graces his prostate in a particularly enticing angle, from his belly and thighs.

They are all over him. Mycroft’s jacket and waistcoat are soon smeared with sticky greasy stains, and John’s shirt and jeans are equally ruined. Sherlock arches into their touch, offering his body to lapping tongues and nibbling teeth. It’s messy, but the most infuriating sensation is that both men are persistently avoiding his leaking cock. Sherlock desperately needs a mouth or hand – anything – on it. Right. Now.

When John senses how close Sherlock is he fiercely tugs at the chain attached to the nipple clamps. Sherlock whines but is unable to lean into the traction, as Mycroft pushes him down onto the floor, both hands on his shoulders, as he presses open mouthed kisses all over Sherlock’s jaw and throat, sucking cream from his Adam’s apple and honey from the hollow of his neck between his collar bones.

“Don't you dare to come.” John hisses, pulling the chain taut again, and Sherlock shakes his head, his sweaty curls sticking to his smudgy face. He feels grubby all over, but that’s surely how Mycroft and John want him.

Mycroft abruptly sits up at John’s words, realising how far gone Sherlock actually is. “You are right, Doctor Watson. My little brother is enjoying himself way too much. Overindulgent as always.”

John grins back. “Shouldn’t he be servicing us?” He asks.

“Yes. Let’s put this filthy tart into his place and teach him how not to soil himself like a gluttonous pig. Get the ropes.”

They leave Sherlock lying on the floor, and he doesn’t dare to move. Only his eyes follow John as he walks over to yet another cabinet. Meanwhile, Mycroft takes of his stained jacket and waistcoat. As John returns with an armful of black hemp rope, Mycroft gives him a critical look.

“I really think we need to clean up first and change. Let’s move this to my private quarters, shall we?”

Chapter Text

They make Sherlock crawl all the way up to Mycroft’s suite of rooms. For additional discomfort, John had threaded black hemp rope beneath the silver chain attached to the nipple clamps and tightly wound the rope around each of Sherlock's thighs. Therefore, the clamps are pulling at Sherlock's nipples with every move he makes, tugging at the chain as Sherlock scuttles along wood-panelled corridors and up a flight of stairs. Precome dribbles freely from his hard cock, leaving a translucent trail behind.

Up in Mycroft’s apartment, the three of them make straight for the spacious bathroom. It’s fitted with a luxuriously walk-in shower inside a large glass cubicle but there’s also an old-fashioned claw-foot bathtub. A huge gilt-framed mirror hangs over the sink, catching their reflection as the scene unfolds.

Sherlock is ordered to undress first Mycroft and then John. It’s not easy for him to stand, as no one has yet detached the rope from the chain. The clamps bite painfully at Sherlock’s skin if he doesn't stand slightly bent forward. Every motion tears at the chain, further tormenting Sherlock's already raw nipples.

As he unbuttons Mycroft’s shirt, Sherlock can’t restrain himself from briefly running his hands through the coarse ginger curls covering his brother’s chest. God, he wants to kiss him, lick him, breathe him in, but the look Mycroft shoots him tells Sherlock not to even think about it. Instead, he sinks to his knees and unties Mycroft’s laces to remove shoes and socks. He stays down onto the cold tiles as his shaking fingers unzip his brother’s trousers, discovering that Mycroft had decided against underwear (as it so ruins the line); his thick cock springs free, protruding from a nest of auburn pubic hair.

Sherlock stares, unblinking. The idea of getting fucked by this cock tonight is suddenly overwhelming.

“Please…,” Sherlock whispers, looking up at his brother from under his lashes, but Mycroft just steps back and under the already running shower, reminding Sherlock to undress John.

Sherlock takes a moment to stand up and turn around to do as he’s told, his eyes fixed on Mycroft. To bring him back down to earth, John closes his fist around Sherlock’s erection and gives him a few loose strokes. Sherlock’s knees almost give out under him, but he manages to unbutton John’s soiled shirt and help divest him of the rest of his clothing.

“Come, John, join me.” Mycroft invites John inside the spacious shower cubicle. Sherlock is made to kneel at their feet and soap their lower body regions while the men above him wash cream and sticky residue from their hair. Soon, they start to lather their chests with fragrant soap. There’s something going on between them, a shared heated look, an outstretched hand, a touch, and suddenly they are engaged in deep messy kisses while Sherlock works their cocks rhythmically in both his hands, expensive shower gel making his fists conveniently slippery.

“Hm,” hums Mycroft, breaking the kiss and looking down at his younger sibling. “I’d really like to see how this greedy whore looks with both our cocks in its mouth.” John groans his approval before grabbing Mycroft’s neck again, pulling him into another fierce kiss. His other hand is fisted into Sherlock’s curls, tugging forward until he can push his stiff cock against those plush lips.

Sherlock opens eagerly, guiding Mycroft's cock into his mouth as well, and sucks. He can only swallow their crowns as the angle is strange and the cascading water makes breathing difficult, but as Sherlock starts to swirl his tongue around both their cockheads, the two men above him moan in unison before continuing to lick into each other's mouths.

Sherlock tastes soap mixed with precome and almost gags as John pushes deeper, grinding against Mycroft's glans inside Sherlock's oral cavity. The elder Holmes takes this as an encouragement to thrust as well, and soon they are both fucking Sherlock's mouth until he's on the verge of choking. The corners of his mouth are being torn as he desperately tries to accommodate the two thick cocks pounding into him, almost dislocating his jaw. Even as the men obviously restrain themselves as not to suffocate him, taking them both becomes increasingly difficult. Sherlock splutters and coughs, saliva running down his chin, but it's immediately washed away by the hot spray. He makes the most peculiar noises, half moans, half whimper, until John suddenly pulls out, panting hard. Mycroft follows suit. Sherlock stares at the two twitching cocks in front of him, and surprises himself that he has the presence of mind to quickly wrap his fingers tightly around their roots to prevent them from shooting their loads right there and then onto his face.

Eventually, the hot water is turned off and both men grab a towel. But not Sherlock; he’s left dripping wet, kneeling on the tiles. Soon, he starts to shiver.

“Lestrade told me that he’s been trained for toilet service?” Mycroft asks, taking his by now merely half-hard cock in hand, aiming at Sherlock.

“Yes. He just loves to drink piss. Don’t you, Sherlock?”

“Yes.” Sherlock sighs, opening his mouth wide without being told to.

Surprisingly, the first splash of warm piss doesn’t hit him in the face. Mycroft chooses his tormented nipples instead, pissing all over Sherlock’s chest before directing the stream downwards. Streaks of hot urine run over Sherlock’s concave belly and pool between his legs. But it’s not enough, Sherlock needs to taste his brother. He leans forward, desperate to get some piss in his mouth, and Mycroft answers his silent pleading and finally raises his stream up to Sherlock’s face, his open mouth. He swallows, greedily, thirsty, and instantly loves the taste of his brother’s piss. It's sharp, yet sweeter than John’s. To relish his depraved refreshment, Sherlock lets Mycroft fill his mouth over and over again before swallowing, drinking him down. His brother must have held it rather long, for Sherlock is soon kneeling in a dark yellow puddle as the piss gathers on the white tiles. He closes his eyes as Mycroft sprays the last splatters all over his face, greedily trying to catch every drop, his mouth slack, his tongue darting out, licking, indulging.

Then it’s John’s turn.

“Play with your nipples while I piss all over you.” He demands, and Sherlock does, toying with his hard nubs while John starts drenching Sherlock’s hair. As he moves his gush slowly downwards, over Sherlock's face, throat, chest and abdomen, Sherlock pulls at the clamps, hissing in pain, yet his cock stays hard until his body is soaked, dripping with piss.

“Come on, now play with it.” Mycroft orders as John is finished, and both men watch as Sherlock cups his hands to gather as much piss as possible from the tiles, sipping, wiping it over his face, pouring it over his heaving torso. He knows that he's moaning like a slut but he can't help it, he just loves getting drenched in piss.

But he's soon reminded of his duties. First, he has to clean both John's and Mycroft's cock with his mouth (god, he loves Mycroft’s taste even more as he suckles on his slit). Only afterwards is Sherlock allowed to lie down in the pool of piss and to slurp the rest of it up with his mouth. The nipple clamps bite fiercely into his sensitive flesh as he squirms on the tiles, wet and filthy, covered in piss, while the plug moves deliciously inside him. Suddenly, without warning, he’s about to come; his balls tighten, his cock throbs and pulses.

“Please, I…,” Sherlock chokes, and luckily John catches on and turns the tab. Ice-cold water hits Sherlock’s body, and the instant shock is enough to pull him back from the edge. Still, he feels almost dizzy, the sensations of lust, pain and humiliation mixing as he descents deep into subspace.

They wash him, albeit with cold water. Because Mycroft calls him a human pissoire, John scrubs Sherlock’s skin with a toilet brush and Harpic until his whole body feels sore and tingles. John especially concentrates on his arse and groin, almost flaying his still hard cock while Mycroft declares that Sherlock is a dirty toilet slut, a human urinal smelling of piss that needs to be disinfected.

For better access, John demands that Sherlock gets on all four, fiercely scuffing his perineum, his balls, and again and again stroking over the base of the huge plug until Sherlock pants and begs, whimpering as his aching body is exposed to this rough treatment, his sensitive skin chafing while getting scrubbed raw.

To shut him up, the toilet brush is shoved into his mouth, and Sherlock’s made to suck. First, he tries to turn his head away, pressing his lips tightly together, but John is very insistent, rubbing the stiff black bristles all over Sherlock’s face. It scratches, surely leaving marks on his chin and cheeks, but he still doesn’t open his mouth. This is just too disgusting, even for Sherlock’s deviant tastes. In the end, after a few moments of watching his little brother refusing to accept his role as a piss-pot that has to be sanitizes, Mycroft steps up behind Sherlock, grabs his hair and pulls his head back while pinching his nose shut (the same way he’d made him swallow snails and earthworms when they’d been children). Just before Sherlock passes out due to oxygen deprivation, he finally opens his mouth to gulp in some air. That's when John pushes the brush in.

“Come on, we have to clean your filthy mouth. The faster you obey, the sooner this is all over. But we have to do this properly. I'm sure you understand that. You are such a dirty pisswhore.” His brother explains as he holds Sherlock's head pulled back in a death grip. Sherlock has no choice but to do as he's told.

Realising that there’s no way out, he tries to be good. He understands. He's such a squalid, perverted tart, of course they have to do this to him. He's lucky that they take the time and make an effort, despite him being nothing but an orifice for their bodily fluids. Therefore, Sherlock wants to make an effort as well and tries to take as much of the brush as deep as he can. When it hits the back of his throat, however, Sherlock has to gag violently. He even brings up a bit of gastric juice that clings slimy between the black bristles when John pulls the brush from his mouth to prevent Sherlock from choking on his own spit. After a short questioning look at Mycroft, answered with a nod, John smears the bile all over Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock just closes his eyes and endures his cheeks and brow getting painted with sick. It’s the logical consequence for not being able to swallow the toilet brush. Thin vomit clings to his eyelashes, gluing them together, as the sour smell fills his nostrils.

When John orders him again to open, Sherlock obediently does without hesitation. This is the treatment a human toilet deserves. He eagerly sucks the toilet brush it clean, swallowing down his own puke with relish. Suddenly, the taste isn’t that vile anymore. He could get used to it.

Only when both John and Mycroft are satisfied with his efforts and their results is Sherlock’s head forcefully shoved under the icy spray to wash his face and hair. Thank god they don’t use Harbic for that, but a rough bar of old-fashioned carbolic soap. Sherlock has to rinse out his mouth with it as well while John and Mycroft dress in fluffy bathrobes.

Eventually, Sherlock is allowed to get up and dry himself off. Just as he’s finished, Mycroft quickly pulls off the nipple clamps. Burning pain sears through Sherlock like a bolt of lightning, so intense that tears well up in his eyes and his vision blurs. He almost topples over, letting out a high-pitched whine, cringing, and only grabbing the sink prevents him from falling flat on his face.

“God, look at you.” Mycroft whispers as he embraces his brother from behind, rolling his abused, dark-red nubs between thumb and forefinger. Sherlock draws a shuddering breath but raises his eyes to look at himself in the antique mirror: hair wet and dripping, eyes wide and dark, mouth swollen, lips slightly blue from the icy water, pale skin rubbed a blotchy pink in places where it’s pulled taut over his fine bone structure. He already looks wrecked, yet they have barely begun. His eyes dart to his left, where he can see the reflection of John, his face closed-off, expression unreadable. But when their eyes meet in the mirror, something briefly flickers over John's features... a mixture of sadness and longing that makes Sherlock frown. Why is John looking at him like this?

His train of thought is abruptly brought to a grinding halt when Mycroft bites down hard at the junction of his neck and shoulder. Sherlock howls in pain and lowers his head, closing his eyes to ward off shedding more tears. Mycroft doesn't let go until he draws blood.

“Don't get distracted, brother mine.” Mycroft mumbles into his ear as he finally let’s go, his teeth marking Sherlock's skin. “John is merely here to assist. This is about you and me tonight. Don't forget that.”

Sherlock nods weakly while a dull throb starts spreading in his neck. A thin streak of blood runs down his chest. Mycroft follows the crimson trickle with his eyes in the mirror while drawing the tip of his tongue over the bite mark he just left. Sherlock almost recoils as he tries to get his breathing back under control, but, otherwise, stays very still.

“Apropos, would you like Doctor Watson to give you a hand?” Mycroft asks in a low voice and Sherlock slowly raises his head. Their pale eyes lock in the mirror before Sherlock's gaze darts back to John, who watches them impassively.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, his voice trembling just a little. “I'd like that very much.”

Mycroft's grin is outright salacious.


At Mycroft's place, they don't have to make do with coffee tables or kitchen chairs. In his bedroom, there is, of course, the real thing: a beating rack that looks almost antique, the wood smooth and polished from use, the leather belts soft and well-worn.

Mycroft runs his hand tenderly over the dark oak. “I had to pull some strings to obtain this from Wandsworth prison.” He smiles, then gestures for Sherlock to step closer.

“There have been so many instances when you've acted like an annoying prat, little brother. Do you remember the Bruce Partington plans, for example? How many times have I sat here and imagined you, tied down onto this beauty, helpless, at my mercy. Well, I think it's time to turn this fantasy into reality. It'll get you in the right mood, I'm sure of it.”

John ties Sherlock down with deft, experienced movements. The back of his calves are resting against a plank just above his ankles as he's bend over at 90 degrees at the hip, his torso lying face down onto wooden bars about an inch apart. His arms are at his side, secured by two leather straps pulled tight and fastened behind his back, almost cutting off circulation. His face is resting on its right cheek, the struts surely leaving marks. It’s not uncomfortable, yet Sherlock is effectively immobilised, his naked arse, back and thighs exposed and vulnerable.

Up in this flat, Mycroft keeps his equipment in a large wardrobe with sliding mirrored doors. Sherlock is aware of John inspecting the collection and choosing a device of his liking. Mycroft approves with a low hum. When John turns around, Sherlock can see that he's holding a hickory spanking paddle, about fifteen inches long and rather slim, with eight holes to allow for the delivery of fast blows in quick succession.

“We'll start with this.” John says, stroking first the paddle and then Sherlock's bare arse admiringly.

It stings. The wood is firm, hard, unyielding. Sherlock can't move or wriggle away; he's absolutely at John's mercy. Soon, his buttocks are bright red and burning. They'll sure turn a bruised greenish purple over the next few days.

Mycroft is sitting in an armchair behind Sherlock, watching, sipping a Glenmorangie, lazily fisting his cock. He seems to enjoy the show.

John uses the paddle quite expertly, dealing fierce blows to Sherlock's arse and thighs. Initially, Sherlock had forced himself to stay quiet, but after about the tenth stroke he can't stop little gasps and sobs escaping his mouth. These turn into groans at around the twentieth stroke.

When John has to pause for a moment to give his arm some rest, he entertains himself by grazing his short fingernails over Sherlock's raw backside, making him moan and shiver in futile attempts to escape the torture.

“You like that, don't you? Being tied down and beaten into submission?” John growls in a dangerously low voice.

“Yes, John.” Sherlock whispers, shame colouring his face.

“You understand that you need this, right, after your disgusting behaviour in the bathroom? Getting off from being used as a piss-pot.”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock swallows. “Thank you, John.”

Suddenly, Sherlock can feel just one of John's fingers slightly spreading his cheeks rocking the base of the massive plug. The urge to push back against the touch, to undulate his hips is overwhelming, but as Sherlock is firmly held in place, he can only sigh wantonly.

“You know, speaking of piss, accidents do happen so easily.” John teases. He must have put the paddle down, for his other hand is sneaking between Sherlock's legs and starts to knead his half-hard cock. “I'm sure that happened to you as well. At night. Perhaps at school. You'd drunken too much and were to sleepy or lazy to run all the way to the toilet. And when you finally discovered that it was too late for that, that you had hesitated far too long, that your belly was already cramping, you could do nothing but give in to the urge, to relaxed and let it flow, lying in your own warm piss afterwards. Wasn't that both hot and embarrassing? And the idea of other people noticing... did that make you hard, Sherlock?”

Sherlock closes his eyes, ashamed, and nods as John's hand slips between his abdomen and the wood he's been pressed against to start massaging his belly.

“Tell me.” John demands. “I want to hear you.”

“Yes, John...”

“Did you touch yourself, then, in your wet sheets, smelling of piss?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock chokes out and John gropes him harder. The plug is twisted inside him, and its so big that it pokes his bladder, which is also stimulated from the outside because John is still rubbing his belly.

“I bet you wanted to get caught. I bet you wanted to get punished for your filthy behaviour.”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock groans, getting more and more desperate. He can feel the pressure on his bladder increase like a dull throb building deep inside him.

“I want you to show your brother what a dirty slag you are. I want you to piss yourself in front of him, to show him how far you'll go. You need him to control you, for you are barely in command of your basic bodily functions.” John removes his hand but continues to slightly move the plug inside Sherlock's arse. “Come on, debase yourself, show us how low you have sunken.”

Sherlock is by now shaking his head as much as his constriction allows, sobbing and quietly begging: “Please, don't... don't ask this. Please, I can't... No.”

But he's cut short when John's free hand presses firmly down on the small of his back, squeezing. Sherlock is mortified when he feels the first spurt of piss splutter from his penis. He tries to hold it in, but once the floodgates have opened, there's no holding back. Despite his futile efforts to clench his muscles, more piss flows form his urethra. It's no use. He's helplessly pissing himself in front of his brother, surrendering to the humiliation. Accepting what is made of him finally allows him to relax, and he just let's it all out, a hot stream of piss running down his legs and over his feet, soaking the expensive carpet. He might be crying, he's not sure, for he's almost too far gone to realise what is happening to him anymore.

Both men just watch him, utterly silent and surely repelled while Sherlock soils himself, sobbing like a small child; John still playing with the plug up his arse only adds to Sherlock's embarrassment.

They wait until he's emptied himself before Mycroft suggests: “I think you should use the tawse next.”

“Nice idea.” John agrees, and walks over to the wardrobe to select a suitable item.

He comes back wielding a thick brown leather strap in his hand. It's slimmer than the paddle, therefore the impact is different. The two tongues of the tawse are more flexible than the wooden paddle, wrapping around Sherlock's skin, bruising without splitting it open. John now also deals blows to the small of Sherlock's back, not restricting the beating to his still crimson arsecheeks and thighs.

“The tawse was used in Scotland and the North of England up to the early 1980s.” Mycroft explains in his crisp nasal voice above Sherlock's screams. “I remember watching thrashings at public school until they were forbidden by the European Court of Human Rights. What a shame that was. It would have done Sherlock much good if they kept it in use.” John hums in agreement. “That's what you get for bed-wetting, little brother. Well deserved punishment, don't you think?”

Sherlock's eyes are by now screwed shut and his mouth hangs open. He's drooling. God, the tawse hurts. Especially as John is now flogging his whole body mercilessly, right up to his shoulder blades. Even when he has to pause for a moment, the leather tongues caress Sherlock's sore skin with . As the piss cools on his legs and he stands in a lukewarm puddle, Sherlock can feel himself sliding deeper and deeper into subspace, embracing the pain, the humiliation, trying to become one with it, accepting it, welcoming it. He's debasing himself but he doesn't care anymore.

He needs this. John makes little noises when dealing another row of blows, bitten off moans of pleasure. He obviously likes what he sees and does. Therefore, Sherlock likes it too.

Finally, when Sherlock's whole back is smarting from the thorough thrashing he's received and his screams have died down to low whimpers, John puts the tawse down.

“You want me to go on?” He asks Mycroft, who admires John's work with the knowing look of a true connoisseur. He by now only palming his erection, fondling his balls form time to time. The whisky is long gone.

“Take the carbon rod to finish this.” Mycroft says, his voice dark, and John does, even if he hesitates a fraction.

“This will break his skin.” John objects, but nevertheless returns with an innocently looking, thin cane.

“I want to see him bleed.” Mycroft insists, shooting John a somewhat withering look. “Ten will be enough, though.”

“Very well, as you wish.” John condescends, albeit still sounding a bit doubtful.

He lays an elaborate pattern all over Sherlock's thighs, arse and back. The slim rod cuts through the sore, red skin with ease, inflicting minor wounds that nonetheless bleed profusely. But Sherlock is not even writhing anymore. He just takes it, sighing in submission as he feels warm blood trickle down his sides and legs, mixing with his piss and sweat, dripping through the slits of the beating rack and onto the carpet beneath it.

To his own surprise, Sherlock is utterly calm when the punishment is finally over. His mind is still, wiped clean. There's just the pain, enveloping him. The next breath is all he focuses on.




Until Mycroft gets up and circles the rack, pulling Sherlock's head up by his damp hair. Upon encountering his brother's dazed expression Mycroft knows that he's finally got Sherlock exactly where he wanted him.

“I'm pulling the plug out now, little brother. “He murmurs almost affectionately. “And then I'm going to fuck your stretched hole.”

“God, y-yes, please, Mycroft.” Sherlock whispers, his voice filled with frightened anticipation, yet hoarse from crying.

“John, get the camera from over there. I want you to film us. Two Holmes amalgamating.”

John does as he's told and positions himself a little to the left behind Sherlock, arranging an expensive digital camera on a tripod, pulling the scene in front of him into focus.

Mycroft takes off his robe before touching the base of the fat plug still shoved up Sherlock's arse. His thick cock is hard and leaking, brushing Sherlock's bruised arsecheeks as he steps behind his brother. Sherlock tries to buck his hips at the contact but it's impossible due to his tight bounds.

“God, you still don't have enough, do you?” Mycroft murmurs, pinching Sherlock's purpling, bloodied cheek before ripping the plug out in one swift move. Sherlock yells at the top of his lungs like a wounded animal.

As his arse is gaping open, Mycroft swiftly makes good use of it, pushing all the way in until his balls hit Sherlock's slightly sticky perineum. Sherlock chokes on a moan, because his brother's cock is much longer than the plug, filling him to the rim. Without additional lubrication, they both can feel every move much more intensely.

Mycroft grips Sherlock's slim hips and starts to fuck him steadily. Sherlock's cock is shoved again and again against the wooden edge of the rack, already chafing, still a bit damp from loosing control over his bladder. Yet, it's swollen and leaking all the same. Every thrust from Mycroft makes him gasp in pain and pleasure alike.

“Tell me what's happening, Sherlock.” John asks from behind the small camera. His own cock is throbbing, in desperate need to be touched.

“My... my brother is fucking me.” Sherlock pants, staring somewhat hazy at the lens, his face contorting in a mixture of lust and distress. It's the hottest, most intimate thing John has ever seen. Sherlock is truly coming undone.

“And how is that? Do you like it?” John asks, despite Sherlock's pleasure being quite obvious. But he has to hear him say it.

“Yes. God, yes! His cock is so big, it feels like I'm being split in half. Please, Mycroft, just fuck me harder.”

And Mycroft does, slamming faster and faster into Sherlock's used hole.

“Use the tawse again.” Sherlock gasps suddenly, and Mycroft growls as he picks the strap up without slowing down.

John watches as Mycroft starts to brutally whip his brother's body again, who arches into the blows, still demanding more. Both brothers moan and gasp at the sensation; the trust, the power one has over the other. They are both lost, and they know it. It's breathtaking, almost disturbing in its intensity.

The physical exercise is leaving its mark on the elder Holmes: his dishevelled ginger hair falls into his face, sweat runs down his temples, and a pink flush has spread right down all over his chest. His scarcely freckled shoulders glisten damp as his well-developed thighs muscles drive his cock relentlessly up his little brother's arse.

Mycroft whacks Sherlock erratically, not minding or caring where the tawse lands – back, shoulders, arms, even Sherlock's neck and face – he just deals blow after blow in sync with his thrusts. Sherlock can't scream anymore, he just groans and whimpers, not wanting his brother to stop. As a fierce stroke splits his lip, he tastes blood.

It doesn't take long afterwards. The sight of the sweaty, bleeding mess to which he has reduced his usually so proud and arrogant little brother is enough for Mycroft to speed up, pushing his hard cock deep inside Sherlock's yielding body. Sherlock is making incoherent noises, but Mycroft is also just grunting: “God, Sherl... so tight. You little tart. Filthy! God... you want this... so badly. Take it. That's it.”

Mycroft doesn't slow down as he climaxes, but rides it out, shooting his thick load up Sherlock's arse, who follows suit, not caring if he's allowed to. His come hits the Persian carpet, mixing with his other bodily fluids that have already stained the expensive rug. No punishment his brother could come up with could have stopped Sherlock, but he's willing to accept whatever Mycroft has in store for him to make up for his offence. Because he's sure that his ordeal has just begun.

And as if on cue, Mycroft offers, while his come starts to ooze out of Sherlock's still twitching, sore hole: “Now it's your turn, John.”

John smiles darkly. Finally!

He keeps the camera running.

Chapter Text

John takes Mycroft’s place behind Sherlock, watching enrapt as come oozes out of Sherlock's still twitching hole. Filming Mycroft fuck his little brother had made him so hard it almost hurts. He needs to fuck this arse as well right now.

John runs both hands over Sherlock bruised, bleeding bottom, spreading the cheeks slightly to brush his dripping cock over Sherlock's entrance. Sherlock doesn't even stir.

“He's almost passed out.” John observes.

“Who cares? He's a fucktoy, nothing more.” Mycroft reminds him. “You won't even need lube. Look how wet he already is.”

John can see it. To open Sherlock up, he pushes his two thumps inside the slick rectum and pulls it apart. Sherlock is too exhausted to respond. John's fingers pushing inside just elicits a raw sob.

“I'm going to fuck you now, Sherlock.” John announces, and brutally shoves his cock all the way in.

It's still tight, but also slippery. John slides in easily. His stiff cock is sensitive from hours of playing, teasing. It won't take long. Sherlock is barely conscious anyway.

Suddenly, Mycroft steps up in front of Sherlock, a leather belt in hand. He quickly fastens it around Sherlock’s neck, the black leather a stark contrast to his pale skin. Sherlock doesn't resist, doesn't fight it. He's too far gone for that. Only when Mycroft pulls the leather taught does he try to say something, but his voice dies in his throat. His face slowly turns almost purple, his eyes protrude from their sockets and his hands clench into fists at his sides. John can feel Sherlock's hole flutter and contract around him and speeds up his thrusts.

Mycroft obviously knows what he's doing. Just as Sherlock's eyes start to roll back in his head he loosens the belt a fraction, allowing Sherlock to suck in some air, more a reflex than a conscious decision to breathe. When the colour of his face has somewhat returned to normal after a few moments, however, Mycroft tightens the belt again. They do this a few times over, until John feels Sherlock's hole clamp down around him. He's coming, coughing, gasping, and John can't stop himself any longer, can't deny himself the pleasure of spilling deep inside Sherlock. He claws to his slim waist as he fucks Sherlock hard and fast, riding his orgasm out as Sherlock starts to buck and jerk beneath him due to serious oxygen deprivation.

John seems to come for ages. When his knees threaten to give out, he splays himself over Sherlock's abused back, resting his brow briefly between Sherlock's protruding shoulder blades. Their sweat makes their bodies sticky. Sherlock still can't breathe. Only when John pulls out does Mycroft remove the belt; Sherlock is allowed to take deep, shuttering breaths.

“Thank.. you.” He croaks, his eyes fluttering shut.

More come trickles from Sherlock's hole and John lazily starts to push it back in with two fingers, playing with it. He smears it over Sherlock’s violated buttocks until they are glistening with a mixture of blood and come. Sherlock’s load has mostly landed on the carpet, but some has hit his belly and now drips down his balls. John squeezes them gently, and Sherlock roles his hips in response as best he can.

“Come here. Lick.” John pushes his come covered hand into Sherlock's mouth, all five fingers. Sherlock chokes as he tries to open wide enough to accommodate John’s knuckles, but immediately starts to suck, his tongue cleaning Mycroft's and John's come with his own blood from John’s fingers that are obscenely stretching his mouth. But Sherlock’s suckling is weak and not as eager as usual.

“Let’s untie him. I think he needs some rest.”

Sherlock is too frail to stand. John grabs him under his arms as his sated body slides off the rack after Mycroft had loosened the straps. Both men support Sherlock as they carefully manoeuvre him over to Mycroft's large four-poster double bed. It's already covered with clean towels. They place Sherlock on them face down. His back is too raw to lie on it. He won't be able to sit properly either for a few days.

“There's Gatorade in the bar over there, and some fruit. I run him a bath.” Mycroft puts his robe back on, but returns to the bed before walking over to the bathroom. “Look after him, John. He needs you.”

John strokes Sherlock's sweaty curls from his face. “Hey. There you are. I thought I had lost you. Are you all right?”

Sherlock sighs and tries to smile and wriggle, but his face contorts in pain. The belt has left visible bruising around his pale throat. When Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, just a husky sound comes out. He coughs dryly.

John gets up and walks over to the small drinks cabinet. There's even a fridge with cooled drinks and a plate of orange slices and strawberries. John has to hold Sherlock's head up to help him take small sips from the bottle before feeding him the sweet fruit. For once, Sherlock does not protest.

When the bath is ready, John helps Sherlock get up and guides him slowly over to the bathroom. Mycroft assists in lowering the abused body in the large tub. Sherlock hisses as he sits down, and takes his time to tentatively stretch out. His whole body hurts, the skin broken, bruised, the muscles epitonic and stiff from the strenuous fucking and beating. As John takes a soft sponge to carefully soap Sherlock’s battered back, Mycroft leaves the bathroom, only to return after a moment with two whiskies and another robe, this one made of green silk.

“How do you feel, Sherlock?” He asks his brother, sitting on the edge of the claw-foot tub, his left hand rippling the water.

“I'm fine.” Sherlock hums with closed eyes, his voice still strained, his forehead resting on his drawn-up knees. “A bit sore.” He adds after a minute. Mycroft chuckles.

“I bet you are. You were amazing, little brother. Breathtakingly beautiful. John did prepare you well.” Sherlock just murmurs something vaguely affirmative in response. He's bone tired, his head pounds, yet he's floating on oxytocin and endorphins. Sated. Content. Satisfied. All he really wants is to curl up and rest.

They dry him off while he holds onto the sink. Afterwards, John tends to his wounds, applying ointment and bandages. The cuts from the rod aren’t deep and will heal soon, yet have to get disinfected and patched up. Sherlock silently endures as John dabs his wounds with alcohol while Mycroft watches, a possessive glint in his eyes. When John's finished, Mycroft drapes the green silk dressing gown over Sherlock's shoulders and leads him back to his bedroom, guiding Sherlock over to a lush sofa upholstered in deep-red velvet. Sherlock lies on the spacious couch – more a lounging area – and switches through the channels on Mycroft's gigantic plasma screen while both his brother and John take a quick shower.

He might actually have dozed off, because suddenly John nudges his shoulder before lifting his head and placing it in his lap. John is warm and smells of cotton, whisky and soap. As he starts to gently pet Sherlock's hair, he almost purrs with pleasure. John smiles down on him. They watch some old movie on the telly – Sherlock can't muster enough energy to follow the plot, something about two men on a train plotting to kill their wives – while Mycroft disappears into his study, no doubt making important phone calls the security of the free world depends upon and going through his files. His work, apparently, never stops.

Sherlock must have nodded off again, because suddenly, his very busy big brother is leaning over him, tenderly touching his shoulder. “It's late, Sherlock. Let’s all go to bed.”

They take him in the middle as they all slip naked under the luxurious covers made from Egyptian cotton. Sherlock can feel John's arm around his waist as his head is pulled back to rest against Mycroft's shoulder. It's cosy, comfortable; it only takes a moment for Sherlock to fall fast asleep.


He wakes up the next morning, still wedged between two bodies. John is quietly snoring, but Mycroft seems to be already awake. His left hand plays with Sherlock's left nipple as his prominent erection pokes Sherlock in the back of his thigh. He still feels somewhat sore, but doubts that his discomfort will impress his brother.

“Good morning, Sherlock.” Mycroft murmurs in his ear. “Did you sleep well? You seemed almost narcoleptic.”

Sherlock wants to come up with a somewhat snide retort, but all he can utter is a small yelp as Mycroft pinches his nipple hard between thumb and forefinger, digging his nails into the sensitive flesh. His brother’s other hand scratches up from Sherlock's abdomen to his sternum. Sherlock shivers as his cock starts to fill.

Mycroft rakes his right hand down again and gropes Sherlock's groin. “Oh, you horny slut. You just can't get enough, can you? Last night, we were gracious enough to let you climax, but don't get used to that. I'm not sure it will be a habit we'll let take hold.” Sherlock can hear the cruel smile in Mycroft's tone.

Sherlock's gasps and Mycroft's whisper are enough to wake John. He stirs, yawns, stretches before opening his eyes and meeting Sherlock's.

“Hey...,” he sighs. “Morning.”

“Good morning, John.” Mycroft raises his head and looks down on John over Sherlock's shoulder. “Look at him. Already hard again. Leaking even. You've created a monster.”

John's gaze trails down Sherlock's body to rest between his thighs where Mycroft's manicured fingers curl around Sherlock's erection, pulling back the foreskin to expose the glistening slit.

“Well, nothing's wrong with a bit of morning wood.” John grins, rocking his own boner against Sherlock's thigh. Sherlock's eyes flutter shut.

“Don't indulge this habit, John. You don't know what a little encouragement can do to my brother. Could you open your bedside cabinet? There should be a cock cage in it.”

Sherlock wants to protest. No! No cage. Not with Mycroft being the master of the keys. It might be ages before he'll be released from it.

“Please, don't.” Sherlock whispers. Mycroft squeezes his balls so hard that he sees stars and has to sharply suck in a breath.

“Shut it, Sherlock, or I'll let John put you in a very small one.”

Sherlock whimpers but otherwise stays quiet.

Mycroft pulls Sherlock's back flush against his chest and continues to play with his nipples as John puts the chastity device on him. It's heavy, made from gleaming silver metal, with bolts that have to be inserted into the appropriate holes to interlock. The task is made much more difficult due to Sherlock's raging erection, but eventually the last piece clicks into place. John secures the cage with a small padlock and passes the key over to Mycroft. Sherlock's cock is now sheathed in silver, a ring fastened behind his balls. There's a small opening slot over his glans, so that he can piss and leak precome, but he won't be able to get fully hard or come.

Mycroft hums approvingly as he again fondles Sherlock's testicles. The pressure building with no hope for release is mindbogglingly frustrating. John bowing down, coaxing Sherlock’s mouth open with his tongue, doesn't help much either.

“God, I want to fuck him again.” John sighs as he pulls back, nibbling down Sherlock's jaw. “You think he's already up for another round, Mycroft?”

“Why don't you find out, Doctor Watson? You're the medical man here, after all.”

John's left hand pushes past Mycroft’s to prod behind Sherlock's balls. As two of his fingers slide easily into Sherlock's still loose hole, he smiles wickedly.

“Hmm, he's still nicely wet and open. I might just be able to push in like this. Or would you like to have the first go, Mycroft? He's your brother, after all. I'm just a spectre at the feast.”

“Why do you think we have to take him one after the other? If he's so well prepared as you insinuate, won't he be able to take us both?”

Sherlock gasps at the idea, his hips bucking of their own account. John pushes the two fingers he'd just had up his arse into his mouth to quieten him. This is not a decision in which Sherlock will have any say.

“Logistics?” Is all John asks by way of agreement.

“We could do it like this, Sherlock’s back against me, up in my lap, and you pushing in from the front.” Mycroft explains. “Or he could ride you, bounce on your cock, and I kneel behind him and take him from there.”

They decide on the second option as it seems somewhat easier to manage.

John lies back and Sherlock is told to straddle his hips. John lazily folds his arms behind his head – this is a relaxing early morning shag, after all – and lets Sherlock do all the work. Despite still being wet from last night, he's allowed to use lube to slick himself up for two cocks. Small mercies, but Sherlock is still grateful.

He’s already panting, the idea of taking John and Mycroft at the same time making him slightly dizzy. He smears lube all over John's shaft and his own cleft before lining John's erection up with his hole to slowly sink down on it.

He's still bruised from last night's activities. And John is big. Sherlock's face contorts in discomfort, but he doesn't stop, forcing himself down, engulfing John’s erection. When John is fully seated, Sherlock takes a moment to catch his breath and adjust.

Mycroft loves the little needy noises his brother makes as he’s getting stuffed with cock. Fisting his hand into dark curls, he pulls Sherlock's head back into a messy kiss, all tongue and teeth. John watches, savouring the sight of the two brothers above him sharing fierce, open mouthed kisses; until Mycroft lets go of Sherlock to shuffle up behind his brother.

“Move.” He demands, and Sherlock starts to rock slightly forward. The moan torn from his throat is half pleasure, half pain. Soon, he's gyrating his hips, circling them while impaled on John's cock. His own caged cock is leaking as Sherlock makes sure that John hits his prostate again and again.

Next, Sherlock starts to bob up and down on John's shaft, fucking himself. Now the fat cock brushes over his sweet spot with every slide, and it's maddening. There's already a pool of precome forming on John's belly, dripping from Sherlock's silver sheathed cock, his hot flesh straining against its metal cage.

“God, you...,” John sighs with pleasure, watching Sherlock move on top of him. “That's amazing. So beautiful. Perfect. Such a perfectly trained boy, always open, ready to be of service. He's still rather tight, Mycroft. Are you sure you'll fit in here as well?”

“Let’s find out, shall we?” Mycroft grabs the lube and slicks his hand up, all the while watching Sherlock literally bounce up and down on John's cock. It's a sight to behold, his now black and purple bruised arsecheeks trapping John's glistening cock. Sherlock almost slides all the way up before sinking down again, panting hard, so Mycroft gets a real eyeful.

He has to stop his enthusiastic brother with a hand on his shoulder while spreading his arsecheeks with the other. Sherlock's hole is stretched around the base of John's cock, pink and wet. “John, hold that greedy whore in place while I give him some more.”

John grabs Sherlock's hips, hard. “Hurry, Mycroft, he's practically gagging for it.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and leans slightly forward, gripping John's shoulders as he feels a nudge at his rim. But it's definitely too small to be Mycroft’s cock. Ah, another finger first, to test the waters, so to speak. Sherlock appreciates the consideration.

One finger slides in easily enough. A second follows soon. John gasps in surprise.

“Good, that feels amazing.” He moans as Mycroft sets a slow rhythm, pushing again and again into Sherlock’s body while John holds him in a death grip. Sherlock bows down even further, now almost lying on top of John's chest, as Mycroft adds a third finger. The stretch burns, but the feeling is also unbelievably arousing. He's already stuffed to the brim with John's cock, yet something else is moving inside him. The friction is glorious. He's glad they put the cage on him. He would have had come by now without it, no matter if he'd been allowed to.

“How does this feel, little brother?” Mycroft asks, his voice dark with lust.

“Lovely.” Sherlock sighs, locking eyes with John, almost drowning in his dark blue gaze. “I'm so full. You are both filling me up. God! It's so good, so much. Thank you.”

“Would you like to be given even more? My huge cock next to John's. Would you like that?”

“Yes. Yes, please, Mycroft, fuck me. Please, fuck me both. I want it. I need it. Please.” Sherlock chants, almost unable to stay still. He has to close his eyes to focus. It's almost too intense.

“Don't move.” Mycroft says, removing his fingers. Sherlock's hole gapes for a moment, staying open before slowly fluttering close around John's cock again. Mycroft growls.

He quickly slicks himself up and grabs Sherlock's hips. At the first push against his already taut ring of muscle, Sherlock reflexively clenches, but Mycroft continues to press forward. Suddenly, the head of his cock glides past Sherlock's sphincter and is swallowed by Sherlock’s body. Mycroft stares down, watching mesmerised as his cock is sucked inside Sherlock's body, already filled with another hard cock. It's not only the feeling of Sherlock's hot, wet heat around him, it's also brushing against John's shaft that sets Mycroft's blood on fire and makes his nerves tingle.

Mycroft has to restrain himself from thrusting, so he counts to ten in his head before pushing in another two inches. No use in ripping Sherlock apart just yet. There are so many things Mycroft wants to do to his little brother first.

It takes ages, because Mycroft goes excruciatingly slow. He has to master every ounce of his not insignificant self-control as to not pound into Sherlock hard and fast. But eventually, Mycroft is full seated next to John.

“That's it.” He breathes. “Good, you are a perfect cockslut. You've got two dicks shoved up your tight arse. And you love it.”

Sherlock is almost lost for words. He's acutely aware of how full he is. It hurts a little, but that is made up for by the incomprehensible notion of being owned so completely. Good, thinking that a few weeks back, he'd been a virgin, and is now dicked down by two men, one of them his brother, makes his whole body tremble. Fuck you, Moriarty, he thinks, you didn't succeed in taking this away from me. You are dead, and I'm here, alive, doing this.

“It... it's unbelievable, Mycroft. Please, can you move? I want to feel you both inside me.” Sherlock begs, throwing back his head in triumph.

It's not easy and takes some coordination, but finally, they find a rhythm together. The slick sound of squashy lube, combined with their outright lewd moans, fills the bedroom. Soon, they are all glistening with sweat.

When Sherlock's hole is nicely stretched beyond what he thought anatomically possible, Mycroft sits back onto John's legs, pulling Sherlock's back flush against his chest, one arm braced over his brothers sternum. John catches on and pushes up on his elbows, then almost sits up. The angle of their cocks change, and their glans are suddenly rubbing against each other deep inside Sherlock's body.

“Come on, show us how much you want this.” Mycroft groans into Sherlock's ear, and Sherlock understands. He transfers his weight unto both his spread knees and shins and starts to slide up and down the two throbbing cocks up his arse. It's like being speared by hot, hard flesh. Sherlock links his arms behind his head and starts to ride the two cocks deep inside him, spurred on by the gasps and yelps the two men beneath him utter. Because of him. Because of what he's prepared to do to make them happy. He'll do anything they want.

Suddenly, Sherlock can feel his balls tighten. “No!” he shouts. That's not possible. ”No. No. Please. I don't know... what?” His head falls back, his hole starts spasming, but all that is dripping from his cock is the steady stream of milky precome. His abdominal muscles clench and he's biting his lips until he can taste blood as his orgasm refuses to abide. The sensation is even more intense without being able to ejaculate. He's sobbing with need by now, but it's no use, the cage prevents him from a proper climax.

The clenching and fluttering of his stretched hole, however, is the last straw that's needed to send both John and Mycroft over the edge. Sherlock can feel their cocks swell before spurting inside him, filling him with hot, wet come. It immediately starts to leak out of him, soiling the sheets, but Sherlock can't help it. He's not sure he will ever be able to contract his hole again. He feels ripped apart. But he doesn't care. If John and Mycroft want an open, leaking fuckdoll, he'll be that. For them. Anything for them.

Mycroft is the first to pull out, cautiously shoving Sherlock against John's chest. God, his arse burns! Sherlock hisses and John hugs him, holding his trembling body close, stroking his sweaty back. After some moments, when the first shock has abated, John slowly, carefully, raises Sherlock from his lap to slip out of him as well. The emptiness is distressing. Come literally gushes out of Sherlock, coalescing on the bed-sheet, seeping into the blankets. It's disgusting. Disturbing. Sherlock is shaking, unable to control his body.

“Plug me, please,” he whimpers. “I can't hold it. Plug my hole.”

As Mycroft is rummaging through his collection of toys, John gently lays Sherlock down on his stomach. Suddenly a warm flannel wipes his cleft. Before John will allow anything entering Sherlock's body, he undertakes a thorough examination of Sherlock's anus, spreading him, searching for signs of bleeding. Sherlock doubts, however, that pulling his cheeks apart and inserting an inquisitive tongue inside his hole is standard army procedure for checking for anal fissures, but right at this moment, he can't be arsed.

Only after John has satisfied his need to look and probe for any damage, and has established that Sherlock is still fully functional, once again a plug is shoved up Sherlock's rectum. It's not as big as the one last night, and after this morning's activities, it slides in rather easy. It's flexible, shaped like a cock, but its most striking feature is that it vibrates, controlled by by a remote currently in Mycroft's hand.

“Oh, god!” Sherlock groans, curling up onto the mattress. His bones feel as if made of jelly. His prostate has already been rubbed raw, but is now stimulated even further. He immediately starts leaking again, clear fluid dripping from the slit of the silver cock cage. It's like being milked dry.

Sherlock has, of course, to clean up his mess. But it's a Sisyphean task, for as he's licking his sticky precome from John's belly, he continuously trickles yet more thin goo onto the sheets. Mycroft pushes his face into the mess he's made. John makes Sherlock suck it from the linen while Mycroft orders breakfast.

To show them how good a comeslut he has become, Sherlock feeds himself the come that oozed from his hole, collecting it with his fingers, smearing it all over his face while the two men indulge in a hearty fry-up. They have promised to feed him properly afterwards, on his knees, where he belongs.

Chapter Text

They gleefully enjoy playing with the vibrator's remote; adjusting the settings makes Sherlock twitch and moan while he's sucking on his own fingers, preposterously frotting against the mattress, unable to find release.

John and Mycroft smile at their debauched fuckboy dry-humping the soiled sheets, his body writhing, his back arched, getting almost mad with need.

“We should put that greedy thing into a breeding stand to give him a proper rogering.” John muses.

Mycroft looks thoughtful, chewing on his bacon. “We could go down to the manor house over the weekend.” He suggests, a lewd smile playing around his greasy lips. Putting his napkin aside, he eventually turns the vibrator down to a slow buzz before beckoning Sherlock over. “Crawl over here, little brother. Time we get some food into you.”


Sherlock kneels next to the table. His hands have been shackled to his ankles; his mouth is held open by a spider gag. Mycroft is spooning porridge into his mouth, but swallowing is difficult as the braces suppress his tongue while preventing his mouth from closing. Most of the mush is dripping out again as Sherlock fights his gag reflex. He must look a right mess, greyish gruel running down his chin, neck and chest. Yet Mycroft doesn't stop. Sherlock's eyes water as he tries to gulp down at least some of the breakfast. He's sure he'll need the sustenance. No use to pass out due to hypoglycaemia during one of their scenes.

To his further humiliation, Mycroft pours lukewarm tea down his throat. Sherlock chokes as his gag reflex is triggered beyond endurance, and brings up most of what little he had been able to take in with a pitying retch, spluttering and coughing, throwing up all over his lap.

Mycroft just sighs resignedly before scraping the residue from Sherlock's thighs and groin with the table spoon to put it back into Sherlock's gaping mouth.

Sherlock shudders in disgust as tears spring to his eyes. He might be reaching his limits here.

“Shh, don't cry, little brother. You'll get used to it. In a few days it will be much easier. Hush now, or you might bring it all up again and we have to start over. It's not going to taste any better.”

Sherlock tries to concentrate on the task, but the vibrator is still buzzing inside his rectum, distractingly, making his cock leak copiously. Too much sensory input he can't block out; he's totally helpless. He admits defeat, tilts his head back and lets Mycroft shovel porridge down his aching throat.

Meanwhile, John has dressed, and looks a little appalled when returning to the room and glancing over at the breakfast nook.

“Sherlock, what the hell have you done? Can't you keep your breakfast down?” Under John's frown, Sherlock blushes even deeper with embarrassment. A sob makes him hick-up; porridge gets into his wind pipe. He panics, suddenly unable to breathe.

He's almost on the verge of seriously choking, already getting blue in the face, when they eventually manage to untie his heaving body and remove the spider gag, allowing him to cough for real, slobbering all over himself. They leave him lying on the floor, covered in disgorged porridge, while discussing how to proceed.

They decide that, as Sherlock is unable to endure feeding like this, other measures have to be taken.

“I'll see to that.” John nods. “I just need some supplies. Make him clean this up and get him in the shower. I'll be back in about an hour.”

At least Sherlock is allowed to use a cloth to wipe the floor. Only when the oak parquet is gleaming does Mycroft send him into the bathroom, wrinkling his nose in disgust. Sherlock washes himself quick yet efficiently.

Upon returning to the bedroom, Mycroft has laid some clothes out for him to wear. At least Sherlock supposes they are for him: a black latex corset, black latex stockings, long black latex gloves, black high heels and a high black latex collar with a lace-up back.

“I'll need help with this.” Sherlock says, holding up the rubber lingerie.

“I'll be happy to give you a hand.” His brother replies.

Sherlock can manage the shoes, gloves and hold-ups alone, but is glad that John insisted on shaving his body hair. Afterwards, Mycroft tells him to hold onto the bedpost while he starts to lace him up. Tight. Really tight. Sherlock groans as his ribs are crushed together uncomfortably. The cuts on his back start hurting again from the strain. He's glad his stomach is empty. Breathing becomes decidedly difficult as the latex clings to him like a second skin.

It takes some time until Mycroft in satisfied with the fit. Eventually, Sherlock's body has been transformed into an hourglass figure, his bruised plump bottom protruding lushly from beneath the shiny rubber, stiff with metal boning. The corset ends beneath his nipples, and the lacing is so tight that it almost seems as if Sherlock, despite being thin as a willow, has tiny breasts swelling over the rubber rim.

“Beautiful.” Mycroft breathes, admiring his work, before putting the collar around Sherlock's neck, tying the laces at the back. It cover's Sherlock's long pale throat from hid suprasternal notch to his jaw, forcing him to hold his head up high.

When Mycroft is finished, he leads Sherlock in front of the mirrored wardrobe doors. Sherlock needs help to keep his balance in the plateau-soled stilettos and staggers helplessly, his movements restricted by the skin-tight rubber. Standing behind him, Mycroft wraps his hands around Sherlock's artificially slim waist. His two hands span it easily. “Good, look at you, Sherlock. So gorgeous.” Mycroft breathes in Sherlock's ear as their eyes find each other in the mirror.

A shiver runs through Sherlock as he stares at his reflection, almost not recognising himself: battered, with an unnaturally small waist, his milky skin a stark contrast to the shiny black rubber, his legs even longer due to the high-heels, a collar around his throat, indicating he belongs to someone else now. And isn't that true?

He's been transformed into an artificial object, made to be used.

As if to push his boundaries even further, Mycroft turns the vibrator to the highest setting. He obviously enjoys the effect, watching Sherlock's body going rigid. Sherlock's useless, caged cock dangles between his thighs, clad in glossy rubber stockings, and starts to leak again as the vibrator relentlessly buzzes against his prostate. Sherlock can't escape the almost painful stimulation, he just has to endure it.

“Is your cunt getting wet, precious?” Mycroft asks in a low voice while his hands travel up Sherlock's constrained chest to play with his swollen nipples.

Sherlock can't deny his arousal, he has to nod, blushing.

“Oh, don't be shy. I like it.”

After a few moments, Sherlock can feel his knees threaten to give out. The high-heels force him to balance just on tiptoe, and the lack of oxygen due to the tight corset makes him dizzy. It's becoming increasingly hard to stay upright. He starts to sway slightly in his brother's arms.

“God, look at you. My swooning maiden.” Mycroft chuckles but doesn't turn the vibrator down. He watches in the mirror as Sherlock's heavy, silver-sheathed cock starts dripping onto the patent leather of his shoes. Mycroft cups it from behind and weighs it in his palm, gently massaging the full sac. Sherlock's eyes flutter shut.

“No. Watch yourself.” Mycroft whispers hotly. “You beautiful thing. You are extraordinary. Unbelievably hot. My perfect rubber doll.”

Sherlock is panting hard and almost unable to stand any longer when John enters the room about five minutes later. Sherlock's face is burning. He's only able to take quick, shallow breathes, and black spots dance before his eyes as he's on the verge of hyperventilating. His balls feel drained, yet there's still more clear fluid trickling from his slit.

John's jaw drops when he sees Sherlock's modification. He had dressed Sherlock up in lingerie as well, but nothing quite like this. The black rubber corset morphs Sherlock's gangly figure, giving it an androgynous shape. Arched feet, lean, impossibly long legs, the round, bruised arse, the slim waist, the heaving chest swelling over the brim of the black rubber hugging his torso, flushed a delicate pink, shiny wet lips hanging open, moaning softly – Sherlock looks like fetish sex incarnate.

Yet the absolute highlight is the black latex collar. It's the visual manifestation of the change in their relationship. Mycroft putting it onto Sherlock is the highest compliment the man is able to give.

“Jesus, Mycroft. That's amazing. He looks good enough to eat.”

“Speaking of, did you bring the supplies, Doctor?” Mycroft switches the vibrator off abruptly, and Sherlock almost slumps to the floor as his taut muscles relax. Only the stiff corset prevents him from tipping over, and he's suddenly grateful for the support it lends to his body.

“Yes. I went for the more old-fashioned equipment. We should start with that. We can change over to modern appliances later, when he'll be able to properly appreciate their merits. Shall we do it here?”

“No, there's a room in the basement I have in mind for this. It's specially furnished for medical proceedings.”

Sherlock swallows. Medical proceedings? What does his brother have in mind?

He's led down to the basement on his brother's arm as not to stumble. Sherlock's usually secure stride has been reduced to a careful scurry. They meet a few servants, but no one gives Sherlock as much as an odd look. They all greet politely and mind their own business.

The cellar is nothing like Irene's basement dungeon. Instead, the roughly plastered walls are painted a blazing white, though the ceiling is low and Sherlock almost knocks his head against the stone because he's even taller now in his plateau shoes than usual.

At the end of the corridor, Mycroft opens a door and beckons Sherlock and John, who'd trailed behind them, carrying a heavy bag, inside.

The room is very bright as well, with white walls and a neon light on the ceiling. There's a small gutter running along the middle of the slightly chamfered floor. Near the far wall stands what looks to Sherlock's unschooled eyes as a gynaecological chair, firmly screwed to the concrete floor. A small stainless steel table on wheels has been pushed next to it, while there's a wash basin and a low cupboard in the corner.

Sherlock swallows. The set-up looks intriguing.

“Take a seat, little brother.” Mycroft gestures over to the chair. Sherlock carefully climbs onto the black leather seat. It's cold beneath his naked buttocks. Because of his bruises he's grateful for the bolster-work. A recess beneath the seat makes his arse easily accessible.

“Lean back.” Mycroft takes Sherlock's ankles and drapes his legs over the leg-rests before fastening leather straps above and below his knees. The leg-rests are then spread at almost 90 degrees and secured with bolts to stay in position. Sherlock's arms are tied to the armrests in a similar fashion, one strap around his biceps, one around his wrists.

Sherlock leans back until his spine makes contact with the slightly tilted backrest. Due to the stiff corset, it's almost impossible for him to arch his back. He's totally immobilised, only able to tentatively turn his head above the high collar.

While Mycroft had been strapping Sherlock to the chair, John had sat his bag down on the table. Sherlock's eyes go wide when he sees what John has brought for their scene.

John has already pulled on blue nitrile gloves. In his gloved left hand he holds a thin red rubber hose, about one inch in diameter and ten inches long, with a funnel on one end; in his right hand is what looks like a black rubber gag, only with a hole in the middle to which a filler neck is attached on one side.

“Please, don't...,” Sherlock whispers, because he fears he knows what's coming.

“Sherlock, this is for your own good.” John starts to explain, sounding all reasonable and doctorly. “After I saw your non-compliance this morning, your brother and I decided that we had to employ other methods to make you eat. You need nutrition. Your persistent refusal won't get you anywhere.”

Sherlock wants to protest, he wants to cry, he wants to correct John; it wasn't his fault. He really wanted to eat this morning. But it had been too much, administered too fast for him to cope.

He doesn't deserve this!

“I promise I'll eat properly. I promise! Mycroft, please, you saw I tried...” Sherlock pleads, panic creeping into his voice.

But both Mycroft and John don't seem in the mood for discussing his eating habits. Mycroft just shakes his head and sighs.

“See, John, it's always the same. It's never his fault, there's always someone else to blame. I've put up with this attitude for too long. It's time my brother learns a lesson in taking responsibility. Actions have consequences, Sherlock. This is one of them. Don't struggle, just let Doctor Watson do his job.”

Despite Mycroft's words, Sherlock starts to pull at his restrains, but they are tight and strong, not giving way. The corset firmly restricts his breathing; he simply doesn't have the strength to resist for long. He tosses his head from left to right as one last attempt to postpone his ordeal, but Mycroft just grabs his jaw hard and stills him with a stern look.

A tear runs down Sherlock's cheek as John fastens the feeding gag around his head, buckling it up after adjusting the nozzle inside Sherlock's oral cavity. It presses Sherlock's tongue down and reaches almost to the back of his throat.

Mycroft's hand leaves Sherlock's face and adjusts a bright lamp, almost blinding Sherlock and forcing him to close his eyes, as John starts to insert the rubber hose.

“Take a deep breath, Sherlock.” He commands, and Sherlock obeys, afraid he might not be able to get enough air later. It's a disgusting feeling as the hose slides down his throat, pushed into his oesophagus. Sherlock gags as it passes his tonsils and Mycroft has to steady his head again, holding it in a death grip to prevent Sherlock from shifting and thereby impeding the procedure.

The taste of rubber fills Sherlock's mouth. It feels like drowning. It's like being violated; an alien object is entering his body against his will. All he can do is make a gurgling sound to voice his protest as his gag reflex is triggered.

“Relax.” John murmurs. “It will only hurt more if you fight it.”

By now, tears are running freely down Sherlock's face, but he can't as much as sob, because that would painfully constrict his abused throat.

Sherlock can feel the hose inside him, sliding deeper and deeper into his vulnerable body. It's like having to swallow a rod. As a child, he'd briefly wanted to join a travelling circus and therefore had trained to swallow his wooden pirate's sword. It had ended with tonsillitis and a sad pool of thrown-up dinner in his waste paper basket. Sherlock is reminded of his unsuccessful efforts now, as the rubber hose is slowly pushed down into his stomach.

Eventually, after long minutes in which he didn't dare to move and just concentrates on breathing through his nose, the funnel finally hits the mouthpiece of the gag. Sherlock is tied up with a gavage device inserted into his body, totally at John's and Mycroft's mercy. He can't move, he can't speak or scream. All he can do is wait and take what they have in store for him.

“Can you breathe properly?” John asks and Sherlock blinks as an answer. “Good, otherwise we would be flooding your lungs with puree. Nasty business.” His gloved fingers wipe away a tear on Sherlock's cheek, the rubber sticking to Sherlock's skin.

“You know, this is how suffragists were force-fed in prison? With a rubber hose down their throat, tied to a chair. Sometimes they got it wrong and poured the mush into their lungs. Or the women struggled too much, causing internal bleeding. It was painful. Many compared it to rape. Some didn't survive.” Mycroft sounds rather dreamily while reciting this historical background to Sherlock's torment.

Sherlock's brother has walked over to the table and is now rummaging through John's bag, eventually taking out a much larger plug than the one actually inside Sherlock hole. Mycroft pulls on a pair of latex gloves as well before returning to Sherlock's side. He briefly caresses his brother's exposed arse before extracting the vibrator in one swift move. Without any preparation, he quickly shoves the larger plug inside. Sherlock wants to scream, but can't. It's like being defiled at both ends of his body. He feels reduced to an object, dehumanised. He's just a hole, after all, and they use him accordingly, without respect or mercy.

“Believe me, little brother, you'll thank me later for blocking your rectum properly. We don't want another accident to happen, do we? I can assure you, I'm into a lot of things, but not into scat.”

This is, somehow, a relief to Sherlock. The new plug fills his hole completely, outright sealing him.

If Sherlock had thought that the insertion of the hose had been painful and humiliating, the actual feeding process is even more horrible. John's been mixing a thick mush from powder and water from the tab in the corner. It's in a transparent beaker, so Sherlock can see that it contains around 35 fl oz.

He tries to shake his head, to plead with his eyes, but it's no use, it just makes his throat convulse and ache even more. John starts to pour the squishy substance into the funnel, from which it runs down the hose, right into Sherlock's stomach. Sherlock can feel it slowly filling, yet its expansion is limited by the tight corset. But John doesn't stop until the beaker is empty.

Sherlock is not used to this amount of food entering his body almost in one gush. To make matters worse, he's laced so tightly that he can hardly breathe. His stomach is positively crushed and compressed. He feels like bursting. But he can't prevent being filled.

The cramps almost start immediately.

When the beaker is empty, he at least hopes that his ordeal might be over. But to his horror, John walks over to the sink and prepares another portion to repeat the procedure. It's simply too much.

The desperate noises Sherlock makes don't stop John. Slowly, he pours the second beaker down the hose. Sherlock's groans become frantic. He can feel the mush quell up inside him, surging back up into his oesophagus. It's one of the worst experiences of his life. It's like suspended vomiting. He doesn't even dare to squirm, in fear of the processed food flooding back into his mouth and seeping down into his windpipe. His breathing is becoming ragged as the panic rises. John soothingly strokes his curls from his forehead.

“I know it's much. But believe me, it will get better once digestion sets in. It'll take approximately four hours for all the substance to leave your stomach and enter your intestinal tract, but it will get a bit easier soon, in about an hour. Just don't move too much, otherwise the mush might slosh into your windpipe.” John is confirming Sherlock's worst fear. He can only blink to signal his understanding, tears blurring his vision.

This is what total defeat feels like, Sherlock thinks.

“He looks beautiful.” Mycroft murmurs, stroking Sherlock's constricted belly that doesn't have a chance to expand, despite being so full it feels like rupturing. Mycroft even squeezes Sherlock's waist until he groans in pain, his rigid abdomen suffering under the pressure. Yet he doesn't dare to flinch, fearing throwing up the mush with the hose still down his throat. Choking on one's own vomit is a very unattractive cause of death. Sherlock knows that.

“He's so pliant.” Mycroft seems captivated by the scene, lost in admiration.

“As much as I like the view, I recommend to remove the hose now.” John says. Mycroft nods.

Excruciatingly slow, as not to upset Sherlock's stomach, John pulls the hose out. It feels like his bowels being dragged out of him. Sherlock closes his eyes and wills himself not to throw up. Eventually, the feeder gag is unbuckled, only to be replaced by a large ball gag. But it's a relief, compared to the degrading rubber hose.

“If you comply with this form of feeding, Sherlock, we might switch over to a much more convenient nasogastric tube in a few days. But that depends on your cooperation.”

A few days?! Of this?!Sherlock blinks. He'll be good. So good. He can't endure this procedure one more time, he's sure of it. He'll do whatever it takes to avoid it.

To his further desperation, John continues: “We'll leave you now. There's a camera, recording and transmitting to a surveillance room, in case you pass out or something unfortunate happens. In which case, we'll start all over again. We'll be back in about four hours.”

Sherlock is shivering in pain, the strain to his stomach already making his back muscles quiver and tighten. But he gives a small nod, indicating that he has understood, that he will be good, that he'll endure what they did to him. He tries to blink the tears from his eyes to look more accepting, humble, as if welcoming the gavage. He has to show them that he will comply, that he's grateful for their concern, or this will happen again.

John pets his hair one last time and smiles down on him: “I know you can do this, Sherlock. This isn't easy for me as well. Or for your brother. But it has to be done.”

Sherlock blinks once more, giving in, silently transmitting his gratitude.

But as they are almost through the door, John turns around and smirks: “Just so you know, I mixed a laxative into the nutriment. Therefore, you might experience the strong urge to vacate. Let's hope the plug stays in place, otherwise you'll have a lot of cleaning up to do.”

The noises Sherlock makes by now are more animalistic than human, a low, panicking growl rising from behind the gag. John just winks at him before he closes the heavy door, leaving Sherlock alone to suffer four hours of absolute agony.

At first, it's not just the pain. It's the humiliation. The helplessness. Being stuffed like a porker. Reduced to a shaking mess, possessed by his base bodily functions. Exposed, his suffering recorded on film, watched by other people. Do they find him disgusting? Repugnant? Or do they take delight in his anguish, his embarrassment?

Sherlock can watch the minutes tick by, there's a clock on the wall to his left. It's no help. If all, it makes his ordeal even worse, knowing how long he'll still have to suffer.

The cramps increase. His stomach is starting to make strange, gurgling sounds. Sherlock fears he might have to belch. What might happen then? He knows they won't let him choke to death. Yet at the moment it almost seems like a pleasant alternative to starting the gavage all over again, as John had promised they would. Sherlock doesn't doubt him.

He can feel his belly contract. God, the corset is so tight! His throat is still raw and burns from the rubber hose. He's starting to drool around the gag because the rubber ball makes it impossible to close his mouth and swallow his saliva.

After fifteen minutes, Sherlock is openly crying. There's a core of white, hot agony lodged in his middle, radiating pain. All his muscles are pulled taut. It feels as if he might snap any minute. His cheeks and neck are wet with tears and spit. It's seeping under his collar, making his skin itch.

He wants to die.

After another ten minutes of unbelievable suffering, the pressure on his stomach slowly starts to dissipate. Digestion is setting in. Some of the mush is leaving his stomach to flow down into his Duodenum, Jejunum and Ileum before entering his colon. His breathing starts to calm as the most acute pain slowly abides. What bliss!

Yet, after a short merciful interval, Sherlock can feel the familiar urge to empty himself increase. His intestines are preparing to vacate his excrements, the process being accelerated by the laxative. Only, it's impossible. There's a plug up Sherlock's rectum, and even if it wasn't, Sherlock's iron will not to defecate onto himself should be enough to ride this out! No. This is not going to happen. He desperately clenches his sphincter. The cramps return, now even worse, wrecking his bowels. It feels like his intestines are being torn to shreds while flooded with burning fluids. Sherlock imagines a mixture of acid and sharp metal shrapnel sloshing around inside himself.

He tries to take deep breaths. He's counting the minutes ticking by. There are limits even to what he's able and willing to endure. Soiling himself, sitting for hours in his own excrements, is not on. He won't allow that. His body will obey him! That's all Sherlock concentrates on right now.

After another half hour, however, sweaty all over, wrecked by cramps deep inside him, Sherlock is not so sure anymore. He doesn't even have the strength to groan. His whole body is trembling while he feels his mental resistance weaken by the minute, slipping. He's slowly losing control. Little whimpers of agony are all that escape his gagged mouth.

Ninety minutes after being left alone, Sherlock gives up. He's not even crying anymore. The ache is making him dizzy. His head is pounding. His bowels feel like they are about to explode. He doesn't care. He just wants this to end. Sitting in a pool of his own shit actually sounds like heaven right now. As does the procedure starting all over again, because it would give him a few minutes of rest, of freedom from pain. Sherlock silently begs for something, anything, to end this torture.

Another half an hour later, he can't even clench his sphincter muscle anymore. He just endures his stomach emptying and his intestines swelling as his alimentary tract fills with waste. He knows that most of the food is now processed in his Colon, wandering down into his Sigmoid colon and then his rectum, piling up in front of his body's exit, squishing around the plug.

Sherlock is too weak by now to fight his body's needs any longer. All he can do is breath and stay conscious. The cramps now come in waves, giving him some time to recover in between. He doesn't have much strength left. He's lost his composure together with his dignity some two hours ago. He stops watching the clock. It's no use. He's trapped in an ailing body in a world of pain.

The last fifteen minutes are the worst. Sherlock is so far gone that all he wants, all he needs, is simply to empty his body. Now! He doesn't care if he soils himself. He's filled to the brim with excrements. He can't control his bodily functions any longer. His internal muscles are contracting to press, to vacate, but the plug stubbornly stays in place, preventing release. The pain is unbearable, like a shroud, wrapping him up. Sherlock's body is shaking erratically, his eyes have lost focus and white foam wells up from his mouth around the ball gag. Now and then, his rubber-clad arms and legs jerk uncontrollably, tearing against the straps. He can't suppress it as he's almost unconscious.

Finally – oh dear Lord in heaven! – the door opens. Sherlock barely registers who's walking into the room, he just senses two shadowy figures dressed in gloves and aprons. Somehow, he knows they are not John and Mycroft, but it's not a conscious thought, more of a hunch. He doesn't really care, anyway.

Finally, the plug is removed. The sounds his excrements make as they gush out of him indicate that the shady figures must have placed a bucket beneath his arse, for which Sherlock is eternally grateful. He wants to sink down onto his knees and thank his saviours, praise them, and his gagged mouth distorts into a manic smile. He's sure he's never felt happier in his whole life.

His exhausted body can't hold anything back. The characteristic smell of rotten food fills the room as two litres of digested nutriments just squirt out of him – he's been forced to hold it for four hours! Sherlock is weeping again, but now with relief.

It doesn't take long for Sherlock to empty himself. Just to be sure, one of the servants squeezes a gloved finger into his sore hole and pokes his insides. Apparently satisfied with the result, he nods to his colleague, who quickly hoses Sherlock down with a water clyster and a flannel.

Afterwards, they leave him, taking the foul bucket with them. Only when they are gone do Mycroft and John enter.

“Hello, little brother.” Mycroft hums, while John walks over to him and strokes his face, his hair, his shoulders. “How was the experience? It looked quite intense.”

Sherlock can't answer verbally but his eyes look up at John's face, grateful, happy, relieved. It's over. He made it through. They finally redeemed him. He'll do everything for them right now. He feels owned, controlled, dependent – and it's a good feeling.

“He's zoned out.” John says, sounding slightly alarmed. He touches Sherlock's soaked collar, feeling for his pulse just above it. A small flashlight shines into Sherlock's eyes and he blinks. “There you are.” John whispers. “You look a right mess. God, I want you so badly right now.”

Sherlock moans behind his gag as an answer. They should just take him. That's what he's there for. He knows his place now – at their mercy. He wants to stay there for the rest of his life.

“Let’s see what he can take.” Mycroft is rolling up his sleeves and pulls the nitrile gloves back on again. After slicking his right hand up, Sherlock can feel all his five fingers nudging at his entrance. They slide in surprisingly easy until the third knuckle. Mycroft pauses, twists his hand once, twice, before pushing past Sherlock's sphincter. Sherlock bites down onto his gag as he stares down his body to watch his rim close around his brother's wrist. John groans next to him and starts to palm himself through his jeans.

Sherlock can feel his brother's fingers inside him form a fist and push deeper. Mycroft glides in all the way up to his elbow, and Sherlock hums in pleasure. He imagines being able to actually see the outline of his brother’s hand beneath the skin and muscle of his empty belly, witnessing how it invades his body, penetrating places never touched before. His brother’s bare arm feels different compared to the gloved hand, warmer; alive.

“God, Sherlock, look at you.” John moans. He's holding Sherlock's head up so that he can watch his brother's arm slide in and out of his arsehole, the freckled skin glistening from sweat and lube. Heavy breathing fills the room, mingling with the distinctive smell of sex.

“John, slick my other hand up.” Mycroft’s voice is dark and smooth like liquid chocolate.

Sherlock's head falls back against the backrest as John let's go of him to squeeze lube onto Mycroft's gloved left hand. It's not as easy to work in as the first, but after some probing and prodding it breaches Sherlock's body as well, sliding inside. Mycroft has suddenly both his hands up Sherlock's arse, hot, tight heat engulfing him.

He goes slowly, carefully opening his fists, rubbing his hands together. He can't reach very deep like this without ripping Sherlock apart, but nevertheless, the sight is mesmerising. Sherlock is growling and panting behind his gag, drooling copiously. His caged cock is leaking again. It feels like nothing he has ever experienced.

The sensation is unbelievable. Sherlock is so full. But not impaled by an inanimate object, but by the sinewy arms of his brother. John has by now opened his fly and has pushed one hand inside his pants, pumping his cock while watching Mycroft double-fist his little brother. Sherlock's hole is stretched obscenely, wider than even John could have imagined, his rim hugging his brother's arms tight. Lube squelches out of his anus, coating his perineum and Mycroft’s arms in an oily smear, the fine ginger hairs getting all sticky and glued together.

Sherlock, spread open, immobilised, strapped to the gynaecological chair, looks like a perfect rubber doll, his arms, legs and torso wrapped in shiny black latex, his full lips moaning around the large black rubber ball in his mouth. He loves to be taken like this, his body used and modified to comply with every demand of his brother.

Even Mycroft seems extremely affected by the sight. His eyes are wide and dark, and a bead of sweat runs down his temple. His bespoke trousers are tented by a huge bulge between his legs. Suddenly, it's all too much. His hands slide out of Sherlock's hole, making a lewd, slurping noise. He quickly peels off the greasy gloves to unzip. His flushed cock is hard and wet; he just pushes in in one go and starts to fuck Sherlock, deep and fast, grabbing his hips for leverage. He's grunting, his lips drawn back, teeth bared.

Mycroft Holmes is losing control.

Sherlock's head lolls on his neck, his whole body gone limp. He just takes it. And takes it. Mycroft is pistoning in and out of him, snapping his hips, slapping against his bruised cheeks, but Sherlock is unable to come. He just lies back and lets his body be used for what it’s made for.

A raw scream escapes Mycroft's throat as he slams into Sherlock again and again, until he suddenly goes rigid. He's coming deep inside Sherlock's body, and Sherlock lies perfectly still and receives his load.

“Mycroft, I need his mouth on me, right now.” John gasps. He's red in the face and his knees almost buckle as his fist blurs on his cock.

Mycroft pulls out, tucking himself back in, and John watches Sherlock's hole twitch and flutter. Then Mycroft tilts the backrest of the gynaecological chair until Sherlock is almost upside down, his spread arse in the air, his head lowered near the floor.

John kneels over Sherlock's face, quickly removes the gag and pushes into Sherlock's waiting, wet mouth until his cockhead hits the back of Sherlock's throat. Sherlock coughs around him, chokes and splutters, but sucks with abandon, opening his throat up for John to push even deeper. John can see his cock slide down Sherlock's abused throat as he fucks his mouth, hard and fast, just like Mycroft fucked his arse. As he looks up, he sees Mycroft's face buried between Sherlock's raised arsecheeks. Their eyes meet, and John sees Mycroft's crinkle at the edges while he pushes his tongue deep inside Sherlock's pliant, open body. Sherlock moans around John's cock, and suddenly John feels his balls tighten. He pulls out in the last minute to come all over Sherlock's face, coating it in thick, white streaks of come. Mycroft lets go as well, wiping the back of his hand over his glistening mouth.

“Jesus,” John pants, his breathing ragged, his shirt sticking to his sweaty back. “That was quite a show.”

Sherlock licks his lips, tasting John's come. He's desperate for release as well, but knows better than to demand something, anything, for himself. He's just a hole, a toy, with no will of his own.

Eventually, the chair is brought back into an upright position and the straps are removed. Both John and Mycroft help Sherlock get up, kneading his arms and legs to bring back circulation after being tied up for hours. It takes a while until Sherlock feels sure enough to get back on his own feet. He still sways slightly.

John makes him drink a glass of water, then another, but swats his hand away as Sherlock wants to wipe the come from his face with his gloved fingers. “Leave that. It suits you.” So Sherlock leaves the come drying on his face.

Meanwhile, Mycroft has composed himself and looks as pristine as ever.

“Can you walk?” He asks. Sherlock takes a few steps towards the door and nods. “Fine. Let's go then.”

Chapter Text

Only when Sherlock is seated in the back of a sleek black car – grateful for being allowed to wear at least his Belstaff over the kinky latex garments - does he dare to ask: “Where are we going?” His voice is raw from lack of use.

“Down to Sussex for the weekend. But before, John and I have arranged a little surprise for you.” They both smirk at him. Mycroft knows very well how Sherlock loves surprises. And this one will be something quite special indeed.

They stop in front of a tattoo parlour in SoHo. Heads turn as the three of them walk in; the likes of Mycroft Holmes don't seem to grace this place often. Mycroft ignores the looks, flicking some microscopic lint from his lapels. John squares his shoulders and stares back until the customers avoid their eyes.

From behind a curtain emerges a wiry young man with a black pony tail, every visible area of skin covered in ink. His face (and probably other parts of his body as well) is decorated with multiple silver studs in lip, nose and eyebrows.

“You must be my appointment, Mr Holmes? I'm Toby.” Mycroft gestures towards Sherlock, who is suddenly very much aware that he still has dried come on his face and in his hair, is in high-heels and wears nothing but latex and a cock cage beneath his heavy woollen coat.

Despite – or perhaps because of – his debauched appearance, Toby gives him a radiant smile.

“Ok, let's get to work. Follow me.”

They step behind the black velvet curtain, separating the busy shop from a more private area. A dimly lit corridor leads to the back of the building, into a small room that looks more like a lab or a surgery than something Sherlock would have expected at a somewhat seedy tattoo parlour in SoHo. Everything looks neat and very clean. There's a stretcher covered in plastic foil, as is the equipment. Sherlock can't identify most of the instruments but is sure that they are needed to inject ink beneath the epidermis.

John gestures for Sherlock to take off his coat, and Sherlock blushes but obeys. Toby doesn't even arch an eyebrow. He surely has seen stranger things in his life. He just beckons for Sherlock to sit on the stretcher, which he does with a slight wince, as his arse is still bruised and sore.

Toby whistles through his teeth, then takes a look at Mycroft and John before turning towards Sherlock again. “Man, they did a real number on you, didn't they?”

Sherlock just casts his eyes to the floor. “I think you should precede, Toby.” Mycroft says into the silence, his voice crisp and very posh.

“Sure. You lot like to watch?” As neither men does leave the room, Toby nods. “Thought so. Ok, you already decided on the rings earlier.”

On a tablet on the counter lie two small silver rings in a sealed plastic bag. Sherlock swallows as Toby pulls on latex gloves. He flinches when Toby disinfects his left nipple with a cotton puff dabbed in alcohol.

Sherlock closes his eyes as Toby takes what looks like a small knitting needle and brings it up to his chest.

Mycroft coughs. “Sherlock, watch!”

Sherlock's eyes open as sharp pain sears through his body. Toby has pinched his left nipple with one hand while expertly pushing the needle through the sensitive flesh just below the hardened nub. What little blood wells up is caught in a sterile wipe. Sherlock watches, mesmerised, as a dark red stain blooms onto the fabric while Toby pulls the needle out and quickly replaces it with one of the silver rings.

Sherlock hisses as the procedure is repeated on his right nipple. He stares down in both horror and fascination as his chest is now decorated with two small silver rings protruding from his slightly swollen nipples.

But he can't appreciate the sight for long. Toby carefully puts cooling ointment on the wounds before covering them with plaster stripes.

“No touching until everything is healed, except cleaning the piercing once a day. Then re-apply a patch. It should take about a week to heal superficially, but you have to be considerate for a few months. Don't play too hard, guys. Otherwise you risk infection.”

“Yeah, ok, we'll manage. I'm a doctor.” John replies, and Toby nods.

Sherlock starts to slide from the stretcher but is stopped by one of Toby's hands on his tight-laced waist. The hand lingers a moment, fingers tightening, until Mycroft explains: “We are not yet done here, Sherlock.”

He's told to lie on his side, facing the wall. Toby's hand stays on his middle, positioning him. As the gloved fingers, apparently by accident, brush over Sherlock's iliac crest, however, John steps up behind Toby and says in a low voice: “Keep your hands to yourself, mate, or you won't be working for a while.”

The hand is gone a second later as Toby just shrugs and pretends to busy himself with mixing the ink and adjusting the needle. Suddenly, he asks: “You agree to that, don't you?”

It takes a moment for Sherlock to realise that he's the one the tattoo artist is talking to. He turns his head slightly to meet Mycroft's gaze and nods. “Yes, of course,” he answers, trying to sound as imperious as always. John smiles, and Mycroft's brown eyes light up with a proprietary glint.

Toby nods. Another antiseptic swipe touches Sherlock's sacrum. Then a piece of paper is pressed onto his skin before the needle starts buzzing. It's not actually painful. At first, it tingles. Later, it becomes a prickling burn before the skin goes numb. Yet, Sherlock's heartrate speeds up, the stimulus triggering the release of adrenaline and serotonin until he feels jittery and kind of high.

He fails to observe what exactly is tattooed into his skin. He's fairly certain that it's a word, but can't make out enough of it to guess what it might say. After about half an hour, it's finished. Toby wipes away blood and excessive ink before covering the fresh tattoo with a piece of cling film.

“Leave that on for a few hours. Then apply some Bepanthen. Do that daily, twice, until the scab has gone and the skin has healed. Do not take a bath before that. Do not scratch. If it bleeds, your tattoo is ruined. Understood?”

Sherlock nods, if a little dazed. John helps him up and holds out the Belstaff for him to cover himself.

“Let's get down to Sussex.” John tells Mycroft, sounding a little impatient. His eyes are dark, and there's a slight frown creasing his brow.

Sherlock would really like a glimpse of his fresh tattoo. He's curious what his brother has chosen to ink into his skin. Yet it seems he'll have to wait until they arrive at the house to eventually see it.


The house is actually a Georgian manor, built in 1743 by one of Sherlock's and Mycroft's wealthy ancestors. Sherlock had curled himself up on the backseat for the duration of the journey, napping, and is only waking as they pull up on the driveway in the early evening. It had all been a bit much. The neurotransmitters searing through his body had made him twitchy. He'd needed to shut down.

When they park the car, Sherlock slowly sits up and peers outside, looking up at the mansion. There are a few windows lit. Mycroft must have instructed the housekeeper.

It's a large rectangular building, three storeys high, built of grey granite, with a peaked slate roof. It stands on the top of a small hill, overlooking a well-kept if conventional garden. The lawn gently slopes down until it reaches the edge of a dark wood in the gloomy distance. There's not a soul about. Around here, you can walk for miles without meeting another human being. The solitary bleakness has always appealed to Sherlock. He'd stayed here after rehab.

Sherlock unfolds from the backseat and yawns. When he stretches himself, he can feel the sore areas of his body protest.

“You look knackered.” John remarks as Sherlock pulls his coat tightly around himself. It's chilly out here. John takes the bags out of the boot and looks around, obviously impressed by his surroundings.

“I phoned down from London and gave instructions. Our rooms should be ready.” Mycroft leads the way up to the porch and opens the front door with his key.

John had expected the interior being all dark oak panelled, antics and brass and therefore is pleasantly surprised by the whitewashed walls and light wooden beams. The large rooms are furnished scantily in what he calls, for a lack of a better word, Scandinavian style. Abstract paintings line the walls. An open stairwell leads to the first floor.

Up there, they'll occupy three adjacent rooms, all connected via communicating doors. Sherlock's room is in the middle. There's a large bed in it, a chair, a mirror, and nothing else. Sherlock slumps down onto the mattress and waits while John and Mycroft unpack.

He's only allowed to shed his Belstaff before he's told to follow John and Mycroft down into the well-equipped spacious kitchen. The staff has prepared a cold supper which the two men share. Nothing for Sherlock, though. They've again put the spider gag into his mouth and he fears being force-fed again like Mycroft did in the morning, but for now he's just pushed onto a high-backed chair at the table. He has to sit and watch, gloved hands neatly placed on the table top, head held high due to the stiff rubber collar, but his eyes are cast down. The gag makes him drool, and soon spit is running down his chin. From time to time, Mycroft or John wet their fingers with his saliva and smear it over his cheekbones, brow, eyelids, the ridge of his nose. The spit mixes with the dried come there. Sherlock feels so very filthy, yet he doesn’t protest.

He would love a shower. He feels itchy, covered in dried sweat and semen. The latex sticks uncomfortably to his skin. His stomach hurts, his nipples pulse with a dull ache, his arse is sore, and he still doesn't know what his brother has written onto his body. Yet he tries to stay very still, sensing that they want him like this, pliant, an inanimate object, dehumanised.

He sincerely hopes he'll not be subjected to the feeding hose again! The thought alone makes him recoil.

When the sandwiches and cold meats have been consumed, Mycroft puts his napkin down and turns towards his brother.

“I'd really love to piss on you again, Sherlock, but I doubt that's advisable regarding the sensitive state of your body?” Mycroft looks over to John.

“Urine is mostly sterile. He'd have to catch it with his mouth. It should be fine.” John shrugs. “Or you save it for later, when we can administer it in a less messy way.”

“Later, then.” Mycroft decides.

They relocate into the large drawing room afterwards. The far wall is taken up by one huge window, overlooking the garden. It's by now totally dark outside. A fire is burning in the crate, warming the air. Mycroft and John sit down on a massive grey couch facing the window while Sherlock keeps standing, his back to the glass.

“I think we should take a look at your tattoo now.” Mycroft says.

Sherlock stays very still and only turns to face the opaque glass front while John puts on latex gloves. He can see his reflection clearly, his pale limbs a stark contrast to the black rubber, his mouth forced obscenely open. He shivers a little as John peels the cling film away from the small of his back. It doesn't hurt, but his legs do shake nevertheless. John carefully applies ointment to the skin, then steppes back and admires the sight.

“This will look beautiful when fully healed.” He whispers. “Do you know what your brother has written onto you, Sherlock? In bold black letters.” Sherlock shakes his head. Spit flies. John comes around and puts two gloved fingers beneath his wet chin. “God, look at you.” But Sherlock can't see his reflection anymore, it's obscured by John’s, his body superimposing Sherlock's, morphing them together. A strange sense of vertigo makes Sherlock briefly close his eyes. What is happening to him?

“You should tell him, Mycroft.” John says before stepping away and breaking the spell, sitting back onto the sofa. His touch is gone and Sherlock suddenly feels teetering on the edge of panic, unmoored.

His brother has poured himself a drink and now sits next to John, crossing his legs, nursing his whisky in one hand as he opens the first button of his shirt with the other. Sherlock can watch them in the window, floating in the darkness outside like translucent ghosts. Suddenly, it all feels unreal, like a dream.

“Didn't you guess, little brother? Well, apparently, your brain seems to be preoccupied with other sensations.” Mycroft's eyes travel over Sherlock's body, taking in the bruises, cuts, his caged cock, laced-up waist and taped nipples. “I wanted something that described our relationship, but wasn't too overtly offensive. All those sluts, whores, holes... a bit crude, don't you think? Alas, not fitting for something so very delicate like you... us.” Mycroft smiles. “It says Blutschande. It's German. Old-fashioned word for incest. I thought it was perfect. Like you.”

Sherlock's head spins. His brother has permanently marked him. It's like a promise, an oath, of forever. He wants to sink to his knees and offer himself up.

His silent wish is granted. They spent the evening watching the films they made last night, of Mycroft and John fucking and beating Sherlock until he'd almost passed out. His screams fill the room as his ordeal plays out again on a large plasma screen.

Sherlock can only watch from the corner of his eyes. He's kneeling in front of the couch as both John and Mycroft use his gaping mouth in turns to shove their hard cocks down his throat. They alternate. In between, he has to masturbate them, his gloved fingers slick with lube.

“You are no use otherwise.” John had declared earlier. “With your arse and tits off limits, there's only your mouth and hands to service us.” Sherlock wishes they would free his cock. He desperately wants to touch himself. But it stays in the cage, locked away, leaking uselessly between his legs.

They take their time, drawing it out. This is not about instant climaxing. They just want Sherlock to tease them, to stimulate them, to keep them keyed up and on the edge.

Only when they reach the footage of Sherlock squirming in agony on the gynaecological chair do they order him to speed up. John grabs Sherlock's hair and pulls him down, fucking his mouth until he gags.

“Take it. Swallow.” John hisses, and Sherlock drools even more as his throat muscles spasm around John's cock until he retches painfully and his vision goes dark.

Eventually, they both come all over his face, coating him in thick white goo. It gets in his hair and burns in his eyes but of course he's not allowed to wipe it off.

As he obediently tugs them away, Mycroft switches the telly off. “Let's go upstairs, shall we? I think it's time we prepare you for the night. Also, your supper is waiting.”

The last time Sherlock's been to the attic must have been when he was a kid, looking for a place to hide. It must have been more than twenty years ago. Therefore, he doesn't know that Mycroft had it converted into a space where he can indulge in his fantasies.

It's very dark up there, the few lights dimmed. The room seems infinite. Shadows linger on the fringe. Mirrors add to the illusion. The old house is creaking, sighing around them. As if it was alive, breathing, watching, waiting.

Sherlock is clearly off balance, leering, falling. He's rapidly losing something, but he's not quite sure what, or if he minds. Disturbing thoughts are creeping up on him more and more frequent. And he can't keep them at bay anymore. He suddenly feels vulnerable, skinned, dissected, pinned under glass like an insect. He's in desperate need for control and therefore glad when the scene begins, relieving him from thinking too much.

They make him stand below a strong wooden beam and tie his hands in black hemp rope. The rope is thrown over the beam twice and then tied to a hook somewhere behind Sherlock. His body is pulled taut and upright as his hands are raised high above his head. He can't move much or his feet loose contact with the floor.

John removes the spider gag and Sherlock experimentally rotates his jaw to ease his aching muscles.

“Hold still.” John tells him, already putting on nitrile gloves again. Sherlock wants to protest but John silences him with a look. “If you make a fuss, I'll get the hose. Do you want that?”

Sherlock shakes his head, his eyes wide with fear.

“We'll try the nasogastric tube tonight.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock whispers.

John holds the thin translucent plastic tube in front of his face. “It's a bit like doing coke. I'm sure you are familiar with that. When I put this into your nostril, you should snuff. Makes it easier. When you can feel the tube enter your throat, swallow rapidly. It'll help repress the urge to throw up. Understood? Good, let's start.”

Sherlock does as John told him. It's much less unpleasant than getting a rubber hose shoved down his oesophagus. It's still an alien object inserted into him, but it doesn't feel as such a violation as the gavage from this morning.

After inserting about 15 inches of tube, John stops. “Ok?” He asks.

“Y-yes.” It's strange to speak like this, with a tube up your nose and down your throat, yet it is possible.

“Can you swallow?”

Sherlock tries and nods.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not really.”

“Good. Mycroft, give me the hood.”

Sherlock panics when he sees the black latex hood his brother hands John.

“No, please...” He's pulling at his bounds and for a split second his feet lift off the floor. He swings in the rope, suspended from the beam, and it's terrifying. He has no control over his movements. The vertigo returns, stronger this time.

Suddenly, he can feel Mycroft's hands around his waist, grounding him. “It's ok. I'm here. John's here. It's all right, Sherlock.”

His heartbeat slows. His breathing calms. “You can do that. For me. For John. You'll look beautiful, stunning. I want to see you like that. I'm sure you'll like the experience. It'll be quite intense.”

Sherlock swallows, relaxes. Mycroft's touch is soothing, it anchors him, brings him back from the edge. He takes a deep breath and nods. His face must look a right mess, covered in half dried come and spit, with a tube up his nose. Sherlock understands why they want to cover it up.

When John pulls the mask over his head his world goes dark. The hood is custom-made of thick rubber; the only openings are for his nostrils. He can't see, there's not even a hole for his mouth. It has a zip at the back of his head. As John fastens it carefully as not to pull his curls, Sherlock's head is enclosed tightly, dehumanising him even more. No eye contact anymore, no verbal communication. His expressive face is transformed into an amorphous shape, reduced to basic human features. All individuality is wiped away. Even his hearing is muffled. He's deprived of most of his senses. It’s equal parts fascinating and terrifying.

“Breathe, Sherlock.” John tells him, and he does, just through his nose. “All right?”

Sherlock nods. He's able to get some air. Yet it's an effort with the tube up his nostril. He has to concentrate. It feels a bit like diving. Like drowning.

John has paid attention that the nasogastric tube protruding from his nose is not wedge in under the mask. It sticks out from his otherwise black rubber face. Sherlock can feel John fumble with it, elongating it by attaching another tube or hose. Sherlock stands still and waits. His arms start to hurt slightly from the stretch, but he's too excited right now to perceive this as aggravating.

The next thing he hears is the rattling of metal. Something on wheels, light...

The crackle of thin plastic...

A zip being torn...


Another zip...

More splashing.

Someone is pissing in an inflatable plastic bag. It is slowly dawning on Sherlock what they have in mind for him. God, it's humiliating. And so very arousing. He moans behind his mask, but not in disgust. In excitement. This is something new, something he's never done before. John and Mycroft don't seize to amaze him.

“By now you might have discovered our little surprise?” Mycroft asks.

Sherlock nods.

“John will hang this two litre bag filled with our urine to an IV stand and then attach it to your nasogastric tube. You won't be able to taste anything, but your stomach will be slowly filled with piss as it drips down the tube into your belly. It won't be as unpleasant as the feeding this morning, but still, your corset is laced very tight. Instead of your colon, this time it'll be your bladder that’s stretched, with no room to expand. But we think you have suffered enough for today. Therefore, John will now insert a urinary catheter into your urethra. He'll be careful, but it might still be a little uncomfortable. On the plus side, we'll take your cock cage off for that.”

Oh god, Sherlock thinks. He's grateful for getting rid of the cage, but another tube up his penis makes him uneasy. At least, John is a doctor. He knows what he's doing.

It's pure bliss when his cock is eventually freed from the metal sheathing that had covered it for the whole day. He immediately feels blood rush down south, poolimg into his balls and shaft. John touching him adds to the sensation. He's already semi-hard.

“I can't put the tube in if you stiffen, Sherlock.” John explains. “The swelling constricts your urethra.”

But Sherlock simply can't will his beginning erection away. In the end, Mycroft gets ice from the fridge. When they hold his cock in a bag filled with crushed ice, that does the trick. Sherlock squirms and writhes, tearing the rope, throwing his head back, gasping behind the mask, until his cock hangs limp and flaccid while his body shivers with cold.

Slowly, John pushes the thin tube up his penis. He has lubed it up, so it slides in fairly easy. But it still hurts. Ss it enters Sherlock's bladder, it feels very strange. Now he won't be able to control this bodily function. For as long as he can remember, he had his excretion under control. Not anymore.

“We'll attach another bag to your catheter. For later.” Mycroft chuckles.

Finally, everything is in place, like a complicated experimental circuit. Sherlock can sense that John and Mycroft are close, that their eyes dwell on him as they take in what they've reduced him to: a faceless object, intubated, attached to hoses, tied up, his male figure transformed not into something decidedly female but still altered beyond recognition. His long legs are stretched, as are his lean, sinewy arms. He sways slightly in his bounds.

Suddenly, he can feel his stomach being flooded with liquid. John must have opened the clasp on the urine bag. It's true, Sherlock can't taste it, but the knowledge of his stomach slowly being filled with piss is impossibly arousing. It's still lukewarm. And he can't do anything about it. There is no resistance. They've made him into an orifice. He has no choice but to take it.

He can hear John's and Mycroft's voices, but they seem far away. He's just able to catch scarps of their words, as his own loud breathing echoes in his head, drowning out almost every other sound.



“... perfect... look... pliant.... obedient...”

They don't leave him. Is there a bed or a couch or something, hidden in the darkness of the attic? Are they touching, kissing? Sherlock doesn't know. What he knows is that they are still with him, watching. But they don't touch him. Which is all right. He's not sure he could handle any more stimulation right now.

Despite being blindfolded and forced into silence, Sherlock doesn't feel the unsettling detachment that had plagued him in the beginning of this scene. Now, he feels save, owned. Everything has been taken care of. He doesn't have to do anything besides giving in. He allows himself to fall. He trusts John and Mycroft. It's a shocking revelation. He realises how much he loves to hand over responsibilities. Even for his body.

Still, it's a minor shock when he feels his bladder slowly start to empty itself. He can't do anything to stop it while he experiences his own urine leaking out of his body involuntarily. John and Mycroft are suddenly close again. He can sense their warmth as they observe his physiological function.

“God, Sherlock, if you could see yourself...” That's John's voice next to his ear. And then there are lips pressing against the rubber covering his mouth, licking the latex that separates them. Sherlock moans and leans forward, in the direction of the body heat, and loses his balance again. But John is there, holding him, grabbing his waist, and Sherlock wraps his legs around him. He swings in the air, but John carries him, strong arms slung around him. John's jeans are pressing against his sensitive groin. Sherlock gets hard again despite the catheter, and it's utterly painful but still intoxicating. He ruts against John, who lets him, holds him.

Suddenly, a single finger if breaching him, pushing inside his hole. Mycroft immediately starts to rub his prostate without mercy, which in return also stimulates Sherlock’s bladder, encouraging it to empty itself faster. The feeling is like nothing Sherlock has ever experienced. He whines in despair, but Mycroft doesn’t stop. Contrary, he even speeds up, pressing down harder. Sherlock can feel his orgasm building, a sharp tingling down his spine. His balls tighten, his abdominal muscles clench, and when it hits him, his whole body spasms as he’s making helpless noises behind the rubber mask. His hips buck involuntarily while he shakes like a leave in John’s tight grip.

Only, there’s no wetness between his legs, despite him coming so intensely that it knocked all breath out of him. He can hear the grin in John’s voice as he says: “You can come like this, but the catheter prevents you from ejaculating. The semen will be reabsorbed by your body. Neat, don’t you think?”

But Sherlock can’t think anymore. He feels totally spend. His penis is still half-hard and aching with a burning pain. It feels like a rasp has been shoved up his urethra, grating his insides with every move. He hasn’t even registered that Mycroft had removed his finger. When John carefully lowers him back to the ground, he’s unable to support himself anymore and limply hangs onto the rope, swaying slightly, his head lolling on his shoulders.

“You're amazing.” John tells him, again and again, tenderly stroking his bulging belly that strains against the latex corset. Sherlock is dimly aware of some shuffling around him and then the vibrator is pushed back inside him, set only to a low but still maddening pace.

As the IV bag is now empty, it's taken off and detached from the nasogastric tube. Yet the tube stays in place, as does the catheter.

“We'll lie down a bit. But we won't leave you alone. If you can't endure this anymore, just stamp your feet. We'll free you anytime you want.”

But Sherlock doesn't want to be freed. He wants to be kept like this – a faceless thing, tied up, sensory deprived, suspended, intubated, with a buzzing sex toy up his rectum - for the whole night. He wants this to be the first thing John and Mycroft see in the morning.

So he stays like this as the other two men sleep. Pee is slowly dripping out of him while his cock remains half-hard due to the steady stimulation of his prostate from the vibrator. After he's overcome the first jolt of panic, he has to agree that it is an interesting experience. It’s not enough to make him come again, but it keeps him alert, aroused. The pain in his penis is bearable yet constant. Soon, his body is drenched in sweat. He’s clenching his arse, rutting into thin air and must look totally depraved. Well, he is, isn’t he?

He passes the time by imagining all the ways they might administer him his own in piss in the morning. Oh, how lucky he is to have fallen prey to these two men.

Chapter Text

Sherlock's body is tense with unspent arousal when, some time later, noises reach his ear. It could be morning, but Sherlock is still blindfolded, and there are no windows in the attic, so he can't know for sure. He's lost all sense of time. Did he hang there two hours? Or five? Even longer?

The vibrator has positively wrecked him. Its low hum kept him on edge the whole time, yet the catheter prevented him from ejaculating. His cock is painfully hard, but he's unable to find release.

Suddenly, there's a fist wrapped around his shaft. Sherlock throws back his head and howls into the rubber hood. He's so sensitive that the touch aches, yet so keyed up that he bucks into it nonetheless. Pain and pleasure intertwine in his brain, short-circuiting his nerve endings, crossing receptors. Signals mix until he feels like shattering into tiny pieces, his mind shredded by antagonistic impulses of YES – NO – PLEASE!!! - STOP – MORE.

He might have lost consciousness a moment later as his orgasm hit him so forcefully that he strained in his bounds, his body pulled tight like a bow string, arching his back in what feels more like a fit than a climax.

He's still shaking when they take him down a moment later. He wants to drop to the floor, boneless, but someone is holding him up.

His arms tingle when he's eventually able to lower them. John's hands steady him, for he has trouble keeping his balance after the suspension. The mask adds to this. He can't orientate himself in the room. It's disconcerting. Panic creeps up into his chest, making breathing decidedly strenuous.

“Hey, easy.” John mumbles. Metal scrapes over the wooden floorboards. They are getting a chair for him to sit. He sinks down as he feels its touch at the back of his knees. John quickly yet carefully removes the mask as not to tear Sherlock's hair – but the nasogastric tube stays.

When the hood is removed, Sherlock has to squint despite the low light. He can't focus. The room spins around him while the vibrator is still buzzing up his arse.

“Please...,” he whispers, slumping forward, resting his brow on John's shoulder. John strokes his curls while shushing him. “It'll be over soon.”

“How about some breakfast?” Mycroft asks form behind Sherlock. He's holding the detached catheter bag filled with Sherlock's piss. John looks up at him and nods.

“You don't have to drink it all. Just a bit. To show us how much you like it.” A glass filled with light yellow liquid is held in front of Sherlock's face. Yet his shaking fingers can't hold it, and he's unable to raise his arm. So John has to help him, holding the glass to Sherlock's lips as he slowly takes a few sips. It tastes stale. The caustic odour fills Sherlock's nostrils despite the tube. He doesn't want to swallow, wants to turn away, but he obeys and takes another swig.

“I think it's enough.” John says, putting the glass down onto the floor. “Mycroft, switch that toy off.” Sherlock feels wetness on his cheeks and needs a few moments to realise that he's crying. The look John gives him is a strange mixture of exasperation and concern.

Sherlock has to bow down to remove the vibrator himself. The emptiness is at the same time bliss and loss. Sherlock's overstimulated body has no idea how to deal with this. He suddenly feels just drained and tired. His eyes keep fluttering shut as he drifts in and out of what feels like a minor apoplectic stroke. Only some sensations seem to filter through to him.

The removal of the catheter burns rather fiercely. Sherlock hisses in pain and clenches his teeth. When the corset is untied, he sacks slightly, taking a few deep breaths, cherishing his freedom, glad that his body is allowed to expand again. Mycroft and John gently roll down the gloves and hold-ups and even massage Sherlock's feet, which ache after standing almost on tiptoe for so long. The last to go is the high collar. Sherlock tentatively rotates his head when his neck is freed until he feels slightly dizzy.

Now totally naked, he's pulled up and let to a bench on the far side of the room, away from the scene and its remnants.

He's given water to drink and some dextrose with it to prevent hypoglycaemia. While John gently cleans his skin with a sponge and warm water, Mycroft kneads his shoulders and arms, numb after being suspended for hours above his head. After checking again on the piercings and the tattoo, they wrap him up in a towel and finally guide an exhausted, subdued Sherlock down to his room and put him to bed.

John sits on the mattress, tugging him in. They are alone, as Mycroft has gone to the bathroom to take a shower.

“Are you all right?” John asks, brushing an errant curl from Sherlock's forehead.

Is he? He's not sure. He feels... nothing, really. The intense experience of being tied up, helpless, blind, silenced and objectified has left him dazed. He's not yet fully returned back into his body, this body. He seems stuck somewhere in between. He can't explain, but he feels adrift, detached – and not in a good way.

“I... I'm not... I don't...,” he stammers, his voice hoarse from lack of use. He starts to blink rapidly, and his body is suddenly shaking. He can't stop it.

“Sherlock...,” John frowns down on him before gathering him up in his arms. It helps a little, being held like that, and the shaking subsides. Yet, John is worried. “I'll be right back, I promise. Lie down, breathe, I'm just going over to my room.”

John leaves the connecting door open so Sherlock can hear him. He curls into himself on the bed, wrapping his arms tightly around his torso, mimicking John's touch, rocking back and forth to ground himself.

“Make a fist.” John instructs upon his return. Sherlock does. A tourniquet is pulled tight over his right biceps before John slides a needle in his vein. It feels strangely familiar.

“It's Ativan. It'll help you sleep and relax.” John explains.

“I know.” Sherlock mumbles.

“Of course, you do.” John smiles.

He stays with Sherlock until he falls asleep about ten minutes later, stroking his hair, mumbling praise and assurance into his skin. The last thing he hears is that John calls him beautiful, gorgeous, amazing. Sherlock desperately wants to believe it.


When Sherlock wakes up, he has no idea what time it is, apart from that it's daylight outside. He feels much better. His body still hurts, but it's more of a dull throb than the fierce ache he'd experienced over the last few days. Sleeping has refreshed him, body and mind. He's actually hungry. And needs some tea. There's his blue dressing gown draped over the back of a chair. He puts it on and pads down into the kitchen.

“Hey,” John greets him, sitting at the table, having breakfast. It must be morning.

“How long have I been asleep?” Sherlock asks, stretching while putting the kettle on.

“You've been out for almost twenty-four hours.” John grins.

“Oh.” Sherlock throws a teabag in a mug and shovels three spoons of sugar on top of it before drenching it in boiling water. “Where's Mycroft?”

“He had to go back to London. Something with the Korean elections.”

Sherlock turns, regarding John over the rim of his cup. “But you stayed.” It's not a question.

“Yes. We couldn't leave you alone. Not in your state. Despite, we have to talk. But have some tea first. Though, you shouldn't eat as long as you have that tube down your throat. Which will stay there for some time. But that's for later.”

Sherlock tentatively touches his nostrils. He'd almost forgotten about the tube. He pulls a chair out from under the table.

John doesn't even look up from his phone as he asks: “What are you doing?”

Sherlock stops mid-motion. “I want to sit down and have my tea.” He says, slowly, as if explaining the obvious to some dim-witted police officer.

At this tone, John does look up and frowns. His eyes are hard. “I don't like your attitude. You'll only sit down when allowed to do. You may ask for it, though.”

Sherlock swallows. It takes him about thirty seconds until he's finally able to get the words out: “May I sit down?”

John gives a curt nod and continues eating his toast. Sherlock sinks down onto the chair and sips his tea in silence. Ok, he thinks, something definitely has changed.

After John has finished his breakfast, they relocate to the sitting room.

“Sit.” John gestures over to the couch and Sherlock slowly lowers himself onto its edge. “Your brother and I agreed that it's the best for you to stay here with me for some time.” Sherlock is about to protest – he has his work, and besides, how is his brother to decide what he's doing? – but John silences him with a sharp look and a raised index finger.

Sherlock’s mouth snaps shut and John sighs.

“See, Sherlock, that's the problem with you. You think this is a game, something that can be turned on and off again as it suits you. Well, let me tell you: it isn't. It's a way of life. Which you embarked on. You asked me to take you down this road. Your brother employed me to help you along. But you chose it. Because you want to embrace it. Only, sometimes, you need a reminder.”

Sherlock swallows and lowers his head. Is that true?

“Now, we have entered a new stage in our relationship. One in which you mustn't be distracted. One that is better played out away from prying eyes. Therefore, we'll stay here, and work on it, until Mycroft can return sometime next week. Then we'll all have time to re-evaluate. Of course, this is just a proposal. You are free to leave any time you really want to. But that will be for good. If you opt out, there's no way back to this.”

Sherlock takes a breath, then nods.

“Your brother and I worked out a routine for you. You will follow it, strictly. I'm here to take care of that. You'll get up at seven every morning and clean yourself – shower, shaving, enema - then go down to the kitchen and wait for me. You'll be fed some glucose via your nasal tube and I'll tend to your piercings and the tattoo. Then it's playtime. You have to train your body. Afterwards, you'll be tied down in the attic as an exercise in patience, on which you also have to work. In the evening, I might use you as I please – or not, if I'm not in the mood. Your cock will be put back in the cage the whole time. You only speak when asked a direct question. You only do as you are told. You'll kneel in my presence until told otherwise. You won't be wearing any clothes apart from the ones I give you. I'll feed you a nutrient solution with a syringe via the nasogastric tube before you are allowed to retire to bed. Any transgression will be met with immediate, severe punishment over the first days. Later, when you've had sufficient time to take the rules in, I'll compile your infringements, and you'll be punished at the end of the day. Have you understood?”

Sherlock's head is spinning. This sounds rigid, tough, all-encompassing. It will turn his life around completely. Does he really want this? Is he ready for such a step? Then he remembers the rings through his nipples and the tattoo above his arse. Of course, he wants this. He has wanted it from the day he started all this, when he sank to his knees in front of John in their Baker Street kitchen and begged him to hurt him.

Or even since before that?

He nods again, looking up at John.

John's face is blank, unreadable. “Tell me yes or no, Sherlock?”

“Yes.” He doesn't hesitate as he opens the dressing gown and lets it slide from his shoulders before sinking onto his knees, his eyes never leaving John's.

John stares at him for a moment, eyes dark and serious. A muscle twitches at his jaw and he licks his lips before continuing in a somewhat warmer tone: “I'd ask you to pick a safe word, but knowing you, you wouldn't use it anyway. Which is not exactly a good thing. I want you to think about it over the next few days. You might come to a point where you honestly want to stop. I saw you the other day and you gave me the fright, I admit that much. Which is also not a good thing. You shouldn't put me in such a position. You'll be given the opportunity to change your mind when your brother returns, before we finalise the contract.” John swallows, then walks over to Sherlock and rakes his fingers through his silky curls. Sherlock melts into his touch. “Ok, let's begin.”


Over the next few days, the new routine is implemented. At first, Sherlock has trouble adjusting. For example, when John orders him to stretch himself with various large dildos and plugs, or other objects he likes to see up Sherlock's arse (a wine bottle, a cucumber, a candle), he doesn't comply quick enough, but instead eyes the instruments chosen for him wearily. John has to slap his face a few times to make Sherlock do as he's told.

Still, he complains again when told to ride a 10 inch dildo, glued via a suction cup onto the coffee table. Sherlock has to squat over it and whines as he slowly sinks down. John makes him bop up and down on it all morning, until he's sore and almost screaming with oversensitivity. His prostate feels positively chafed. Meanwhile, John sits in the kitchen, drinks coffee and reads his paper, but every time Sherlock starts to slow down, he walks over and swats him hard with the rolled-up Independent. By midday, Sherlock is drenched in sweat and his thigh muscles are burning as he begs John to be released, because it's too much, too big. Eventually, John has enough and hits him so hard that he bites his lip. After that, Sherlock's quiet, swallowing his whimpers as John makes him fuck himself on the monster cock for yet another half hour.

In the afternoons, Sherlock is tied up in the attic. John tries different kinbaku techniques, weaving an inextricable web of complicated nods all over Sherlock's body, forcing his limbs into unfamiliar positions for hours on end. Sometimes he has to wear the rubber mask, sometimes he's just blindfolded or gagged; sometimes John suspends him from the beam in mid-air. His arms and legs start to go limp and numb after some time; his muscles quiver and cramp, but John doesn't release him no matter how much he begs and sobs. Instead, John beats him until he's silent, using a short whip – but only on his legs as not to damage the piercings and the tattoo. After every session Sherlock shakes like a leave when he's eventually untied, unable to walk. That’s why John makes him crawl.

On the second morning, John has another idea to test Sherlock's willingness to submit. He's allowed to sit at the table while John eats his breakfast, clad in sweat pants and a loose t-shirt (as to not chafe his sensitive nipples or the tattoo). John makes him drink three mugs of tea before he orders Sherlock to wet himself while he watches. Sherlock swallows, looking at his lap as panic rises in his chest. He knows he has to do this – but he can't. He's too embarrassed. John waits, but his patience is wearing thin. Sherlock can see it in the twitching of his eye, his fingers drumming on the table top. Suddenly, Sherlock's afraid of the punishment that will await him if he fails. He takes a deep breath and relaxes, blushing s bright crimson as he feels the first drops of piss wetting his pants.

The initial shock intensifies as warm urine darkens his crotch. It's a lot, running down his legs and pooling on the floor. John looks at him, his smile tight. “You have to learn to obey faster. When I want you to piss yourself, you do it, no matter where you are or who’s around. Understood?” Sherlock nods. John lets him sit in his own piss for more than an hour before making him mop up his mess with his t-shirt. He has to wear it afterwards as he resumes the stretching of his anus, this time with the tunnel plug that stays up his arse for the rest of the day.

Sherlock is left utterly open and vulnerable. He's suddenly very glad that he cleaned himself thoroughly this morning and is only fed liquid, especially when John starts to talk about nappies during their bondage session in the attic. Sherlock is sure that he wouldn't survive the shame.

John empties his bladder three times that day into Sherlock's gaping arse while he has to kneel and take it, the urine spilling over and sloshing inside him until John tells him to sit up. The piss gushes out of him, running down his legs, yet he's not allowed to wash. In the evening, he feels smelly and so very filthy that he dares to beg for a shower, cowering at John's feet, his face pressed into another pool of piss that he was told to slobber up. In reply, John kicks him so hard between the legs that he almost vomits. Needless to say, Sherlock has to sleep like this, with the tunnel plug up his arse, drenched in piss, with the added humiliation of his soiled sweat pants pulled over his head. The smell of urine surrounds him as he cries himself to sleep, the sharp taste of piss lingering on his tongue.

The next day at the breakfast table, Sherlock is much faster to comply as he's told to empty his bladder. John opens his cock cage as a reward, allowing Sherlock to jack off while John pushes two fingers deep into his mouth and orders him to suck. Sherlock comes so hard that he almost slides off the chair. Of course, he has to lick up his piss and come, which puts a blissful smile on his face. He becomes more and more used to the taste.

At playtime over the next few days, Sherlock is not only ordered to stretch himself beyond endurance. John tests his limits in numerous ways: heavy weights attached to his balls and cock; hot wax dripped over the sensitive skin at the inside of his arms, the back of his legs, down his cleft, over his closed eyelids until he screams in agony; needles inserted into his lips, tongue and fingertips; cloth pins attached to every part of his body that sports a bit of soft tissue, left on for hours. Every short hesitation to submit or welcome the torture earns Sherlock a severe slap. Soon, one of his eyes starts to swell shut as bruises bloom on his cheekbones.

“Stop complaining! Your mouth is made to suck cock and lick arseholes, not to whine and nag.” John hisses into Sherlock's ear one morning and tugs so hard on his hair that he yanks out some glossy curls with their roots, leaving a bald patch at the back of Sherlock's head. Sherlock sobs one last time, suppressing a scream, and pushes the gigantic cone-shaped plug past his sphincter. He's always plugged these days, to train his rectum. John wants him ready any time he chooses to bend Sherlock over and fuck him so hard that he fears to pass out.

John mostly does it in the evenings, wearing a cock ring that prevents him from coming, so he can keep going for hours. After he's been fucked deep and long, John likes to indulge in another of his favourite activities: fisting. Sherlock has to kneel in front of the couch, head on the floor, arse in the air, while John pushes his hand inside him up to his elbow. Lube and come are dripping out of Sherlock as John feels and moves inside him, stroking his warm walls. He can do that for an eternity.

After a few days, Sherlock has serious trouble clenching his sphincter muscles. His body starts to adjust, to transform itself. He's now quite grateful for the large plugs he has to wear.

One evening John tells him: “I love your wet hole. But, you know, that cock of yours, always caged, it's no use at all. So I've thought about telling Mycroft to take you to Thailand. They've great surgeons there. They could make a lovely tight pussy out of your cock. You could play with that all day; show us a proper wet cunt. Wouldn't that be nice?”

Sherlock feels nauseous, yet he nods. John had made him wear a short tight dress all day, that's now pushed up over his hips as he bounces on John's lap, riding his hard cock.

“Imagine you had tits, too. I could fondle them now. Really big, hard boobs with large nipples I could suck. Tell me you want that. Tell me you want to be my good little girl.”

Sherlock does. John comes deep inside him, pulling him down into a tender kiss afterwards.

The next day, John takes his cock out of the cage and tapes it against his perineum instead. Sherlock has to wear a plaid skirt and a white blouse as he's ordered to train his gag reflex by shoving increasingly large dildos down his throat. Sherlock cries the whole time because it hurts – and because it's so humiliating to be made to beg for more, larger cocks while called a slag and a whore and slapped into the face. But, finally, the retching subsides and he manages to swallow the large rubber toys with ease while saliva runs down his chin. The blouse is getting translucent as it's drenched in spit, sweat and tears. John makes a photo and sends it to Mycroft, calling Sherlock his little slutty sister.

That evening, John makes use of Sherlock's newly acquired talent by fucking his throat. “We could extract all your teeth, Sherlock, transform your lovely mouth into a slippery hole, made to suck cock. You'd just be a gorge, to be used as we please.” Sherlock moans around John as he licks and laps, opening up his throat to take even more of him. He gets rather turned on by such dark ideas and is sure that this should somehow bother him. But it doesn't. It makes his cock leak and throb instead. John knows this and smiles.

Sherlock isn't sure how much of the things John says are fantasies and dirty talk, and how much he means serious. Well, his body is certainly changing, adapting. His arsehole is gaping by now, he can easily accommodate eight inch wide dildos and plugs. After John had eventually removed the tunnel plug the other day after breakfast, Sherlock had experienced his first small prolapse. It had been a shock, parts of his rectum hanging out of him, yet John had tenderly stroked the red flesh and even bowed down and kissed it, swirling his tongue around it.

“God, look at this beautiful little rosebud.” He'd whispered and taken a picture of the glistening intestine to send it to Mycroft, who'd been delighted by the progress. Afterwards, John had masturbated over it while Sherlock had been allowed to lie just there on the couch, legs spread and pulled up, until John had pulsed all over the protruding colon. It had taken some time to carefully push it back inside Sherlock's body, but the strange feeling had been eased as John had told him how amazing he was. He'd even washed Sherlock that morning and administered only a small enema, as he'd been too sensitive. They couldn't risk anal fissures now that Sherlock is adapting so well. John told him that he'd wanted to see this happening more often, and Sherlock had just nodded in response, wide-eyed, as John had worshipped his anus by licking and sucking him for nearly half an hour, lapping up his own come dripping out of Sherlock's body.

Another significant change is that Sherlock doesn't talk much anymore now. What is there to say, apart from “Yes, John”, anyway? When John makes him wear a suit one day, it feels strange and unpleasant. Doing something of his own accord seems increasingly pointless if it doesn't involve servicing John.

But cut off his cock, give him breasts or remove his teeth? How far would they go? And would Sherlock let them?

He gets his answer the next day. John has attached heavy lead weights to his balls and ordered him to fuck himself on a ten inch vibrator. He's been at it for two hours, kneeling on the floor, his cock leaking copiously due to constant prostate stimulation. His whole body is drenched in sweat, and black spots dance before his eyes. It's not just his anus that hurts, but his arms, his shoulders, his back, his thighs, his stomach. When his legs cramp, tears start to run down his face. Yet John doesn't show any intention to end his ordeal: he's not even watching Sherlock, but instead fiddles with his laptop nearby. Eventually, Sherlock dares to slow down a fraction. As John doesn't react, he asks: “Please, John, let me stop. It hurts so much. I need a break.”

John looks up over his computer, taking in Sherlock glistening, twisted body, his balls dark purple, his face contorted in discomfort. The frown spreading on his face is not even angry, just disappointed. He slams the laptop shut and gets up.

“Sherlock, you now what? I'm having enough of that. I told you that you were only to speak when asked. It's time we do something about that habit of yours to disobey my orders.”

He pulls Sherlock to his feet and drags him up to the bathroom by his hair. Sherlock is screaming as the weights tear at his tortured balls with very move. By the time John shoves him into the loo, he's on the verge of passing out from pain and fear. He's never seen John furious like this, calm and determined, yet boiling with rage.

Clinging to the sink, Sherlock looks up into the mirror. The face staring back at him is almost unrecognisable: hollow cheeks, bruised, split lip, dark circles below manic eyes, red from crying. He sinks to the floor and cowers at John's feet, silently begging for mercy.

John only presses his foot between Sherlock's legs from behind, squashing his already abused balls. “Rut.” He orders, and Sherlock does, biting down onto his lower lip to stifle the groans of pain that want to escape his mouth.


Suddenly, a sob rises in Sherlock's throat. He can't suppress it. His balls feel like they might explode. His vision narrows down to the black and white tiles just in front of his face as he finally collapses, moaning John's name in a plea to stop.

And John does stop, even pulls Sherlock up onto his feet, staring at him in disappointment and disgust.

“Wait here.” He orders and leaves. Sherlock stares at his reflection again, suddenly realising how much he has changed. But he doesn't opt out. He knows that something horrible is about to happen, and yet he stays. If he runs now, he can never come back to this. Sherlock's not sure if he'll be able to handle John's punishment, but he knows for certain that he couldn't live without this anymore. So he'll take whatever John has in store for him. He's earned whatever John's about to do to him, for he has disobeyed him. He'll accept his penalty, come what may.

When John returns, he's carrying his doctor's bag. After setting it down onto the edge of the bathtub, he rummages through it until he’s found his medical sewing kit. Sherlock doesn't understand. There's no wound that would need sutures – at least not yet.

Instead of an explanation, John holds needle and twine in front of Sherlock's perplexed face. “You’ll sew your mouth shut. Now!” He demands.

Sherlock blanches. His jaw drops, but no sound comes out of his mouth. He has to grab the sink tighter as to not bolt from the room.

“Sew.Your.Mouth.Shut! Or we end this right here. It's not that you need it much these days, anyway. Apart from complaining, that is.” John stares at him, waiting. But Sherlock can't move, he's literally frozen. After about thirty seconds, John turns on his heels and is about to walk out of the bathroom, when Sherlock is finally shaken out of his reverie and takes a step towards him: “I'll do it. Wait. Please, I'll do it.”

John slowly turns. Sherlock reaches out to take the needle form John's hand before facing the mirror. He swallows, then brings the tip of the needle up to press against the right corner of his lower lip. Their eyes lock in the mirror, and Sherlock hesitates briefly, taking a deep breath, before pushing the needle through, piercing his lip. John sits down on the edge of the tub, crosses his arms over his chest, and watches.

Sherlock hisses in pain. A thin rivulet of blood runs down his chin. The twine is thick and black. It feels utterly strange to experience it threading through the soft tissue of his sensitive lips.

Sherlock wants this to be over quickly and therefore pushes the needle through his upper lip as well. After about three stitches, however, his vision blurs due to tears of pain springing to his eyes. He has to wipe them away with the back of his hand and wait a little before he's able to continue. Blood starts to drip from his chin into the sink, shocking bright red splashes on the white porcelain. Sherlock forces himself to look at the mirror again and get on with the task at hand. The feeling of the needle scraping against his front teeth sends a shiver down his spine.

It takes Sherlock almost fifteen minutes to sew his mouth shut with nine stitches. It hurts like hell, as John doesn't offer any anaesthetic. Sherlock's face is wet with tears, blood running down his chin and throat, when he ties the last knot into the yarn at the left corner of his mouth. It looks quite disturbing – the black twine stands out against his swollen red lips and whitish skin. The seam is uneven. Some stitches are farther apart than others. It reminds Sherlock of the very first attempt of a young Viktor Frankenstein. Creepy. Like in a cheap horror movie.

John stands up and turns Sherlock towards himself, his body shaking because of the endorphins released. There's a kind look in John's eyes as he takes the needle from Sherlock's trembling fingers before carefully applying antiseptic to Sherlock's aching lips, wiping them with a soft cotton pad. Sherlock can only growl at the burning pain, cringing, but John cradles his head in his hand and holds his face in place until the blood has been cleaned away.

“I know that wasn't easy, Sherlock. But you did it. You accepted your punishment beautifully.” John even snaps a pic for Mycroft and gets an immediate reply. “Your brother wants you to stay like this until he returns.” John tells him, pressing a soft kiss just to the corner of Sherlock's mouth.

John leaves him in his room for the afternoon. Sherlock lies on his bed, curled up on his side, and stares at the wall. His lips are throbbing. He feels broken. He's lost something today, again, another piece of dignity, another layer ripped away to expose him, lay him bare. He's not sure he can go through with this. It's way harder than he had expected.

In the evening, John takes Sherlock over into his room and fucks him almost gentle. He has to lie on his back so John can see his face and the gruesome seam that closes his mouth. Sherlock suddenly remembers how John had sewn Kate's cut shut. She'd taken it. So he can take this, too.

As John pounds into him with abandon, Sherlock is only able to make muffled sounds, guttural purrs, vibrating in his throat. Their eyes never leave each other as John stares down on him, eyes dark.

John looks gone, sweat dripping down his face, lost in pleasure and arousal. And suddenly, Sherlock is beyond pain and despair, because he's doing this to John. He makes John loose himself in this act. I'm doing this for you, Sherlock thinks, and suddenly, John presses his mouth over Sherlock's severed lips, licking, caressing, as he comes deep inside Sherlock's body.

Look how far I'm prepared to go for you. And by doing this, I'm the one in control. You can't break me, because what you want is what I want as well.

Sherlock is allowed to stay the night. John holds him close, strokes his back, his hair, and whispers sweet nothings into his skin until they both fall asleep.

Sherlock has made it through the first week.

Chapter Text

„I think your piercings have healed by now.“ John tells Sherlock the next morning. The tattoo has also stopped flaking and itching. Sherlock can only nod.

John carefully peels the tape away and takes a long look at Sherlock's nipples. The swelling has subsided. When he gently tugs at the silver rings, Sherlock doesn't feel any discomfort.

“God, this looks so hot.” John breathes into Sherlock's ear. He knows that he still can't yet use weights, but nevertheless...

Sherlock is sitting on the chair in his room after finishing his morning routine, his skin flushed a rosy pink from the shower. John has just administered his shot of glucose. Now, he steps back and admires Sherlock's new jewellery. He looks ravishing with his long, graceful limbs, his pale skin, damp black curls falling over his forehead, an uneven seam sealing his mouth, the black twine disfiguring his strangely alluring alien features. He seems almost unreal, like a spectre from a nightmare or a fiendish demon.

And suddenly, John has an idea.

“Come on, let's go upstairs.”

John takes Sherlock's hand and leads him up into the attic. There, he positions Sherlock beneath the beam they'd used the last time. Quickly, John gets a long black hemp rope, attaches one end to Sherlock's left nipple, throws the rope over the beam and pulls it tight until Sherlock is forced to stand on tiptoe before he attaches the other end to Sherlock's right nipple. Sherlock groans a little as the rope tugs on his piercing.

With another rope, John ties Sherlock's hand behind his back.

Sherlock is forced to stand quite still to avoid putting strain on his nipple rings. Which isn't easy when you have to balance your weight almost on pointe, without the support of your arms. It's not getting any easier as John removes the cock cage and starts to give Sherlock a very slow hand job.

Sherlock sucks in his breath at the first sensation of the touch and almost loses his balance. The rope doesn't tear forcefully at his piercings, but still his nipples are nicely stimulated. Sherlock moans softly at the back of his throat as he steadies himself.

John teases, tugs and pulls ever so gently, but Sherlock's cock, deprived of touch for so long, springs to life immediately. It swells and hardens as Sherlock sways in the rope, increasing the pull on his sensitive flesh. It's maddening.

Sherlock is so turned on that he pushes into John's touch, trying to rut slightly forward. This is followed by a sharp keen at the back of his throat as the rope tugs much more fiercely on his fresh piercings.

“Careful.” John reminds him.

Sherlock tries to stay ramrod straight and not to twitch a muscle. But that is getting harder by the minute as John wanks him so exquisitely lazy and slowly, just how he likes it, paying attention to his already tight balls as well, playing with his foreskin, massaging his frenulum.

Soon, Sherlock can't control himself, despite the pain, and bucks into John's fist as an answer to every stroke. Each thrust is accompanied by a guttural moan. Sweat runs down his face and his body is flushed pink down to his navel while his abdominal muscles flex and quiver – he's the epitome of debauchery. His nipples are getting stretched a little with every thrust, the silver rings gleaming in the dim light.

“Don't you dare to come without my permission.” John tells him while rubbing the pad of his thumb over the leaking slit.

Sherlock can only shake his head as he growls with frustration deep down in his throat. His eyes are closed by now as he puffs and pants while desperately trying to get enough air by breathing through his nose, still partly stuffed with the nasogastric tube. It's not easy, and the lack of oxygen makes him slightly dizzy.

It takes ages. John strokes and tugs, teases and pulls, squeezes and pumps while Sherlock whimpers with need and arousal, reduced to a quivering mess. He can't even beg or plead. All he can do is endure John's touch and try not to come until eventually, despite his best efforts to prevent it, he can feel his climax building like an unstoppable tidal wave. Sherlock groans in despair. He's panicking, trying to warn John, silently bargaining for a lenient punishment as his orgasm is wrought from his tense body. He comes and comes, his body shaking, the rope pulling at his nipple rings, and the noises he makes are almost animalistic, high croaks and desperate rasps. John's fingers get sticky and nicely slippery with Sherlock's semen.

John uses it as lubricant to jerk himself off in front of Sherlock after Sherlock's own orgasm has subsided, pulling his pants down and fisting his cock. It doesn't take long. He comes all over Sherlock's chest and belly, watching as thick stripes coat Sherlock's silver rings.

He keeps Sherlock like this for a few hours longer. As a reprimand, John gives Sherlock ten strokes with a wooden paddle onto his arse before leaving him in the attic. Much worse than the beating, however, is that after a while Sherlock's legs start to cramp due to lack of fluids, yet he can't lower his body without risking ripping his piercings out. The agony increases by the minute, yet he has no choice but to suffer through it. When John eventually returns, he's a sobbing mess, his legs visibly shaking. He collapses into a sweaty heap on the floor the moment John detaches the rope from the first nipple ring. John kicks him a few times until he's at least able to scramble into a kneeling position to crawl down the stairs like a beaten dog.

As Sherlock can't drink by mouth at the moment, John has to administer fluids by IV. For this procedure, Sherlock is told to lie on his bed and not to move as John inserts the cannula into the back of his right hand. Sherlock, lying motionless, with a drip up his arm, dried come covering his body, is strangely erotic. John takes his time to watch as the saline slowly drips into Sherlock's vein.

In the afternoon, when Sherlock had had some rest, John takes him up into the attic again. He's now wearing a cock ring and nipple clamps with chains. One connects Sherlock's piercings with his cock, another one with a slim collar around his neck. Every step tugs at the piercings. It's not painful, but the sensation keeps Sherlock half hard and aroused.

Up in the studio, as John has come to call Mycroft's play area, he lets Sherlock browse through the toys. John allows him to select things he wants to try and have used on himself, as a reward for making it through his first week of serious training.

At first, Sherlock seems overwhelmed by the variety. Mycroft keeps his gear neatly stored in drawers, cupboards and on hooks. Sherlock stares at them in a mixture of horror and awe. Some instruments seem to outright perplex and confuse him. It's an impressive collection, John has to admit.

In the end, Sherlock's choice is rather conservative: a belt, a riding crop, a large glass plug, a silky blindfold, earplugs. Ah, of course, sensory deprivation would be a thing for Sherlock, John thinks.

“Would you like me to plug you right now?” John asks.

Sherlock nods. John has him kneel down onto floor boards, covered with some kind of squishy black plastic pad to ease the discomfort while making it simple to clean, and slowly works the toy inside Sherlock. He uses lots of lube, teasing Sherlock's entrance, until he squirms and bucks in front of him, on the edge once again despite the cock ring. The movement tugs on the piercings again. It's delicious.

“Later.” John whispers, and takes Sherlock back downstairs.

They spend the rest of the day in the sitting room. John plays with Sherlock's piercings and his dribbling cock until he's almost mad with want. The large plug fills him beautifully, and he's allowed to rock on it, making the toy shift inside him. Yet, the cock ring prevents him effectively from coming.

Sherlock is shaking with need when John eventually leads him up to his bedroom that night.

“You've been very good today, Sherlock. What would you like me to use on you tonight? It's your choice.”

Sherlock takes the belt and sinks onto his knees in front of John, holding the leather strap up in both his trembling hands while gazing longingly at John.

“Ah, I see. Shall I use the blindfold and earplugs, too?”

Sherlock nods, his cheeks heating with excitement.

“Well, then, turn around, kneel before the bed, place your chest face-down onto the mattress and hold yourself open.”

Sherlock does as he's told, reaching back with his hands, pulling his cheeks apart and spreading his legs to give John better access. John first fastens the black silk over Sherlock's eyes before stuffing the small black foam plugs into Sherlock's auditory passages.

When John slowly pulls the plug out, Sherlock makes the most exquisite noises, bucking his hips. His cock hangs heavy between his legs, straining against the edge of the bed. Yet he might rut as much as he likes, the cock ring will prevent him from coming. The friction will only tease his nipples as the chains pull on his silver rings.

John picks up the belt and caresses the smooth leather with his fingers before stroking it up and down Sherlock's back, watching his muscles twitch in anticipation beneath taut white skin, decorated with Mycroft's mark. John lets the leather linger there, at Sherlock's sacrum, staring down. Suddenly, he can feel a wave of possessiveness well up inside him.

Get a grip, Watson!

Sherlock can't hear or see him and therefore is unable to anticipate the strokes. John focuses the beating on Sherlock's quivering empty whole. It flutters under the thrashing, becoming red and swollen. Lube is still leaking out of it. Alternating, John lets the belt hit Sherlock's full balls and sensitive perineum. From time to time, a stroke catches his fingers, and Sherlock hisses in pain, whereas otherwise he moans and hums with pleasure.

“God, you're so lovely.” John whispers after a while. “I love doing this to you. Giving you what you need. I never want to stop.” He's glad Sherlock can't hear him. His cleft looks already chafed and raw. Yet the sounds he makes are surely affirmative for more. So John continues.

Only when he feels his own orgasm approaching does John stop to pull his trousers down. He leans forward and removes Sherlock's cock ring. The sudden sensation tears a high-pithed needy keen from Sherlock's throat. He comes almost immediately when John sinks into him. The clamping and spasming around him drives John over the edge as well. But he stays inside Sherlock for a while longer, cherishing the feeling of being buried deep inside his abused whole. He knows that it must hurt Sherlock, yet he allows this, doesn't fight it, gives in. This level of submission is intoxicating and addictive. For both of them.

After pulling out, John first removes the earplugs and the blindfold before pulling Sherlock up, relieving him from chains and clamps, leaving only the collar in place. Sherlock's eyes have trouble focusing after having been allowed to come twice today, and he needs a moment before John can send him to the bathroom to get warm water and a flannel. When he returns on still slightly weak legs, John cleans him up carefully and applies soothing ointment before taking him to bed. He places Sherlock's head low on his belly and lets him rest there. Sherlock falls asleep while nuzzling into John's groin.

When John wakes the next day, Sherlock is gone. Well, not really gone, he's just left the bed and is kneeling next to it, holding up the riding crop, offering it to John.

“Oh, dear, do you need it so badly?” John asks while yawning, stretching until he can feel his joints pop. Sherlock isn't looking at him, he has his eyes cast onto the floor, waiting patiently for John to give him the attention he craves. John rolls out of bed and uses the loo first before returning to the bedroom, telling Sherlock to get face down onto the bed.

The thrashing he receives is as severe as Sherlock had wanted it to be. John beats him until his whole back is stinging, paying special attention to the backs of his thighs and his delightfully round buttocks, which tremble slightly after every stroke. Sherlock is not wearing a cock ring but knows better than to rut against the mattress without being allowed to do so.

Just when Sherlock thinks that he can't take it anymore, John orders him to turn around. The bedding is superior quality, very soft, but his back got so badly abused that it still hurts to have to lie on it. Nevertheless, John continues his ministrations at Sherlock's front, this time concentrating on his sensitive nipples and soft belly, deliberately avoiding his groin.

Sherlock's cock is hard and leaking, straining against his abdomen. Now and then, the tongue of the riding crop just licks it, almost accidentally, and Sherlock's whole body jolts off the bed as every nerve ending starts to light up in a mixture of pleasure and pain.

“Don't you dare to come, Sherlock.” John hisses between two blows. Sherlock screws his eyes shut tightly and shakes his head. His desperate moans and growls fill the room while he can smell his own musk and sweat heavy in the air.

John does only stop when his arm starts to tire. He crawls all over Sherlock's tortured body, rubbing himself against the red, raw skin until Sherlock sobs with need, whispering in his ear: “Tomorrow, you'll get a big bowl and kneel beside my bed, holding it up so I don't have to walk over to the bathroom first thing in the morning, understood?”

Sherlock nods.

As a reward for the pain he took, John makes him ride his cock for what feels like hours afterwards. They don't use any lube for this, as Sherlock's hole has been nicely stretched over the previous week and can now accommodate John whenever he wants to push inside. It's quite convenient, being able to do so without tedious foreplay and preparation.

Without a cock ring, Sherlock is dangerously on edge, but John had made it very clear that coming without permission would lead to his eyes being sewn shut as well. Therefore, Sherlock pinches the base of his cock every time he feels his orgasm approaching until John finally tells him to come while he pulses deep inside Sherlock's body.

Sherlock shoots his load all over John's chest and is happy when allowed to lick it up. Afterwards, John hoses him down in the bathroom, putting Sherlock under the ice cold spray of the shower until his threaded lips turn blue. The water, despite being so very cold, burns on his over-sensitive skin. It feels like being flayed.

Sherlock has lost some weight due to the tube feeding. As his weight hadn't been healthy even before that, he's now quite thin, sinewy, all taut skin, lean muscles and delicate bones. This will help him suffering through his next ordeal.

“I have to go into town today, do some shopping, stock up some supplies.” Sherlock's eyes go wide with panic. “Don't worry, I'll take care of you.” John reassures him, leading him once more up into the attic.

He makes Sherlock stand naked in the middle of the padded mat and pulls on a pair of heavy duty gloves. From a chest in a corner he drags out a spool of barbed wire, carrying it carefully over to Sherlock.

Sherlock tries to stay very still and not to twitch a muscle as John twines the spiked metal ribbon around him, from his ankles up to his neck. John doesn't wrap him too tightly, but the small thorns sting his abused body nonetheless. Some spikes pierce his skin and blood starts to trickle down his limbs in thin rivulets.

“God, you look beautiful.” John sighs, admiring his work. “Kneel.”

As Sherlock sinks slowly onto his knees, he can feel his skin being torn open. The spikes on his shins sink into his flesh and are driven into his knee caps. He groans low in his throat but doesn't hesitate to obey, despite the pain.

“Sit back on your heels.” John's voice is hoarse, fascinated with the display of agony visible on Sherlock's face. Yet he does as he's told. The thorns tear open his legs, splitting the skin as Sherlock slowly sinks back. He knows that John wants to see him suffer, and so he prolongs the torture by taking his time. It hurts like hell. Sherlock huffs through his nose, his breathing speeding up as he tries to control the pain, to give in and surrender.

“Can you lie down on your side for me?” John asks after a few minutes, during which he's been palming himself almost absent-mindedly through his jeans. Sherlock gives a slow nod. But John has to help him crouch down into a foetal position. The spikes sink into his skin all over his left side, from his shoulder down to his calves. He trembles and shrieks. John strokes his hair to calm him and prevent further damage from erratic shaking. Eventually, the shudders subside. Sherlock can feel blood pool beneath him. Thank god that he's become so lithe and thin.

“You are not tied up. If it gets too much, you can free yourself.” John tells him. “But I'd rather you did not. You look absolutely stunning. I will be gone for a few hours. But I promise that we play when I get back. Can you do that for me?”

Sherlock nods again. John presses a chaste kiss to his threaded lips before leaving him.

The attic is only dimly lit with low lamps. One wall, Sherlock sees now, is covered in a huge mirror. He can watch himself, lying on the floor, emaciated, wrapped in barbed wire, an uneven seam criss-crossing over his mouth, sealing his lips. He looks a true Man of Sorrows. Streaks of red blood decorate his pale skin and still, his eyes burn dark with desire. His whole body is on fire. He feels so very much alive right now.

The feeling of John's lips pressed tenderly against his marred mouth lingers while the agony spreads through Sherlock's body. He tries not to move, but his muscles start to cramp again after a while. Yet, flexing them makes the thorns scrape his skin. Shifting his body even slightly results in more damage. To distract himself, Sherlock closes his eyes and tries to imagine what John would do with him upon his return. From time to time, he takes a look in the mirror, to reassure himself that he still exists.

He starts to float on the pain, eventually rolling onto his back and stretching himself out, savouring the new sensation of different parts of his skin being ripped open. He feels almost high, wriggling in his metal bounds, hugging him like a bespoke cage.

Suddenly, John is back. He kneels over him and uses a wire cutter to liberate him from this makeshift iron maiden, John's gloved fingers bending the wire apart like some knight in shining armour saving his Sleeping Beauty. John has to hold him up around his middle after pulling him back onto his feet. They stare at each other in the mirror, Sherlock's naked body bloodied and abused, tiny holes poked into his white skin in an irregular pattern, showing clear signs of torture, while John is fully clothed, watching Sherlock with greedy eyes.

John takes Sherlock back down and puts him to bed, despite just being early evening. When he wraps himself around Sherlock, still fully clothed, Sherlock shudders in pain, yet stays perfectly still otherwise. John is just holding him close while whispering into his ear: “Do you know another fantasy of mine? You are in hospital, some mental institution I think, shackled to the bed. You are wired with an IV drip and a bladder catheter. Instead of the nasogastric tube a permanent gastric tube has been implanted into your abdomen. As you are always plugged, you've also got an ileostomy with an ostomy pouch attached. You would be able to breathe on your own, but I have decided that you should be intubated, to shut you up and better control you. Therefore, you have to be kept mildly sedated and given a muscle relaxant. After being kept like this for some time, you have forgotten how to breathe on your own, your muscles have subsided. You are drooling, drugged, reduced to a vegetable. Fuck meat. Because during the day, the urinary catheter gets removed and is replaced with a cock ring so the nurses can ride you. Perhaps you even get Viagra mixed into your meds to keep you hard all the time. That's what you are there for, to be used as the nurses wish, for their amusement. They just pop in during the day and sink down onto your cock. It's always wet, red and swollen, glistening with their cunt juices, as no one bothers to clean you up. In the evening, a doctor comes in and examines you, probing all your holes with gloved fingers and some rather large instruments, using a speculum for example. She'll insert a new catheter after extracting all sorts of samples – blood, urine, semen, saliva, skin, perhaps even faeces? But the highlight of my day is when I turn the respirator off while I wank you, nice and slow, until you are allowed to come, almost passing out due to lack of oxygen. You'd be totally dependent on me, for if I decide to turn your life support off, you can only pray that I'll let you quickly suffocate. But I don't think I would. I might continue the respiration while you slowly starve or die of thirst. And you would let me, wouldn't you?”

Sherlock nods and comes all over himself, without John so much as touching him. John chuckles darkly into his ear before turning him onto his sore back and fucking him hard and fast while choking him with one hand around his windpipe until Sherlock is almost unconscious, black spots dancing before his eyes.

Sherlock remembers getting the bowl the next morning. He crouches on the floor and holds it up while John empties his bladder, sitting on the edge of the bed. Afterwards, John stirs glucose into the piss and feeds it to Sherlock via the tube until his belly is nicely rounded. Then he tends to Sherlock's abused skin, gently washing the dried blood off and applying antiseptic ointment, while Sherlock desperately tries not to wet himself. The wounds are just superficial and will heal in a day or two. But his belly is so full that it hurt, yet John strokes and massages it with both hands while Sherlock sits into his lap.

“If you piss on me, I’ll pour boiling water into your urethra and up your arse every day until Mycroft comes back. Your intestines will suffer from severe burns. But I'll fuck you anyway. So be careful, Sherlock.” He lets Sherlock squirm for another thirty minutes.

Even afterwards, Sherlock is not allowed to use the loo. As his body needs some rest, John eventually has him lie on the bed all day. In memory of his fantasy from last night, he inserts a urinary catheter up Sherlock's urethra so Sherlock can relieve himself. Yet the catheter tube is attached to his nasogastric tube, feeding him his own piss back. Sherlock can watch it if not taste it, as John has hooked up the clear tube in good view. It's both disconcerting and deeply arousing, being subjected to this treatment, watching yellow urine ooze out of him before being absorbed again by his body. A perfect circulatory system.

Only in the evening does John lead a still weak Sherlock into the bathroom and removes the catheter. Afterwards, John holds Sherlock's flaccid cock as he empties his bladder into the toilet bowl, all the while softly kissing his shoulders and nuzzling into his nape.

“You’ve been so good.” John mumbles into his skin. “I've been thinking… I know that we can't do the stuff I want to do to you, what I told you about last night, not here, anyway. I'm sure your brother would be able to find a facility to act this out, though. But perhaps we can do something a bit like it?”

Sherlock just nods. John smiles. “Great. Go back into the bedroom and lie on the bed, I'll get what we need.”

Sherlock does as he's told. John follows a few minutes later with a transparent plastic bag, a role of gaffer tape and a pair of bandage scissors in his hands.

“Get the lube out. I want this to be easy for you.” John tells him. Sherlock's right hand scrambles blindly inside the drawer of John's bedside cabinet, searching for the lube, when his fingers suddenly grasp something heavy, oily, metallic. He takes it out and gapes at it while John sheds his pants.

Sherlock stares at the gun in his hand. John stares at Sherlock. Time stops.

“Careful, Sherlock. You better put that down.”

But Sherlock sits up and turns the weapon in his hand, enthralled.

“I said, put it down.” John walks over to the bed as Sherlock raises his eyes to his face. He looks almost pleading as he stretches out the hand and offers the gun to John.

He takes it very carefully but doesn't put it away. “You want me to... use it?” He asks and Sherlock's eyes go dark as he nods. “While I fuck you?” Another eager nod. “You know that it's loaded?”

Sherlock smiles as best he can with his mouth sewn shut. It looks outright deranged.

“Oh, you are a bad boy, aren't you?” John whispers, pulling back the safety catch and pressing the nozzle of the gun against Sherlock's temple. “Lie back, then. I'm afraid you'll have to do without the lube now.”

Sherlock sinks back against the pillows, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and arousal.

“Spread your legs like the slut you are.” John groans, and Sherlock obeys.

“Now, take the bag and pull it over your head. That's it.” Sherlock's features become distorted by the rustling fabric. The gun only leaves the side of his head for a few seconds. John takes up the gaffer tape with his free hand and rips off a long stripe with his teeth. “Seal it around your neck.”

Sherlock takes the tape and wraps it almost blindly around his throat. John gives him another stripe just to be sure that it's airtight. The gun is pressed into Sherlock's face the whole time as John holds it in place with steady fingers.

John doesn't even remove the gun as he pushes inside Sherlock's hole. Sherlock wraps his legs around his waist and tries to relax as best he can. Despite the lack of lube, John slides in rather easy, encountering just minimal resistance. Sherlock knows better than to fight back. He has just a restricted amount of oxygen to his disposal and is not wasting it in futile rejection of the inevitable. His chest is rising and falling faster and faster.

John starts to fuck him slow and deep while the bag around Sherlock's head starts to fill with carbon dioxide. He's almost pulled up into John's lap as John rotates his hips, brushing his prostate. It feels glorious, especially as Sherlock's body starts to go limp due to the spreading hypoxia. His chest is still heaving as almost all his other muscles weaken, the fight for air becoming the sole purpose, the centre of his attention. The plastic sticks to his face, and only the nasogastric tube prevents it from completely blocking his airways. As his head starts to loll, John presses the gun harder against the side of his face, starting to caress Sherlock with the cold steel. He rubs it over Sherlock's plastic covered cheeks and mouth, down his neck, until he rests the nozzle just below Sherlock's chin.

“Don't move. If I shoot you know, your precious brain will be plastered all over the wall.”

John's other hand grabs Sherlock's sharp hipbone, checking for his femoral pulse. He can feel it flutter under his fingers as Sherlock's body sacks, his eyes starting to roll back in his head. All muscle tension is gone. There can't be any more oxygen inside the bag. Yet Sherlock's cock is stiff and leaking, straining hard against his concave belly, throbbing when John hits his prostate over and over again.

John pounds into Sherlock as he can feel his pulse slowing even further. The bag clings tightly to Sherlock's face. He doesn't move anymore. Good.

John drives even deeper inside the pliant body beneath him. Now, even Sherlock's erection is flagging. His face inside the bag has turned slightly purple, his lips a dark blue. John knows that he doesn't have more than three minutes left until Sherlock will be in serious trouble. Even his sphincter muscle doesn't clench anymore.

In a last moment of clarity, John remember to latch the safety back on. Then his orgasm hits him, crashes over him like a wave as he comes and comes inside Sherlock's motionless, lifeless body.

Yet he can't ride it out or slump down to get his breath back. In a hurry, John cuts open the plastic bag with the pair of bandage scissors he's put onto the bedside cabinet. Upon pulling back the foil, he sees that Sherlock isn't breathing. Pulling up his eyelids reveals haemorrhages in the white of his unresponding, glazed over eyes; exploded blood vessels due to lack of oxygen. John feels for his carotid pulse and is shocked when he doesn't find it.


Quickly, he pulls the nasogastric tube out of Sherlock's nostril. A small rivulet of blood accompanies this procedure, trickling from Sherlock's nose as John disposes off the thin plastic hose. Still, Sherlock doesn't breath. Next, John uses the scissors to cut open the seam sealing Sherlock's lips. He feels frighteningly calm as he does so, like in the eye of a hurricane. Bowing down, pinching Sherlock's nose, John breathes into Sherlock's mouth, long and deep.

He has to repeat the procedure eight times until Sherlock eventually stirs beneath him. A weak cough emanates from his throat. John breathes in three more times until he can feel Sherlock's chest inflate of his own accord under his fingers. His pulse is back as well, beating steadily.

John carefully pulls a still visibly dazed and weak Sherlock up into a sitting position and gathers him in his arms, rubbing soothing circles all over his back. Sherlock chokes and splutters a bit more, but seems to slowly come round.

Jesus, that has been a close call. The shock hits John with delay, the adrenaline kicking in making his body shudder as he peels of the torn bag and the tape.

It takes about five minutes until Sherlock is able to gulp down some water. The colour of his face is slowly returning to normal.

Tentatively, he raises his trembling fingers to his face and touches his lips, his nose.

“It's gone. I had to pull it out to resuscitate you.” John explains. Sherlock nods before he has to clear his throat again, remembering that he can now use his voice.

“Yes.” He croaks, smiling a bit lopsided.

Later that night, after Sherlock has drunk some more water and put on a t-shirt and pyjama pants, John carefully removes the threads of black twine still protruding from Sherlock's dry lips with tweezers, before coating his impossible Cupid's bow with Vaseline. Presumably, the little holes will stay as minor scars. John finds the idea incredibly sexy, envisaging those marred lips wrapped around the base of his cock.

Sherlock falls asleep soon afterwards, curled up in John's arms. He's looks so peaceful, almost innocent, and suddenly very young in the low light of the bedside lamp. John wishes he could keep him like that, shelter him. His last coherent thought before he drifts off as well is that he wants to hide Sherlock away from the world, protect him from all pain despite the agony they both choose to inflict upon him in mutual agreement.

He knows that he could have killed Sherlock tonight, and that Sherlock would have let him, willingly. They are living in symbiosis, a co-dependent unit. They belong together. It's beautiful.

Reality intrudes far too quickly. They are woken next morning by a call from Mycroft, announcing his arrival for the same evening. Promising a surprise.

Chapter Text

Mycroft doesn't arrive alone in the evening. There are two other black cars pulling into the drive behind his limousine. John waits for the entourage in the hall while Sherlock's in his room, getting ready.

It seems that Mycroft has brought a bunch of people. Colleagues? Friends? Adversaries? They are all well-groomed, dressed to the ninth, middle aged men. One of them, a balding yet fit looking bloke in his early fifties, holds a Great Dane on a leash.

“Ah, John.” Mycroft says by way of greeting, noticing John's irritation about the unexpected invasion. “These are a few special friends of mine from the Belarus embassy.” Mycroft continues in a language that John thinks might be Russian, gesturing towards him. The diplomats look him up and down and nod, unsmiling, until one steps forward and offers his hand.


He's the only one to give his name, in a guttural, heavily accented voice. John shakes the offered hand, his eyes darting between Sherlock's brother and his pal.

After the awkward exchange of greetings, Mycroft quickly shows the group into the living room and offers drinks. As he turns to look at John, smiling invitingly while raising one questioning eyebrow, John takes the chance and steps close. “A word, please, if you don't mind.”

Mycroft gives him a stern look before saying something to the room of people over his shoulder and following John across the hall into the study.

“Who are they?” John asks after closing the door behind them.

“As I said, some special friends.” Mycroft sits down behind the writing desk, placing his folded hands on the table top.

“And you want them to meet Sherlock? All of them? And by meeting I don’t mean having small talk over dinner.” John asks. He needs to know if what he presumes is correct.

“Obviously.” Mycroft says coldly.

John swallows, anger rising in his chest. “So, you want to whore your brother out to your cronies?”

Mycroft sighs. “John, calm down. I'm not whoring him out. But, as he won't do detective work anymore, he has to earn his keep otherwise, so to speak. And those men are important. Very important. There are negotiations going on in connection with the British involvement in Eastern Europe…,” Mycroft falls silent, looking grave. “Sherlock’s contribution might be vital. It's not as if I'm sending him to walk the streets.”

“You want to offer Sherlock to those guys as some kind of incentive?” John knows he sounds way too agitated but he can't help it.

Mycroft frowns. “Listen, John, circumstances have arisen that call for an alliance with Belarus. Those men belong to a... trade delegation.” Mycroft coughs to indicate that their occupation has nothing to do whatsoever with commerce. “We need them. And they asked for a special treat. So I have to give it to them. It's in the interest of national security.”

“For god's sake, he's your brother. You want to throw him to the wolves?” John is almost shouting now. “I thought he meant something to you.”

“Oh, John, but he does.” Mycroft’s voice is very soft, soothing. “Only, I had him. In every conceivable way I'm interested in. You know I'm more of a voyeur anyway. I promise that I will be watching, very closely.”

John feels a little nauseous. “And after them, hm? Will you parade your brother around another delegation, and another, and another? Until he’d had half the diplomatic corps up his arse? Offering him to every pervert in Whitehall just for the sake of the Commonwealth?”

“As I said, even Sherlock has the obligation to work for the benefit of the realm. If he doesn't do it as a detective, he still can do it in another capacity. Just think about the potential use of the footage we can obtain from those sessions. We'll have every participant in our pockets.” Mycroft’s eyes shine bright at those future prospects.

John wants to punch something, preferably the man in front of him. “That's just dirty blackmail. I didn't sign up for this.” He says instead.

“You are free to leave any time, John. Though, I think Sherlock might find your presence... reassuring?”

The silence in the room is heavy, laden with accusations.

“You repel me, Mycroft.” John spits out.

“Oh, are we not a little bit self-righteous here, Doctor Watson? If I remember correctly, you offered my brother to four random strangers you met at a pub, to shag him almost into unconsciousness before letting him lick their urine from your kitchen floor. Who do you think you are to judge me?”

“He could have refused. He could have said no.” John defends himself.

“Could he?” Mycroft arches an eyebrow.

“At least I did that for us, for him and me. Not for Queen and country.” He's aware of how weak his excuse sounds.

“Ah, of course, that makes a difference.” Mycroft's smile is cutting, bordering on acerbic. “You know, it's been really insightful talking to you, John, thank you for your input. But I think our guests are waiting; and, I'm afraid, they are not very patient men. They’re probably drunk already, too. Therefore, I'd suggest you get Sherlock down immediately, so we can get the party started. I'm afraid their mood won't be improved if their gratification is delayed any further.”

Mycroft gets up and walks over into the sitting room again, not bothering to look if John's following. As he opens the door, noisy laughter floods the hall. Most of the men have shed their jackets. All are nursing drinks. Champagne bottles have been opened, Vodka shots making the rounds.

On the sofa, John glimpses a man palming his crotch while another watches, grinning obscenely, pulling the leash of the Great Dane and encouraging the dog to hump the armrest. The men cheer the beast on.

“Ah, Mr Holmes,” Vladimir claps Mycroft’s back and pulls him into a bear hug, kissing both his cheeks. Upon releasing him he asks: “Where is little brother? You promised! Look, Armur is in heat.” He gestures over to the dog slobbering on the upholstery. John can see its bright red, swollen knot between its muscular rear legs rutting against the cushions.

As Mycroft closes the door, giving John one last pointed look, the only thought he's able to voice is a heartfelt 'Shit!'

John almost runs up the stairs. He takes his doctor's bag before walking over into Sherlock's room.

Sherlock is sitting on the bed, naked except for a black leather collar around his neck and the silver cock cage covering his penis. He looks breathtaking, all long limbs, silky white skin and dark curls. His nipple piercings sparkle seductively. The black letters on his back only enhance the paleness of his lean body. He looks like a fallen angel, ready to be devoured.

John just can't bear the thought of this celestial beauty being violated by this bunch of drunken brutes down there. He stands in front of Sherlock and gazes down at him, his thumb caressing Sherlock's full bottom lip. It's soft again and a little wet. John remembers that Mycroft wanted to see Sherlock with his mouth still sewn shut. 'Tough luck,' he thinks. John's sure that he won't have to answer for it in front of Mycroft's friends. He'll explain later. Or will he? Does Mycroft have to know everything he and Sherlock did while he was absent? After all, he didn't warn John that he'd invited company.

Sherlock must have overheard the arrival of the group, for he shoots John a questioning look. John knows he can't lie to him, but maybe he can somehow soften the ugly truth?

“Your brother brought some friends. Apparently, they want to play with you as well.” John sees a frown forming on Sherlock's face. “Don't worry.” John continues. “You have been trained well, you will be perfectly able to submit to their wishes. Just, because this might take all night, let me give you something to make it a bit easier for you, to relax and keep you going, ok?”

John strokes Sherlock's hair back from his forehead. Sherlock looks up at him: “Yes, John.”

God, how he trusts me, John thinks. How can Mycroft want to share this precious boy?

John kneels in front of Sherlock and gets the ketamine form his bag. He draws up a syringe before swiping a piece of cotton wool drenched in antiseptic over the sensitive skin at the crook of Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock watches, wide-eyed, as the needle sinks into his vein. John can almost immediately see his eyelids droop a little. At least, Sherlock won't remember much of what'll be done to him. The pain perception will be reduced as well.

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock whispers. John swiftly leans in and kisses him, a chaste touch of lips that lingers. He doesn't want to let go. Neither does Sherlock.

But they have to part. John pulls back. He can't meet Sherlock's mercury eyes.

“Come on, they’re waiting for you.” John helps Sherlock up. He sways slightly in his arms, but steadies himself quickly. Walking him down the stairs is somehow like leading him to the gallows. Horrible premonitions flood John's mind like putrid molasses.

He can feel Sherlock tense as he opens the door to the sitting room. All eyes are suddenly on them. John encouragingly touches the small of Sherlock's back above the tattoo and gives him a little shove, whispering in his ear: “They'll love you. Just remember, relax. Do as you're told. All will be fine.”

Only John registers the sharp look Sherlock's brother shoots him, and answers it with a barely perceptible shrug and a small shake of his head. Mycroft taps his lips twice with his index finger and frowns.

The last thing John sees before the door is closed in his face are the guests positively leering at Sherlock. John stares at the solid wooden door frame a whole minute until he turns and leans his back against it, taking a few deep breaths to compose himself. After a moment, however, he can hear characteristic sounds emerge from behind the door. Slaps, moans, more laughter. He resolutely walks into the kitchen to get himself a beer.


Sherlock feels drowsy as he's abandoned by John and presented to a room full of strangers. The name on the vial he'd been able to glimpse had said Ketalar. He'd briefly wondered why John had thought it necessary to administer a painkiller which also provides sedation as well as memory loss, but in the end had shrugged it off.

Now it dawns on him. The room is full of sweaty, red-faced men. Inebriated men. Aroused men. They stare at him as if they want to rip him apart and eat him alive. Quite possibly, they will.

Sherlock searches for his brother, his anchor in this somewhat unexpected scenario. Mycroft steps up next to him and leads him into the middle of the room.

“This is my little brother, Sherlock. He'll do anything you want tonight. His whole purpose is to serve you.” Mycroft declares in Russian. He looks at Sherlock, checking if he's got the meaning of his words. Sherlock nods, but has trouble to focus. The ketamine is kicking in. He remembers never liking it much. It makes him feel nauseous and wonky. But tonight it might be quite useful. The men already disgust him. And they haven't even touched him yet.

One of them suddenly stands right in front of him and pulls on the silver rings piercing his nipples. Another man steps up behind him and fondles his arse, squeezing his cheeks before pushing his hand in between them. Sherlock doesn't protest, only freezes. He doesn’t like this at all.

Next thing he knows, they bend him over the coffee table, and suddenly there are fingers pushing inside him. His face is shoved against a crotch, then against a naked, hard, leaking penis. Instinctively, he parts his lips and starts to suck or lick. The man above him grunts approvingly. After a few minutes however, he's replaced by a fat blond guy who rubs his erection against Sherlock's cheekbones until they are wet and glistening with his fluids.

Thanks to the drug, Sherlock only feels slight discomfort as a cock enters his anus without proper preparation or lube. Someone starts to fuck him but it doesn't really matter.

After three men came inside him, however, this starts to change. They are quite rough. They just push in and fuck him, grabbing him by the hips or the hair. It hurts. The pain permeates his drug-induced stupor. To add to his disaffection, the men already finished with him make him clean their cocks before urinating onto his head. They tell him to keep his mouth and eyes open. It burns, and almost prevents him from breathing.

The man actually fucking him slaps his arse hard, encouraging him to move. Sherlock tries, but the ketamine interferes with his sense of coordination. He just fidgets and flails helplessly. The man doesn’t stop hitting him, grunting obscenities.

Suddenly, he's pulled up by his dripping curls. His back strains. Another man slaps his face. Hard. Someone is yelling something at him that Sherlock doesn't understand. Blood is added to the mixture of bodily fluids on the table, trickling from Sherlock's nose and mouth.

They call him a pig, a slut. Sherlock nods as best he can and agrees. “Da. Svinnia. Sliucha.” He collapses back onto the table before he's forced to suck another cock clean, a metallic taste filling his mouth.

One man finds delight in spitting into Sherlock's face. Sherlock groans as a slimy dollop drips from fat lips onto his forehead. The next drop hits him right in the eyes; the man hovering above him actually peels his eyelids back to repeat this exceptionally unpleasant experience, a fiendish grin on his face. When a calloused thumb rubs the saliva into his eyeballs Sherlock eventually tries to jerk his head away. His vision blurs further as a fist collides with his temple. The men surrounding him laugh, calling him a worthless whore again as he can feel the cock inside him filling his sore hole with another load of come.

He's told to open his mouth so they can take turns spitting into it. Sherlock has to swallow it all.

“Usmieska.” Someone orders. Smile. Sherlock does, trying not to show his disgust.

He's not sure if he's actually screamed in pain or voiced his revulsion at some point, but suddenly, gaffer tape is pressed over his split lips, before being wrapped tightly around his head a few times Sherlock has to concentrate hard to keep breathing through his nose.

Over the following hour, they choke him until he almost passes out, smash his face onto the table top until blood gushes from his nose, bite and scratch his back and arms until he bleeds, cut the skin of his abdomen and inner thighs with a hunting knife and burn his perineum, balls and chest with cigars. The most amusing thing to them seems to be that Sherlock can only make increasingly desperate noises behind his gag but doesn't resist or fight them; his pathetic snorting and grunting earns him sardonic laughter from his tormentors, who make him crawl and kneel at their feet while doing unspeakable things to him.

Sherlock starts to loose time, mercifully sinking more and more frequently into numb darkness. He’s only pulled back to the surface when sharp pain shoots through his body as a result of a truly vicious attack. The burns, for example, are hard to ignore. He is told to spread his legs, lying on his back, allowing for the glowing cigar ends to be pressed against his most delicate skin. They ask him if he likes it, if he wants more, and he nods, spreading his legs wider.

There are the words carved into his flesh with the hunting knife. 'Pizdzic', he thinks, scratched above his pubic bone; 'suka' across his chest. Warm blood runs down his pectorals. The ketamine only dulls the pain, but doesn't suppress it entirely.

He thinks that by now they've all must have fucked him at least once, but he's not sure as he drifts in and out of consciousness. He jerks awake again when suddenly something big enters him. As he has to kneel on the floor, his cauterized, unfocused eyes try to make contact with Mycroft, who's leaning on the mantelpiece, watching his sufferings with a slight frown on his face, not even batting an eyelid. Sherlock silently begs him to make it stop, but Mycroft just turns away and pours himself another drink.

Sherlock feels lost, abandoned. He can't bear looking at his brother's back any longer. Instead, he faces the window, staring out into the darkness. His reflection shows him that someone has pushed a fist up his rectum. It's soon replaced with an open Vodka bottle. Tears start to run down Sherlock's face, mixing with the blood, sperm and spit already accumulated there. The spirit sloshes inside Sherlock's colon, burning his sore insides. As his bowels adsorb the alcohol, the room starts spinning. His stomach content rises in his throat and floods his mouth. He has to swallow it back down, tasting the sour bile. He closes his eyes and wishes being somewhere else – preferably with John. Then he passes out.

Thanks to the drug and alcohol soaring through his bloodstream, Sherlock is only partly aware of the things done to him at this stage. The blank spaces in his mind grow as his awareness becomes more and more patchy. As if through thick fog, he can hear himself making distressed, helpless sounds; is that him, sobbing? It doesn't feel like him, this boneless, naked, bleeding pile of abused flesh folded over the coffee table.

He knows he's starting to dissociate. There's only so much pain one can take. After a while, the agony becomes rather boring in its repetition, especially to a drugged brain. He wishes the cycle would break, though. He wants this to be over, and therefore allows himself to sink deeper and deeper into unconsciousness to await the end of his ordeal. It works. He zones out.

Until they bring the dog over.


One beer had become three. John still hears the muffled noises, yells and cheers from the sitting room, but tries as best he can to ignore it. Until he just can't anymore.

He drags himself up the stairs and starts to pack his bag, throwing his clothes into his holdall without paying much attention to it. He doesn't want to leave Sherlock here, but he can't stay either and witness him being turned into a cheap slut, forced into servicing people his brother deems important to his work without even being asked for consent. It wasn't supposed to be like that.

Sherlock is special. He belongs to him and Mycroft, and is not a toy to be shared. Sherlock trusts them. Only them. He'd been a virgin a few weeks back, for god's sake! It might have been a fantasy, being fucked by random strangers, but not like this. Not as an asset to international politics. This is just degrading, a violation. Rape. And John won't be part of it. He likes to play games all right, but this is something else. This is evil.

When his bag is stuffed, he slings his laptop over his good shoulder, stuffs his Sig Sauer into the back of his jeans (he never puts it in his luggage while travelling, it could get lost or stolen) and makes his way downstairs again. His plan has been to sneak out of the front door after nicking Mycroft’s car keys, surely hidden in one of his coat pockets, and drive to the nearest station, taking the first train back to London. But as he stores his bag in the boot of the black limousine, John feels the urge to take one last look at Sherlock, to bit him farewell and see how he's doing. John had trained him for this, after all. He deserves a glimpse of how his novice gets on. John walks around the front and along the East wing of the house until he stands on the terrace outside of the large sitting room window.

In retrospect, he wished he hadn't waited this long.

What he sees makes the blood freeze in his veins.

Sherlock has been gagged with tape wound around his head and is being held face-down by two men onto the coffee table, while Vladimir arranges the big grey Great Dane over his back. Well, not only over his back, but also between Sherlock's spread legs. But that isn't the most horrible feature of the scene. What makes John reach for his gun is the look of absolute devastation on Sherlock's face, turned towards the window. His eyes are red-rimmed and protruding from their sockets while a vein throbs on his forehead as he desperately tries to scream in agony and fear. His limbs fidget as if he wants to fling himself off the coffee table, but strong hands press him down and hold him in place. His forlorn expression makes John abandon all caution as he hurries back inside through the kitchen door, storming over into the sitting room, bursting through the door with his gun raised, ready to shoot anyone who dares to stand between him and Sherlock.

He knew what would await him. Yet the sensory onslaught almost overwhelms John. The air is thick with musk (both human and animal), sour sweat and the characteristic stench of blood, piss and hard booze. All the while, Sherlock is making... noises. Desperate grunts; high pitched keens, bordering on hysterical. His unfocused eyes dart around the room, seeking rescue. He sounds raw, animalistic, not human anymore.

The dog perched over him stands very still, only its rear legs trembling slightly.

John moves quickly and has the element of surprise on his side. He doesn't look left or right, just presses the muzzle of his gun against the temple of the man holding the dog in place and yells: “Get it away from him.”

The man freezes. John is aware of movements around him, but he doesn't take his eyes off the man in front of him. “Take the dog away.” He repeats in a dangerously low voice, tightening his finger on the trigger.

The man grabs the dog's collar and pulls him back. The big animal is stubborn and tries to resist the effort, slobbering all over Sherlock's back, paws scratching abused skin, the stiff tail upright in the air. Its owner has to haul quite forcibly. Sherlock's shrill groan rings loud in the otherwise silent room and tells John more than he's wanted to know. Apparently, the dog had already entered Sherlock. Time to get him away from here as fast as possible.

He drags the almost unconscious man up and slings his free arm around Sherlock's midriff. Eight men in differing states of undress and inebriation stare at him, yet John doesn't waver. Instead, he points his revolver at Mycroft and fixes him with a cold stare.

“Tell them to back off.”

“John... Doctor Watson.” Mycroft tries to placate him, taking a step towards them.

“Shut up.” John raises his voice, but the hand holding his Sig stays steady.

Mycroft blinks a few times before saying something in Russian. The men reluctantly take a few steps back, staggering drunkenly around the large room.

“Don't follow us. In fact, you might want to ask your host about recording devices hidden in this room. I'm sure that'll be rewarding.” John hisses. Some of the men turn towards Mycroft, glaring at him angrily. 'That'll occupy them a bit', John thinks. Mycroft starts to talk Russian again, and even John understands that he's trying to assuage his guests' apprehension. 'Good luck with that, arsehole.'

John as quickly as possible steers Sherlock backwards out the door, all the while facing the room. Sherlock can barely walk, but John drapes his left arm around his own shoulder and almost carries him outside. Somehow, he's able to manoeuvre the lanky detective into the passenger seat of Mycroft's car. He has no idea how they will get away with what he just did, but that worry can wait until Sherlock is save back in London, away from his brother.

John glances over at Sherlock, who's slumped into his seat, only half-conscious, his head lolling from left to right. Dried blood obscures his features as he curls up on himself, pulling his knees up to his chest, wincing. Fuck the seat belt, John thinks, as he rips away the tape covering Sherlock's mouth before stepping onto the accelerator.

The sleek black car races through the night. After a few miles, John pulls over into an unpaved side track and parks the car to rummage through the boot. He's seen a blanket there earlier. It's a soft chequered woollen plaid that smells faintly of petrol, but it will have to do. He drapes it over Sherlock before gently stroking his hair back from his forehead. He can't tend to his injuries here, in the dark. He needs proper light, hot water. But he has a plan.

“I'm so sorry for what these bastards did to you.” He whispers. Sherlock doesn't look up but pulls the blanket tighter around himself. “You're save now. Just try to sleep until we reach London.”

The car slides back onto the road as they drive through a moonless night towards their refuge.

Chapter Text

While they drive through the night, Sherlock starts to nod off on the passenger seat. At least John thinks (and hopes) so, as Sherlock's eyes are closed and his breathing has evened out. John knows that it's adamant to take a look at him and his injuries, but he also knows that they have to get as far away as possible from Mycroft and his cronies as fast as they can. Stopping and tending to Sherlock's wounds in the middle of the Sussex countryside is just not an option right now. Besides, the ketamine will make him tired and help him to relax as well as sooth the pain. It's all John can offer him at the moment.

John is aware that they won't be able to hide for long from Sherlock's brother and the Belarusian secret service. They have to make good use of what short lead they gained. As he's sure that the car is most likely equipped with a GPS transmitter, he has to get rid of it as soon as possible. They have to change mode of transport. Yet John is not a professional car thief. The man who actually can pick a lock and might even be able to short-circuit an ignition is currently knocked out next to him. Therefore, John is forced to think of an alternative.

Where best to hide a car? In plain sight, John muses, amongst other cars. Preferably at a place where they can acquire a new vehicle without attracting too much attention. John heads for Heathrow airport.

After manoeuvring the car into one of the vast parking lots, trying to find a space as far away from the security cameras as possible, he wakes Sherlock up and tries to explain. “I'm going to hire a new car. You stay here. I'll be back soon.”

Sherlock just blinks at him, still dazed, wincing as he shifts a little in his seat. He's pale and looks peaky; obviously in pain. John has to hurry.

The airport never sleeps. Even at this early hour there are large crowds flocking inside the terminals. It's simple to locate a car rental and obtain an unassuming Ford Focus. John has to pay with his credit card for insurance reasons, but Mycroft will probably access the CCTV footage anyway and find out soon enough what John has done. That doesn't mean John has to make it easy. Upon leaving the terminal to pick up his rental car, John discreetly puts his phone on a table at Starbucks. He gets a burner phone and a new SIM card at SIM Local instead.

When he parks the Ford next to the black limousine in the parking lot a few minutes later, Sherlock is still crouched on the passenger seat, wrapped in the blanket, motionless, yet his eyes are open and alert, scanning the vicinity. John helps him to change cars, gets his stuff out of the boot and leaves the keys in the lock. With some luck, someone will nick the car, thereby obscuring their tracks.

“Where are we going?” Sherlock asks as they drive into London. It's the first time he speaks during their journey. His voice sounds raw and strained.

“Friend of mine.” John answers. He'd made a call after retrieving his car keys. Murray is awaiting them. He didn't ask why John had been calling at this godforsaken hour, just offered his help.

Bill Murray, a mate from John's army days, lives in in a terraced house Acton. It takes about half an hour drive there. House and garden look neat and tidy; a bright red door greets them. Before John helps Sherlock out of the car, he remembers to take off the leather collar still around Sherlock’s neck. No need for Bill to see that.

The small house is spotless yet cosy and smells of freshly brewed coffee. Thankfully, Murray doesn't ask why Sherlock is just covered in a blanket and looks more dead than alive. He just shows them the bathroom that's so clean John could probably perform a heart transplant in it. After gratefully accepting a mug of coffee for himself and some water for Sherlock, John sets to work.

He's glad that he hadn't seen the full extent of Sherlock's injuries back at the manor in Sussex, otherwise he might have caused a major diplomatic incident by putting a whole in at least one head.

The burns are the worst; the blisters have started oozing. The cuts are horrible to look at as well. They seem to form words which John isn't sorry not being able to read. Luckily, no bones seem to be fractured, yet parts of Sherlock's face have turned a dark purple. His eyes are red and swollen. And he smells.

John gently manoeuvres him into the shower and washes him carefully. Blood, come and piss run down the drain. Afterwards, John patches Sherlock up as best as he can. Sherlock tries to stifle his groans as John tends to his wounds, applying antiseptics and ointment, but can't quite keep from hissing. Before John deals with the burns marring Sherlock's balls and perineum, he has to swallow a few times to keep his hands steady.

He knows that Sherlock needs effective pain relieve, but he has to stay barely functioning as well. So he can't be given anything that would make him drowsy. No opiates, just ibuprofen. The hardest part comes when Sherlock kneels on the tiled floor, arse in the air, his head braced on his forearms. As John spreads his cheeks, he can't stop cursing under his breath. Those fucking bastards! At least he injects a local anaesthetic before stitching Sherlock up.

Finally, John helps Sherlock lie down on the bath mat while he seeks Murray.

“Do you have some clothes for him? Nothing special, just some sweat pants and a hoody. And perhaps some flip flops?”

Murray is a tall man himself, but also much sturdier than Sherlock, with brought shoulders and muscular thighs. Therefore, the clothes he comes up with are much too large for Sherlock, but that can't be helped. It's better than walking barefoot in a blanket.

John really wants to leave as soon as he's finished tending to Sherlock, but Murray insists that they have breakfast. Suddenly, John can feel his stomach growl. He accepts some toast and makes sure that Sherlock eats as well. Surprisingly, it's not difficult. Sherlock seems almost famished as he inhales three slices of bread, dripping with honey.

“If someone's coming round and asks for us, tell them we've gone to Oxford.” John says as they part. Murray gives them both a bear hug as they leave, and John waves over his shoulder as he stirs the car out of the driveway.

“Oxford?” Sherlock asks, raising an eyebrow. He slowly seems to come back online.

“Yep.” John nods, but has to concentrate on the traffic.

After some minutes, Sherlock speaks again. “My parents live near Oxford.”

“I know.”

Sherlock smiles. “Clever.”

John just hums and turns onto the M40. They only stop once again at the outskirts of High Wycombe for Sherlock to call his parents and inform them of their imminent arrival. John can hear how worried Sherlock's mum sounds even over the phone. Her son almost never calls. He must be in deep if he does voluntarily.

John had only met Sherlock’s parents once. They'd been in town to see a musical and had visited 221b before. They had struck John as surprisingly ordinary. Nice, a bit boring, just typical English pensioners. How they could have produced children like Sherlock and Mycroft is totally beyond John.

They are both waiting on the steps of their little pink cottage just outside Oxford when John parks the car. Sherlock tries to get out on his own but stumbles and has to grab the door; John hurries to catch him. His parents just stare, his mother pressing her slightly knotted fingers, sprinkled with liver spots, over her mouth at the sight of the state of her youngest son.

Both his Mum and Dad start to fuss over Sherlock, asking questions simultaneously, offering assistance, but their son just shakes his head and asks for his old room.

“Of course.” Mummy exclaims, but it’s John who steers him up the stairs.

John has no idea how he expected the room of an adolescent genius to look like, but certainly not like this. Perhaps he had envisioned loads of books, a chemistry set, a globe… at home in Baker Street, Sherlock had hung the periodic table on the wall, next to a judo certificate; the skull sits on the mantelpiece… and loads of clutter is strewn all over the flat. But this room is different.

First, it lies in total darkness as John pushes the indicated door open. He has to feel around to find the light switch. When the single bare light bulb dangling from the ceiling comes to life, however, the whole room is ablaze in radiant white that might have hurt the eye if it hadn’t been for the small characteristic black scrawl covering every surface from floor to ceiling. The only furniture consists of a mattress in the far corner. There’s no window, but a slightly protruding part of one wall lets John guess where it used to be before it had been covered with a pane.

John helps Sherlock to lie down, tugging him under the soft sheets. He’s still wearing his hideous outfit. John will ask his parents for some of his old clothes. Sherlock keeps very still, grabbing the blanket, staring up at John from his bruised eyes. It’s evident that he doesn’t want to be here, but he also knows that they need a place to rest. And this is the safest they can be. Mycroft won’t do anything to his little brother under their parent’s roof.

“I think I better go down and talk to your mum and dad. You should try to sleep.”

“John…” Sherlock doesn’t continue, but his expression says it all: doubt, fear, exhaustion, pain, embarrassment. John smiles down at him in what he hopes is an encouraging way. Then he lets his gaze wander over the walls.

“When you wake up, you can tell me about this.” He gestures vaguely at the writing on the walls. Now that he’s taking a closer look, it seems to be one sentence repeated over and over again. 'When you stare into the abyss the abyss stares back at you.'

“I’d rather not.” Sherlock mumbles before closing his eyes.


John sits in the warm, homey Holmes’ kitchen and tells Sherlock’s parent’s something about a case involving some Eastern European thugs. Dress your lies in as much truth as possible, Sherlock has taught him. So he invents an old warehouse in the East End were Sherlock had been held captive for a few days until John got him out.

“But why come to us? He never comes to us. Not even for Christmas. He always stays in that dingy flat of… well, you live there too, now, Doctor Watson.” Sherlock’s mother trails off, making a vaguely apologetic gesture.

John starts to see where Sherlock might have picked up his social skills.

He smiles back at Sherlock’s mother and mumbles something about an experiment gone wrong, resulting in 221b being unfit for human habitation. Both Holmes’ parents give a long-suffering sigh while nodding in sympathy. “And, of course, he outright refused to go to A&E. I patched him up as best as I could and thought I bring him home.”

“I doubt he sees this place as his home.” Sherlock’s mum states dryly.

“Well, he’s here now.” Daddy says a bit wearily. “Do you know how long the two of you might be staying?”

It somehow dawns on John why Sherlock is usually not overtly keen to contact his parents.

“Just a few days.” John has trouble to keep his voice calm and stick to a polite tone. He doesn’t come from a very happy family himself, but distinctly remembers, when he returned back home, invalided from Afghanistan, his father hugging him and putting him up without any questions asked about his pending departure. Sherlock’s parents might seem nice on a surface level, but somehow seem to lack compassion and empathy. Suddenly, many things become much clearer to John.

“You might need a second bedding if you are to stay in Will's room with him.” Sherlock’s mother looks at John from under her lashes. Will, not Sherlock. John's not sure what she’s asking him. “I think we do still have that folding bed in the garage.” John looks straight back at her and nods.

Over the next half hour, John collects the bed, blankets and towels and is shown around the house. As he asks if there might still be discarded clothes Sherlock left behind, his father remembers some boxes in the attic. John has to climb a small folding ladder to reach it.

It feels strange and intrusive to go through Sherlock’s old stuff. There are a few books, records, CDs and tapes, note pads, school reports – but nothing personal, no photographs, drawings or toys nor the typical knick knack one collects as a child and teenager, sentimental keepsakes that one doesn’t need anymore but doesn’t want to throw away either and therefore stores with one’s parents to preserve when moving out. John’s father still has John’s old Action Man as well as snapshots from school trips, drawings, letters he received from Beth Morgan when they both had been in year eight and had exchanged sloppy kisses behind the bikeshed, a box of shells John had collected during a summer holiday in Weston-super-Mare.

Nothing like this remains form Sherlock’s childhood.

The floor creaks behind John and he turns, still crouching over the dusty boxes.

“My wife burned most of it after Will's last relapse. Said she just had one son now. Couldn’t bear being reminded of how happy Will had been as a child.” Sherlock’s father has to bend his head when standing in the low room. “Not as it all went down. He spun out of control.”

Will. He stayed William in this house. Not Sherlock.

John nods, feeling like he’s been caught red-handed while nosing around. Sherlock's dad continues: “I just thought I better tell you. It wasn’t easy with him, you see. You’ve seen his room?”

John nods again.

“He locked himself in there for a week when he was seventeen. Didn’t eat, didn’t sleep, just played the violin at all hours and scribbled those words all over the walls. I broke the door down with Mycroft in the end. We later discovered that he had tried to strangle himself with one of his violin strings. Apparently, he’d been taking heroin and LSD for several days. He was outright psychotic. We had him admitted to a hospital where he had to stay for a few months, sectioned. Afterwards, he moved in with Mycroft, in London. He never came back again. Thought you should know about that. Otherwise my wife might seem a bit… distanced.”

John clears his throat and is glad when Sherlock’s father turns and carefully clambers down the ladder again. In an old suitcase, he eventually finds shabby black jeans and a few black long-sleeves that still could fit. They smell faintly of mould but will have to do.

Sherlock wakes up when John sets himself up in his room. The folding bed is old, and John very much doubts he will make use of it, but for the sake of modesty he unfolds it. He’s not sure how Sherlock or his parents would take the reveal of the nature of their relationship. So he stays with friend and flatmate for the time being. It’s already complicated enough.

Sherlock slowly sits up and stares at John, bleary-eyed and tousled.

“How are you?” John asks.

“Better.” Sherlock moves a little and winces. John had needed five stitches to repair the damage caused by the rape. The knot of a Great Dane is truly massive.

“You should lie down again. I’ll get you some water.”

The house seems empty when John pads downstairs into the kitchen. He gets a glass of tab water and brings it up to Sherlock.

“I think your parents have gone out.”

Sherlock just shrugs, takes a sip and folds himself up on the mattress again. John offers him a few more ibuprofen which he gladly accepts without any discussion.

“Nietzsche.” Sherlock says suddenly.


“The quote. It’s from Nietzsche. Beyond Good and Evil.


“No, John, the book the quote is from. That’s its title. I was slightly obsessed with it during my late teens.”

"He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he thereby become a monster. And if thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee." John quotes.

Sherlock turns and looks at him, surprised, yet smiling.

“Is that why you tried to kill yourself in here?” John asks.

Sherlock's smile doesn't falter, just becomes a bit acerbic. “Ah, my parents talked to you. No, not my parents. Just my father.” Sherlock states, sounding detached, aloof. “If I truly had wanted to kill myself back then, I’d be dead. I just got high and stupid. It didn’t happen again.”

“The getting high?”

“Being stupid.” Sherlock glares at him.

“I’m sorry, I don’t want to intrude.” John is very much aware that he has no right to know all these things about Sherlock. It’s none of his business. If Sherlock wants him to know, he will tell him.

The silence between them stretches.

“We shouldn’t have come here. It’s not that Mycroft won’t be able to find us.” Sherlock huffs after a few minutes, turning on his back.

“Oh, I’m sure he exactly knows where we are by now. But I doubt he’ll do something to you with your parents in the next room.”

“You are going to blackmail him, aren’t you? That’s tremendously stupid of you.” Sherlock sounds rather disappointed in the face of John's alleged idiocy.

“I’m not going to blackmail him. I’m going to offer him a deal he’ll better accept.” John states gravely.

“Or what? You’ll sell his secret to the papers? He’ll laugh in your face. My brother has resources at his disposition that will shut this story down before it spreads. No one will print your allegations.” Sherlock looks intently at John, his hands clenching and unclenching.

“That’s what the internet was invented for, I think? Besides, I’m not selling him to the press. Because that would mean selling you as well.”

Sherlock gazes at John, inquisitively but also very tired. After a moment, he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “I can’t think right know. Just, don’t underestimate my brother. He didn’t get where he is now by playing by the rules.”

“I’m fully aware of that. Now, budge up and let me in your bed. I’m not sleeping on this monstrosity.” John gives the old folding bed a sceptical look before advancing towards Sherlock's mattress.

Sherlock rolls over to the wall while John switches off the light. The room goes pitch black. John’s only guide is the light of his cheap phone's small display. He crawls under the covers and drapes one arm carefully around Sherlock’s middle, falling asleep before his head even hits the pillow.


The darkness surrounds him, and not in a good way. He's had a bad dream. It's disconcerting. John's unable to determine his exact position in the room and feels off-balance until Sherlock stirs next to him.

“What time is it?” Sherlock mumbles.

John grabs his phone. “3:15 am.” He groans and lies back down, throwing an arm over his eyes before remembering that this is absolutely unnecessary in this absolute blackout.

He can feel Sherlock's breath ghosting over his rib cage, fine curls tickling at his side, and instinctively knows that Sherlock is looking at him in the darkness.

“Should we talk?” He asks.

“About what, exactly?” Sherlock retorts, his voice guarded.

“About us. About what happened.”

“Seriously, John? Relationship talk, now. After all we've been through?”

John's not sure if Sherlock is being cynical or just tired. “It's about time, don't you think?” He says, ignoring whatever warning Sherlock tries to convey.

When Sherlock makes a non-committal noise. John ploughs on.

“I kind of kidnapped you. Do you want to go back to Mycroft?” John's not sure what answer he expects.

Sherlock goes very still next to him. “You wouldn't come with me, would you?” He asks in a low voice.

“No, I wouldn't.” John confesses.

“Why? What happened? You seemed to be perfectly fine with the things we did.” Sherlock sounds both confused.

“He offered you around like you were some tray of canapés.” John says flatly.

“Well, it turned him on...” Sherlock cuts in.

“Did it? Are you sure? Because he told me that he needed those people for some secret political alliance. You were just an incentive. A means to an end. He used you for his career purposes.”

“Isn't that what I'm there for? To do as I'm told? Being used?” Sherlock sounds outright sultry. Blood pools in John's groin. This is not the direction he wants this discussion to go.

“They could've killed you with their fucking dog!” He explodes. Does Sherlock know no boundaries?

“You could have killed me with your gun and that bag the other night.” Sherlock points out.

“But that's different.” John knows he sounds rather weak.

“Why?” Sherlock asks.

It's suddenly very quiet in the room. John knows that Sherlock's eyes are trying to penetrate the darkness and bear into him, to cut him open and take a long, hard look at his inner mechanics.

Sink or swim, John thinks, and jumps.

“Because I care for you. They didn't. To them you were just... a thing.”

“And to you, I am...?”

“Everything. You are everything to me, Sherlock. I didn't want it to happen. I fought it. I denied it, but it's no use. I've fallen hard for you, like I never fell for anyone else before.” John's very grateful for the darkness enveloping them right now.

He has no idea how Sherlock is about to react to this. There's erratic movement beneath the sheets, and then Sherlock climbs over him, all elbows and knees, and is gone.

Shit! John thinks.

But suddenly, the room is ablaze with light. John has to shut his eyes against the brightness, and can only squint at Sherlock when he returns back to their bed, kneeling down next to the mattress. He touches one long, pale finger to John's eyebrow and strokes it, brushes his temple, following the line of his cheekbone until he reaches the corner of John's mouth.

“Say that again.” Sherlock demands, staring intently at John.

“You belong to me. I'm not sharing you. I want to take care of you the way you need it. The way I need it.” John's voice it raw with emotions.

“But I thought I was just... an assignment?” Sherlock sounds confused, his finger tracing the outline of John's lower lip until John grabs his wrist and plants an fierce kiss at the centre of Sherlock's palm.

“You never were just an assignment. I refused initially because I feared that we might end up like this.”

“At my parents?”

“No, you git. Messed up, wounded, jealous and on the run.” John smiles, still holding unto Sherlock, who grins back. John takes his hand and places it over his groin.

“I know that you can't service me in the usual way right now, but I think you owe me at least a hand job for saving your virtue from those friend's of your brother.”

“My virtue? Seriously, John?” Sherlock's grin broadens, bordering on lewd, as his long fingers creep inside John's pants. John grips his wrist, hard.

“Take your clothes off.” He groans. Sherlock gets rid of those baggy sweat pants and the worn out t-shirt and hoodie as quickly as his battered body allows for. Naked, he sinks back down onto his knees on the floor and resumes fondling John's cock.

First, he cups John's balls through his pants and rolls them slowly in his palm. As he can feel the thick shaft harden, he gives it a few lazy tugs before, with the help of both hands, divesting John of his underwear while John pulls his t-shirt over his head.

Sherlock stays on the floor next to the bed, spits into his right hand and strokes John to full hardness. They don't have any lube, so saliva and John's pre-come will have to do. Soon, he starts leaking, and Sherlock's ample fingers smear his juice all over his cock. John hums with pleasure as he watches, his eyes darting between Sherlock's hand on his cock and Sherlock's face. His lips are wet and slightly parted, his eyes hooded beneath heavy lids.

“Please, let me lick you, John.” Sherlock begs in a hoarse whisper. “I need your taste on my tongue.”

“Sherlock, your face is in no condition to get fucked. It'll need a few more days to heal. Patience.” John sighs, at the moment totally content with Sherlock's elegant fingers wrapped around his shaft. “Put your other hand on my balls again. That's it.”

John watches the muscles in Sherlock's wiry arms work beneath his skin. It's usually perfect alabaster. Now, however, there are purple bruises covering his forearms, and John is reminded of what had been done to his lover. Anger wells up inside him, mixed with a fierce protectiveness that threatens to choke him. He moans softly, and Sherlock looks questioningly up at him, uncertainty in his eyes. John forces a smile onto his face as he tenderly cups Sherlock's face and strokes his cheekbone with his thumb. Sherlock relaxes visibly. John closes his eyes and tries to ignore the cuts and wounds and concentrates instead on enjoying Sherlock's touch.

Sherlock gently massages John's sack while his other hand plays teasingly with his foreskin. He watches mesmerised as John's swollen, glistening cockhead pushes out of his fist again and again. John can see the longing on Sherlock's face, but his lip is still split open and his left eye and cheekbone are badly bruised. As much as John wants to push his cock inside this impossibly beautiful mouth, it'll have to wait.

As John stares up at Sherlock, he sees that his cock is hard and leaking as well, already straining against his concave belly. John hadn't put the cock cage back on after tending to Sherlock's wounds at Murray's house., and wonders if the burns on his perineum hurt as his cock stiffens and swells. Spontaneously, John decides to allow Sherlock to come tonight, as a compensation for all his sufferings the previous night.

As if on cue, Sherlock moans softly and rocks his hips forward. A bead of translucent pre-come dribbles down his shaft while his hand on John's cock speeds up.

John can't slap him, not tonight.

“Hold you breath for me, Sherlock.” John says instead. And Sherlock does, clamping his mouth shut, pressing his lips tightly together. John counts to thirty, then allows him to breath again. The next time, he counts to forty-five, fifty, fifty-five. Sherlock's face turns red; a vein on his forehead protrudes and throbs. When permitted, he fervently sucks in air. His head must be swimming.

Sherlock looks totally wrecked when they reach sixty-five. His grip on John's cock tightens, then goes almost limp. His own cock protrudes aggressively, violet and positively dripping on his thighs.

“You're doing so well, Sherlock. You're so beautiful like this. Do you want me to make you come?”

Sherlock nods frantically while still pumping John's cock.

“Stop it.” John orders, and Sherlock's hand stills, falling to his side. John gets up and stands over him, resuming Sherlock's work with his own hand. He adds a lascivious twist to every second stroke, and it only takes a few moments before he can feel his balls tighten.

“I'd love to come on your face or your arse, Sherlock, but you are too badly damaged for this. I'll come on your chest instead. Thank god those bastards didn't rip your piercings out. Lean back and stop breathing until I'm finished.”

Sherlock places his hands flat on the floor behind his back and arches up, baring his torso. John takes in the patches that cover the burn marks and cuts. It's not that he wouldn't do such things to Sherlock, to drive him mad with pain and desire. But he loathes that others claimed a right to do so. Sherlock's body is his to torture and hurt, no one else's. Only John knows how much Sherlock can take, how far they can go. That's not to say he wouldn't push Sherlock's boundaries. But it has to be done out of genuine desire on both parts.

John has stopped counting and just stares down on the man who is wiling to obey him even to the extent of risking to pass out due to lack of oxygen. Their eyes lock; Sherlock's are blown wide and pleading, yet he doesn't breath. He doesn't blink either, he holds John's gaze in both defiance and submission. John comes so hard that his knees almost buckle, shooting his load all over Sherlock's ribcage.

John grabs Sherlock's hair to steady himself and Sherlock's head swings forward, taking a big gulp of air while at the same time trying to suck John's cock into his mouth and clean him up. John has to tug a little harder than intended to keep Sherlock's greedy tongue at bay.

“Shh, no! I said no!”

Sherlock almost whines in disappointment.

“Well, come on then, smear your fingers through my come and lick them clean.” John relents, and Sherlock sets eagerly to work. Meanwhile, John sinks back down onto the mattress and takes Sherlock's leaking cock in his left hand. It's hot and heavy, thick and rock hard. Sherlock's eyes literally role back in his head as he pushes into the touch.

“Don't move. Just feed yourself my come. I'll take care of you.” John gently tugs and swears that he can feel Sherlock's cock outright pulsating in his palm.

Despite John going slow, it doesn't take long. Sherlock is too exhausted to keep it in any longer, and John, for once, won't drag it out beyond what Sherlock can bear. The man needs some rest after all he's been through, as well as some tender caresses and aftercare.

As Sherlock stuffs two come-covered fingers deep into his mouth, John touches his right nipple ring with his free hand and pulls slightly. Sherlock moans around his digits, almost in surprise, and comes, still frantically sucking. Yet he keeps his hips still as John had told him, perfectly obedient. John watches as thick streaks of come coat his hand while he works him through it, almost hitting Sherlock on the chin.

He lets him lick his fingers clean afterwards, one at a time, before carefully pulling Sherlock back into bed, tugging him in. He's boneless and pliant. John kisses the nape of his neck and closes his eyes, not bothering to put out the light again. He doesn't like total darkness. He wants to see Sherlock when he wakes up. Sherlock shuffles a bit under the sheets before his breath evens out and he goes back to sleep.

Chapter Text

They wake up a few hours later, Sherlock curled into John's side. A look at John's phone tells them that it's 7:30 in the morning. John shifts, dragging his left arm out from under Sherlock, and Sherlock quickly sits up, yawns, and tries to smooth down his tousled curls. He looks rather young, still a little bleary and not fully awake yet. John smiles up at him. The ordinariness of the whole scene strikes him as odd. Is that really them, sleepily cuddling like normal boyfriends? Is that what they both want from this arrangement?

John has to use the loo, and as Sherlock is still covered in dried come and his wounds need checking and re-patching, they just tug on their pants and shuffle together over into the bathroom.

Sherlock watches John piss in the toilet, licking his lips, but John just smiles and shakes his head. “You are insatiable!” Seriously, those next few days will be trying for both of them.

After washing his hands, John cleans Sherlock with a warm flannel before changing his dressings. He applies ointment and takes a quick look at the sutures between Sherlock's arsecheeks. Sherlock had been positively ripped apart and bleeding. He will take time to heal. Both of them don't feel inclined to dwell on those injuries in particular.

“Okay, get up.” John steadies Sherlock by taking his elbow while turning him around. The bathroom is small, so they have to stand close. They can feel each other's body heat. John grins back at Sherlock, but there's a dark edge to it, possessive and predatory, when he pulls Sherlock down and brushes their lips together, his tongue darting out to gently caress Sherlock's full lower lip.

“Get dressed. Then we'll root for some breakfast.” John hums against Sherlock's inviting, yielding mouth.

Sherlock purrs in approval, slightly dazed, and opens the door to slip out with just a towel around his hips, only to almost bump into his father. There's a short embarrassed silence. Sherlock grabs the towel tighter, but of course his father sees all the bruises, the bandages – and the silver rings piercing his younger son's nipples. John can only stare at Sherlock's naked back, at the barely covered tattoo, and is glad that his army training has provided him with the mental repertoire to react quickly under pressure and in immediate danger. He swiftly steps forward and slides his arm around Sherlock's slim waist.

“Sorry, excuse us.” John mumbles as he gently steers Sherlock back into his room. Sherlock's father somewhat gapes at them, but doesn't say a word as he slowly enters the bathroom and closes the door behind himself.

Back in Sherlock's room, John lets out a deep sigh. “That was a close call.”

“He saw the piercings.”

“At least he didn't see your tattoo.”

Sherlock touches his hand to the small of his back and frowns, looking suddenly shockingly like his dad. “I told you, we shouldn't have come here.” He repeats once again in a low voice.

“We just have to be careful.” John states firmly.

They quickly get dressed and make their way downstairs into the kitchen. Sherlock is wearing a pair of his old skinny jeans, but as the longsleeves are just a bit too short in the arms and at the waist, exposing a sliver of pale skin, he's chosen the hoodie again instead, looking skinny and lost in the oversized garment hanging loosely from his light frame.

Both Sherlock's parents are seated at the large wooden table by now, having breakfast. When John and Sherlock enter, the conversations dies. It certainly had been about them, then. The atmosphere in the cosy kitchen suddenly turns icy.

“Morning.” John says before pouring Sherlock a cup of tea and spooning sugar into it, trying to act as normal as possible.

“John. Sherlock.” Sherlock's mother replies, not so much as a greeting but just as an acknowledgement of their presence.

“Mother. Father.” Sherlock retorts coldly, and John could actually kick him, but decides to shove toast and jam at him instead. They can't afford provoking Sherlock's parents even more. They need them right now.

Finally seated around the table, they all eat in frosty silence. It might be the most awkward meal John has ever had. He's almost glad when Sherlock announces that he needs a cigarette, stands up brusquely and exits out of the kitchen door barely five minutes after they came downstairs. John shrugs and tries to follow him, but is held back by Sherlock's father.

“John. Could we have a word, please?” Determined rigour permeates the polite tone of the question. John slowly sits back down again.

Sherlock father clears his throat. “So, you and Sherlock...?”

John looks the man straight in the eye and says: “Yes.”

“You are... in a relationship? With our son?”


Both Sherlock's parents gape at him in consternation.

“Are you sure about this?” Sherlock's mother asks when the silence has become somewhat uncomfortable.

John shifts his steady gaze over to the woman's face. “Yes.” He says, staring her down.

“Those bruises...” Sherlock's father seems searching for words. “And the rings in his...” He turns a bright prune as he gestures vaguely in front of his chest.

John gets to his feet vigorously. “I understand that you are a bit worried by Sherlock's current state. But I'm not discussing our relationship with you. He's an adult. That's between him and me. It's none of your business. I'm sorry. We wanted to breach the subject to you a bit more delicately. Now, excuse me, please. I have to look after Sherlock.”

John heads outside without looking back at the dumbstruck couple at the table.


“Did they try to scare you away with more stories about my disturbing behaviour as an adolescent?” Sherlock asks wryly as John leans next to him at the fence. John has no idea where the cigarette Sherlock is smoking came from, but feels that now is not the right time to scold him for it.

“They tried to warn me off. As if that's an option.” John smiles, standing close, looking up into Sherlock's haggard face. Something shifts in his eyes. He takes a final drag before flicking the butt away into the damp grass.

“Perhaps you should listen to them?” Sherlock says, turning his head to stare into the distance.

“Don't be an idiot.” John pushes his hand up into Sherlock's curls.

“I'm sure they are watching us.” Sherlock mumbles as John pulls him down.

“Damn sure they are.” John answers before sealing Sherlock's mouth with a searing kiss. He takes his time snogging Sherlock thoroughly.

“Come on, let's go to Oxford, we need to get you some decent clothes.” John whispers against Sherlock's lips when his cheeks have turned a very endearing pink.


Upon their return a few hours later, laden with bags full of shirts, underwear, a suit and a pair of black leather shoes, there's another car parked in the driveway. A black limousine.

Ok, here we go, John thinks. He entwines his fingers with Sherlock's and briefly raises their hands to his mouth, pressing a quick kiss to the inside of Sherlock's slim wrist; an erratic pulse beats against his lips. They exchange a poignant look before getting out of the car.

Into battle.

As they enter the house, they can hear voices from the sitting room. John drops their shopping bags in the hallway and turns to face Sherlock, who gives him a brief nod. John takes a deep breath, opens the living room door and walks right in, Sherlock trailing behind.

“Hello Mycroft.” John's voice is firm.

Sherlock's brother stands to greet them.

“Sherlock. How very good to meet you, little brother.” Is there a threat in his smooth voice? John's not sure. “How are you? Our parents just told me about your... abduction.” Mycroft completely ignores John.

“My two sons joined under one roof. Is it my birthday?” Sherlock's mum chirps, blissfully unaware of the undercurrent of those remarks just exchanged. There are actually two separate conversations taking place in the same room. “Mind, you usually don't even turn up for that occasion.” The smile Sherlock's mother gives her younger son is somewhat tight.

“What do you want, Mycroft?” Sherlock asks by way of a greeting. John stays silent.

“I'd like to have a word with you two. About that case you told our parents about. The one were John had to get you out.” He lies without a hint of hesitation. Sherlock's parents get up as if on cue.

“We'll leave you to it, then.” Sherlock's father says as he scuttles off, pulling the door shut behind them. They are probably used to this kind of secrecy between their two sons.

The temperature in the room falls several degrees as the smile is instantly wiped from Mycroft's face.

“So, this was the best you could come up with? A soldier and a consulting detective... running straight home to Mummy and Daddy?” Mycroft almost sneers as his anger briefly shows.

Sherlock just stares at his brother, assessing him. Has he just shown his hand? As they both stay quiet and don't spring to the provocation, Mycroft continues somewhat calmer.

“You were rather easy to locate. I'd thought you'd at least make an effort, go somewhere less obvious, cover your tracks.” Mycroft's voice drips with disdain.

“Who said we wanted to hide?” John retorts, not in the least intimidated.

“Well, after your rather spectacular exit, I expected something clever.” Mycroft seems surprised by John's answer, flustered even.

“I put effort in things worth it.” John says, glancing over at Sherlock. “I know your resources, Mycroft. It's useless to try to run and hide from you.”

Mycroft gives him a chilling smile. “My friends were rather put out the other day. It took a lot of persuasion to keep them from going straight after you.”

“I'm sure you were quite convincing.” John deadpans.

“Well, I had to offer them a replacement. Anthea might be in need of plastic surgery. We'll see when she's returned to me in a few days. If she's returned to me.” Mycroft stares directly at his brother, his eyes hard and cold. “And it'll be all your fault, Sherlock. Because you couldn't handle it. And yours , John, because you acted totally unprofessional.”

Sherlock swallows and is about to say something, but John steps up next to him and puts a steadying hand on his upper arm.

“Fuck off, Mycroft.”

“I don't think so, John.” He sounds rather amused all of a sudden. “Can you image what my friends might do to her? Perhaps right now? I'm sure Sherlock can. You always loved dogs, didn't you, little brother?”

Sherlock has turned rather pale. “I don't believe a word you say, Mycroft.”

“Oh, I'm sure I could get a video feed if you insist. Look, I had to give them something after your premature departure. Anthea happened to be at hand.” Mycroft makes a rather rude gesture and grins.

“Well, so the situation's been dealt with.” John states, gripping Sherlock's arm more tightly. He can feel Sherlock tremble slightly. A change of subject is called for. “And as you can see, Sherlock is not coming back to you. So you may leave now. I'm sure you have a war to start somewhere.”

“Is that so?” Mycroft looks at Sherlock, frowning.

“You heard John.” Sherlock says in a low voice. But he doesn't meet Mycroft's eyes.

“I want to hear you, Sherlock. Not your handler. Tell me you won't come back to me.” Mycroft's voice is deep and confident.

Sherlock swallows but stays silent. John slowly removes his hand. Mycroft's smile broadens.

“All the things we had, together, you and me. Remember, only I know who you really are. What you need. We are one flesh and blood. It's instinct. You belong to me. You've always belonged to me.” Mycroft takes a step towards Sherlock. “Let's go, brother mine.” He almost purrs, reaching out to touch his brother.

John doesn't move. Instead of looking at Mycroft, he fixes Sherlock with an intense gaze.

Sherlock seems frozen, paralysed. He stares at his brother for a long moment before very deliberately taking a step back and sitting down into one of the flowery armchairs, crossing his legs primly. John can't suppress a smug smirk as he lowers himself onto the armrest.

Mycroft's hand twitches mid-air before it falls back onto the handle of his umbrella. All put on friendliness is suddenly gone from his tone: “You have no idea what you've got yourself into. Do you seriously think I'll let this slip?”

“I think you'll have no choice.” John retorts calmly

Mycroft laughs. It's a disconcerting noise. “You seriously think you are in a position to threaten me, John? Sherlock, stop this nonsense. Get in the car, we are leaving.”

Sherlock leans back in his armchair and folds his hands over his knees.

“I don't think so.” John states.

“My brother will do as he's told and leave this house with me, now.” Mycroft drives the pointed tip of his umbrella into the creamy carpet to emphasise his order.

“Or what?” John asks in stubborn defiance, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“Do I really have to make threats, John?” Mycroft tilts his head and glares at John from narrowed eyes.

“Go on, try me.” John growls.

Mycroft shakes his head in disappointment and sighs. “Your career, your future, I can wipe it out with one stroke of my pen, John. Army pension, gone. Medical license, gone. Credit cards, bank account, gone. Just like that.” Mycroft snaps his elegantly manicured fingers. “I could even have material found in your possession that would guarantee your immediate incarceration for a very long and unpleasant time. You know how paedophiles are treated in prison? I can crush you like some pest under my heel without sparing a second thought. Are you truly willing to risk your life and everything you care about just to nettle me?”

“You don't get it, do you, Mycroft?” John replies, smiling while putting a hand on Sherlock's nape. “This is not about you. This is about Sherlock. I don't give a toss what you'll do to me. But I won't leave Sherlock to you and your twisted little games.”

“Now, isn't that lovely. Did you actually become attached to your new sub? You, of all people? Three continents Watson, one of the most proficient and firmest doms I've ever encountered?” Mycroft's voice is dripping with irony. “What a match. Are we supposed to get a happy announcement soon? I'm rather curious how our parents would react to that if someone told them how you two met and what you've been up to lately.”

Sherlock's sits up, his back rigid. “Me, too, brother dear.” He hisses.

Mycroft swallows. Sherlock can see that he's caught him on the wrong foot. “No, you wouldn't.” Mycroft drones.

“Oh, but I would.” Sherlock states, leaning forward, a cold, determined smile on his face.

“You can't do that to Mummy!” Mycroft raises his voice in slight alarm.

Sherlock shrugs. “She despises me anyway. I've got nothing to loose here. You, on the other hand, always were her favourite. Imagine how she would react if I showed her my tattoo.”

Now it's Mycroft's turn to pale. John keeps very still as the two brothers engage in one of their legendary staring matches.

“You have no proof.” Mycroft growls through gritted teeth. “She might think it was one of your daft, self-destructive ideas while high as a kite. Like hanging yourself. Or cutting yourself. Or blaming me for Redbeard's death.”

Sherlock inhales sharply. “You drowned him and made me watch. To teach me that caring was not an advantage.”

John feels the hairs on his arms rising.

“But did Mummy believe you when you told her? No. She just put on her disappointed face and sent you off to bed without supper, because she thought you were lying.” Mycroft's expression is cruel. “You see, no one would believe you if you told them what happened between us.” He smiles triumphantly.

Sherlock goes visibly tense. A flush spreads over his cheekbones. The knuckles of his clenched fingers have turned white.

“You forget that I still have the video.” John says, wiping that cheeky grin off Mycroft's face in an instant. “The one in which you fuck your brother so hard he almost passes out. The one in which you beat and strangle him. Imagine your parents having to watch that.”

“You wouldn't...” Mycroft begins but then falls silence as he becomes aware of the look on John's face.

“Believe me, I would. I don't care what your parents think of me. But it seems to be rather important to you.”

Mycroft straightens, pulling on his cuffs, smoothing his lapels. He seems to re-evaluate the situation. After a moment, he says: “Fair enough. If that's the case, if Sherlock wants to stay with you, I have no choice but to concede defeat. Good day, Sherlock. John.”

With a small nod, Mycroft takes his leave. Both Sherlock and John only dare to breathe again when they can hear his car drive away a few moments later.

John smiles down at Sherlock and wants to hug him, to tell him that everything will be alright, but the look on Sherlock's face stops him dead in his tracks.

“You don't believe it's over, do you?” He asks instead., stroking his thumb over Sherlock's nape.

Sherlock slowly shakes his head. “No. Mycroft isn't the type of person who gives up easily. I think he's just regrouping his troops to plan a new attack.”

“How much time do you think we have?”

“Two weeks, maybe three. He'll try to acquire the video. Or to gather material against you. And perhaps against myself as well. We are his enemies now. And Mycroft doesn't take prisoners.” Yet, Sherlock doesn't sound too worried, only slightly intrigued.

“I'm sure you'll come up with something to prevent this. One of your clever plans.” John ruffles Sherlock's hair and Sherlock looks up at him, grinning smugly.

“Perhaps you could help me concentrate on the issue a bit more?” He asks innocently.

“I can think of one or two ways to make you focus on the task at hand.” John mumbles as his grip tightens almost painfully in Sherlock's curls. “Just let's get back to London.”

“Oh yes.” Sherlock agrees.


That evening, when they are alone in Sherlock's room, John stuffs Sherlock's pants into his mouth and plays with his nipple rings until he fidgets and squirms under the touch. John's fingers start to roam, ghosting over Sherlock's abdomen, his pectorals, the crease of his groin, his strong thigh muscles, while he whispers a litany of filthy words into Sherlock's ear.

“Imagine Mummy and Daddy seeing their youngest son like this. Gagged, begging to be used and played with. You already fucked your brother. Wouldn't you like to lick your Mummy's cunt as well? Push your tongue into her wet snatch, deep and slow, until her juices are smeared all over your pretty face. Like this.”

John takes his own cock in hand and brushes its already glistening tip over Sherlock's cheekbones. Sherlock, who's lying on his back on the mattress while John hovers over him, starts to rut up into the air, keening into his gag.

“I bet you would like that. Getting your Mummy off with your clever mouth, fucking her with your sharp tongue, your face buried between her legs.”

Sherlock nods frantically.

“While we all watch? Daddy, me, even Mycroft?”

Another fierce nod, accompanied by a low moan. Sherlock blushes, a pink flush spreading all the way down his torso.

“You'd be such a good boy, wouldn't you? Servicing your Mummy under the dinner table while the rest of the family eats supper. Or in her bed, kneeling naked between her thighs, sucking at her twat, playing with her large nipples. Anytime she asks. Perhaps Daddy would cheer you on, tell you what to do, because you are not very experienced with mature women... How to use your mouth, your fingers...”

Sherlock outright whimpers.

“You are a very dirty boy, Sherlock Holmes. Filthy. Deranged. You fantasise fucking your mother. I bet you also want to lick her arse, put your tongue up there, perhaps while Daddy fingers your tight hole.” John crouches over Sherlock on all four, his hard cock just inches away from Sherlock's gagged mouth.

“I bet your Daddy would love to bend you over his desk sometimes and just sink his cock into your pink arsehole. To fuck all your disobedience right out of you. Hard and fast, as you deserve it. Did he beat you with his belt when you were younger? No? I bet he wanted to, though. I bet he wanted to grope you and hold you down, shut you up and just take you. The family way, you know.”

John stares down into Sherlock's eyes, glazed over with lust. “Would you like to suck your Daddy's dick, Sherlock? Like I taught you to? On your knees, taking him deep, almost gagging on his massive prick?”

Sherlock shudders beneath him, his face bright red with shame and want. John quickly pulls the damp pants from his mouth and slides up, squatting over his face.

“Just suck at my balls. That's it. God, you are such a greedy slut. I really want to show your parents what a good boy you can be.”

Sherlock swipes his tongue over John's testicles, sucks at the sensitive sac and rolls the nuts in his mouth while John fists his cock above his face. It doesn't take long for him to come, decorating Sherlock's dark curls with thick white stripes.

By now, Sherlock is almost sobbing with need. “Mummy, Daddy...” he moans. “Please, I've been so good, please, let me touch myself. I'll be a good little boy. I'll do as I'm told. Please.” He's begging, and if John hadn't come mere seconds ago, he could do it all over again.

“Go on then, you filthy bugger. Show me how you play with your little cock.”

Sherlock's fist closes around his leaking shaft. He only has to tug a few times before he spurts all over his fingers, moaning lewdly into the pillow.

“Look, you soiled the bedding. Naughty boy! Put your face in it and suck.” Sherlock sits up, still shaking, and scrambles onto all four. When he presses his cheek into the wet spot on the sheets he sighs contently. John smiles and let's him lick and suck the sheets clean before gathering him up in his arms.

“I love our little games.” He whispers into Sherlock's ear. Sherlock nods and smiles wickedly against his chest.

“You know, those are fantasies, right? I'm not making you do these things for real, not anymore.” John explains, mumbling into Sherlock's still come-streaked hair.

“I know, John.” Sherlock hums against his skin before he falls asleep.

John returns the rental car at the station the next morning when they take the first train home.

Chapter Text

John has time to think about what he'll do to Sherlock when they'll arrive home during the train journey. As Sherlock's arse will still be off limits for some time, penetration is not an option. Yet, Sherlock's bruises are getting paler, the cuts and burns are healing and his face is almost back to normal.

Their usual games seem off the table at the moment, after what Sherlock has been through. So John has to come up with other ideas to take Sherlock apart and give him the chance to shut out peripheral influences. Sherlock's mind needs to be quieted. He'll have to focus to come up with a solution as to how they'll get his brother off their backs. John will have to deprive Sherlock of all distractions to free his mind and enable him to forge a plan that's clever enough to beat Mycroft Holmes.

There has been an irrevocable shift in their... partnership. Sherlock will not decide things alone anymore. John won't allow for scheming behind his back, a tactic Sherlock has been quite fond of in the past. In exchange, John will provide Sherlock with the kind of distraction he craves. John knows what Sherlock needs – it's not drugs, it's not even cases, it's being rescued from all-consuming, brain-wrecking boredom by way of sensation play. And John is very good at that.

Right now, Sherlock needs to forget and to concentrate. He has to find his place again, now that's just the two of them, and in a committed relationship.

John starts right after their arrival at 221b. If they are going to live this, there's no use wasting their scarce time with superfluous diffidence.

Mrs Hudson is surprised to see them. Apparently, Mycroft had dropped by to talk to her and inquire after their whereabouts. From what he'd said, their landlady had gathered that they wouldn't be coming home for some time.

“Change of plans, Mrs H. You know how things are with Sherlock.” John explains, and Mrs Hudson smiles and nods. John pushes Sherlock up the stairs and politely refuses her offer of tea. “We are just knackered and need some rest.”

John locks the door behind them when they reach their flat. Sherlock turns and stares at him. He has been quiet during the train ride. John had let him rest, but now he can see the familiar signs of impatience slowly creeping back into Sherlock's behaviour. He's at the end of his tether, all keyed up, nervous and fidgety.

John steps right into his personal space, grabs his chin between thumb and forefinger and tells him: “Get into the bedroom, strip and kneel.”

Sherlock's eyes go dark; he hurries to obey John's command.

When John enters the bedroom a few minutes later, Sherlock has taken off all his clothes and is on his knees next to the bed, already half-hard, his foreskin starting to retract, exposing his glans.

“God, look at you. You are a right slut, Sherlock. Gagging for it.” John nudges Sherlock's erection with his foot. “Does it hurt?”

Sherlock shakes his head, not sure if he's allowed to speak.

“I won't be able to shag you as hard as you need it for at least a week. But you have to focus. I can see that you're getting all antsy and jittery with forced abstinence. So we better get this out of your system, for you to concentrate on our imminent problem with your brother.”

Sherlock flinches as John mentions Mycroft.

“I know you don't want to think about him right now.” John says. “I'll help you forget. Remember, it worked with Moriarty as well.”

Sherlock nods, his eyes two dark pools in his pale face, staring up at John, who now puts a few items down on the bed for Sherlock to see: weights, a collar, a leash, a spider gag, the double dildo they'd used the other night, mere weeks ago, but it somehow seems so much longer since.

“Just because I won't beat and fuck you doesn't mean I can't show you your place, Sherlock. There are many other ways to give you what you need.”

“Yes, John. Thank you, John.” Sherlock whispers.

“Let's begin. Beg me to start.”

Sherlock lowers his head. His hands rest on his thighs, balled into fists. His nipple rings shine in the sunlight streaming through the curtains. He's not quite in the right frame of mind. Tension radiates from his body.

“I can't hear you, Sherlock.” John's voice suddenly has a hard edge to it.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, then says: “Please, John. Put me in my place.” One of his long pale hands reaches out and takes the collar, holding it up, offering it to John while Sherlock's eyes stay on the floor.

John takes it and quickly fastens it around Sherlock's bowed neck, stroking his thumb over the protruding vertebra just visible beneath his nape. Sherlock shivers. John pushes his hand in the curls at the back of his head and drags Sherlock's head up. His grip is so fierce that the skin tightens at Sherlock's temples, making his eyes appear even more almond-shaped.

“Take the weights.” John groans. They are slim, silver pieces, fastened with a clamp.

Sherlock fumbles a little, slowly attaching the heavy weights to his nipple rings. They are nearly three ounces each and drag nicely at his pale pink nubs.

John smiles: “Get on your hands and knees.” As Sherlock bends forwards, he moans as the weights dangle from his chest, pulling at his nipples, stretching the skin. He's thin and doesn't sport much body fat, however, therefore they don't droop much. Sherlock's head is bowed so that he can watch. His cock juts out between his legs, twitching and leaking. His breathing is speeding up.

When John attaches the leash to the collar, Sherlock sighs. He's coming down, sinking into subspace.

“Crawl.” John orders, and Sherlock does.

John makes Sherlock creep into the living room. The weights swing, and Sherlock gasps wantonly. His cock is dripping, rock hard by now, poking obscenely between his legs.

John ties the end of the leash to one leg of the desk. Sherlock has to kneel next to it as John sits down in a chair. He's palming himself through his jeans. Sherlock licks his lips as his eyes are glued to John's groin.

“You want me to feed you my cock?” John asks.

Sherlock nods, looking already a bit dazed. The collar makes it hard to swallow.

John slowly unbuttons his fly. As his cock springs free, Sherlock's head jerks greedily forward but the leash holds him back, just out of reach.

“God, you are such a cock slut. But if you don't stay still you won't get anything.”

Sherlock reluctantly sits back on his heels and waits. His cheeks are tinged pink with arousal. He blushes even more as John slowly strokes himself in front of Sherlock's face. Sherlock can smell him, can see the salty fluid well up his slit, and it's maddening being not allowed to taste.

John obviously enjoys Sherlock's hungry stare, taking his time teasing himself. After a few minutes, he powers up his laptop and clicks through his browser history to look at some of his favourite porn videos. They mostly, but now exclusively, feature young, thin, dark-haired men, lean and boyish, being used: fucked, fingered, spanked until they scream.

John strokes his cock while watching. As the laptop is angled away from his field of vision, Sherlock can only listen to the explicit noises and licks his lips in anticipation, getting more and more desperate by the minute. Yet John doesn't as much as glance at him, in fact he completely ignores Sherlock while indulging in dirty flicks on the internet. Currently, a young, pale actor in tight leather trousers is sucking off an older partner, his hairless chest heaving while he takes the massive cock deep, sucking it greedily down his throat, saliva running down his chin. From time to time, the man's he's servicing pulls him off by his dark curls and slaps him, before shoving his prick back into that willing, eager mouth until the boy is retching, his throat visibly constricting.

Sherlock can only hear the gurgling, choking and moaning, interspersed with the sounds of flesh on flesh. Yet it's enough to be able to vividly imagine the action on screen. He wants to mimic it. John, meanwhile, tugs on his cock and plays with his balls. Why doesn't he use me for this? Sherlock silently laments. He's waiting to be used, more than ready to do anything John wants him to. Being compelled to just watch is truly testing Sherlock's patience. Yet he has to acquiesce, otherwise John might keep him even longer on tenterhooks. He's not risking that.

Eventually, the clip ends. By now, John's cock is dark red, engorged and swollen, the balls already pulled tight against his perineum (as far as Sherlock can see, John is still wearing his trousers). It looks delicious.

The video has ended with the dom coming all over his subs face, who hadn't been allowed to get off, yet his erection had been clearly visible beneath the black leather of his pants. John makes a mental note to get such garment for Sherlock as well.

Now, John turns in his seat and stares at the man kneeling in front of him. Sherlock is trembling with need, yet trying really hard to stay as still as possible. John grins, stands up and pulls his trousers and pants down, fully freeing his cock. Sherlock licks his lips at the sight, inhaling sharply. His nostrils flare as John's tangy smell fills the space between them.

Sherlock longs to wrap his lips around Johns cock head, to taste and suck him, but John seems to have other plans. He turns away from Sherlock and puts one foot onto the seat of the chair. Holding his cock in his left hand, he grabs the backrest with the right, looking back over his shoulder. With a tilt of his head, John beckons Sherlock's over, and Sherlock shuffles forward on his knees as far as the leash allows, until his face is mere inches away from John's arse, the cheeks spread because of his pulled up leg. Sherlock can see the fair dusting of golden hair down John's cleft, leading towards his furled, dark pink entrance. John leans forward, bracing himself on the backrest, exposing himself further by pushing his bottom right in Sherlock's face.

“Lick.” He orders, and Sherlock's tongue darts out and dips right in. He circles John's hole a few times, tasting him, before swiping his wet tongue greedily through John's crack from just behind his balls up to his tailbone. As John's musky taste fills his mouth and he hums in appreciation.

He licks and licks while John slowly opens wider and wider, fisting his cock. He's panting. When Sherlock insistently laps over the sensitive ring of muscle, John groans and presses back. Sherlock nibbles and sucks until he can feel John's rim give way. Everything is slippery with saliva, the blond hair darkened with spit, clinging to the smooth skin of John's arse cheeks.

Eventually, Sherlock can feel John's rectum loosen; he spikes his tongue and pushes in. His lewd moan is stifled by John's flesh. The taste is sharp and bitter, but Sherlock loves it. John shouts “Fuck!” and leans even further forward, granting Sherlock better access. He eagerly starts to tongue-fuck John's hole, pushing deeper and deeper past the yielding ring of muscle until John tells him to stop.

Sherlock whines but pulls back. John quickly turns around, his cock almost purple now, and takes a step towards Sherlock, standing close, before brushing his wet cock head over Sherlock's slightly parted, puffy lips. Sherlock stays perfectly still and just lets it happen, despite his own cock dripping on his thighs. He'll wait. He'll do as he's told. That's his whole purpose, to obey John, being used as he pleases.

When John unties the leash from the desk leg and tells Sherlock to lie down on his back, Sherlock almost melts onto the floor, hands stretched out above his head. John keeps the leash in one fist as he squats over Sherlock's face, his feet on either side of Sherlock's head as he lowers his arse right onto Sherlock’s waiting mouth.

As John sits down, Sherlock’s tongue darts out and pushes up and in. They both gasp.

“That's it. Eat my ass out. Nice and slow.” John holds himself upright with one hand at the edge of the desk, his erection bopping right in front Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock has difficulty breathing but doesn't care. All he wants is John's taste on his tongue as he licks deep inside his hole. This is so unbelievable good. He loves it. John is panting, giving Sherlock directions: “That's it. Push in. Deeper. Come on, you can go deeper. Now lick. Suck!” Sherlock grunts, slobbers and moans, happy to be allowed to service John in this especially lewd way.

After a few minutes, John can't stay upright any longer. He bows forward, grabbing Sherlock's wrists above his head, pinning him down. Sherlock can't move, is surrounded by John, at his mercy. John is in total control, his cock rubbing against Sherlock's forehead. Precome drips into Sherlock's curls. They stay like this for a long time. Sherlock's jaw starts to ache but he doesn't falter. He licks and sucks, trailing his tongue in long, sensuous swipes through John's creak before tonguing his lose hole again. John ruts against his face, pressing down before raising himself just a little bit to allow Sherlock a moment to breathe. Sherlock's cock lies hard and straining against his concave belly and weeps with need.

Eventually, John gets up and stands on shaky legs, pulling Sherlock into a sitting position by tugging at the leash. Sherlock's face is red, blotchy, wet with saliva, sweat and John's fluids; his eyes droop beneath heavy lids, his hair is a riot, streaked with precome.


Sherlock moans and does as he's told. John pushes into his hot, wet mouth. Deep. Deeper. Sherlock chokes and gags. But he swallows, sucks, otherwise keeping perfectly still. He's just a soggy hole. As John's cock hits the back of his throat he retches, but John grabs his head and vicelike holds him in place.

John takes his time fucking his mouth. He pulls off now and then when he gets too close, to draw it out. Sherlock's throat starts to hurt and the corners of his mouth get stretched and tear a bit, but he doesn't protest or resists. He just opens wide and takes it.

John's large cock blocks his windpipe. The lack of air makes Sherlock dizzy, especially as John stays deep inside him for long moments, cutting off his air supply. In addition, Sherlock starts drooling copiously because he can't swallow. His spit drips onto his chest, reminding him of the weights still attached to his nipples.

“You look a right mess, you filthy thing.” John breathes, and Sherlock makes a gurgling sound, swallowing him even deeper. He wants to be dirty. He wants to submit. He wants John to use him.

He loses track of time. The light changes in the living room as they go on and on. John's taste fills his mouth, his smell, an intoxicating musk, surrounding him. Sherlock's cock is pulsing against his belly, glistening with precome. He's wet all over, filthy, reduced to a panting, choking mess, kneeling between John's spread legs, servicing him. The noises he makes... spluttering, whimpering, groaning around John's hard cock, begging for more, for his come to taste, his release to swallow.

When John eventually pulls off, Sherlock wails with disappointment. John grins down on him, then walks over into the kitchen, trailing Sherlock behind him on the leash. After John has drowned a glass of water and told Sherlock to take a few sips as well, he's told to continue.

“Just the head. Lick and suck. Kiss it. That's it. Worship my cock.”

John holds the leash tight, leaning back against the counter, keeping Sherlock firmly in check. His tongue circles John's glans, massages the frenulum, plays with the retracted foreskin, applying kitten-like licks, lapping at the oozing slit. He just takes the tip in his mouth and swirls his tongue around it, suckles lightly, all the while whimpering with need. He just exists to pay tribute to John's magnificent cock.

John hums in approval, petting Sherlock's hair. “Such a good slut.” He murmurs and Sherlock smiles around his fat cock head. But when John reaches down and pulls on the weights hanging from Sherlock's nipples, the smile is wiped off his face. Shelrock's high-putched whine is stifled by John's cock in his mouth.

“You are enjoying yourself way too much down there.” John admonishes. “Lets see how much you can take.” He tugs again and Sherlock groans.

With a wicked smile, John pushes him away. Sherlock sits back on his heels, staring up at John from below heavy lids, and licks his lips. His mouth is wet and red, enticing, seductive, made to be fucked.

But John has other plans right now. He opens a drawer and rummages through its contents in search of something. After a few moments, he comes up with a piece of string. From the cupboard under the sink he takes a small bucket in which they usually store their detergents. Sherlock frowns as John fills four cups with water and sets them down on their kitchen table.

When John removes the nipple weights, Sherlock gasps at the loss.

“Lean forward, on all four again.” John tells him, and he does. He watches John from under his lashes as he fills the small bucket about one third with water, ties the string around its handle and then attaches each end of the string to one of his nipple rings. As the string is pulled taught, the bucket lifts off the linoleum and swings freely a few inches above the floor. It's heavy, tearing at Sherlock's nipples. He sharply inhales as the bucket sways in front of his chest.

John sits back on a kitchen chair and admires his work before telling Sherlock to crawl.

The pain is intense as the bucket is much heavier than the weights. Sherlock gasps at the sensation. John makes him circle the kitchen table once before offering his cock again. Sherlock opens and swallows.

When John empties the first cup into the bucket, Sherlock suddenly registers what's going to happen. He whines both in shock and agony and starts to suck faster, deeper. Gradually, with every cup, the weight of the bucket increases, until its almost half full. Sherlock is sobbing by now, his chest burning. It feels like his nipples are on fire or about to be ripped off his body. His mind is consumed with bright hot pain. His pectorals are pulled taught, stretched almost past endurance, two lobes of pale flesh. He fears the rings might get torn out while he can only whimper around John's fat cock.

“You look so lovely like this, Sherlock, on all four, showing me how much you can take.” John whispers, carding his hand through Sherlock's hair, and the touch and praise somehow ground Sherlock.

Until John suddenly pulls off, his big cock bobbing just inches away from Sherlock's face.

“God, I want to fuck you so badly, Sherlock. You are so beautiful like this.”

John's hand starts to fist his shaft, and Sherlock moans with a mixture of want and disappointment.

“Please...,” he begs, the bucket swinging from his chest.

“You think you earned it, my come in your filthy mouth?”

“Yes... No.” Sherlock huffs, frustrated, dizzy with arousal and pent up need. “Please...” He's becoming incoherent, his brain awash with endorphins. Reasoning flies out of the window as the only thing that has any significance in his life is John's cock.

John seems to enjoy masturbating in front of him. He lazily strokes himself, smearing his precome all over his shaft. His pubic hair is drenched with Sherlock's spit. His balls are drawn extremely tight.

“Can you take another cup?”

Sherlock whines but nods. Sweat runs down his face, burning in his eyes. John strolls over to the sink and fills another mug before emptying it in the bucket. Sherlock makes a noise between discomfort and pleasure as the weight is raised even more, staring down at his chest. Blood wells from his right nipple, dripping onto the floor. He moans and stills, watching the crimson drop slither over the light grey linoleum. Time stands still. Everything stops. All is quiet.

Suddenly, John kneels down beside him and presses a hand between his sweaty shoulder blades, allowing him to lower the bucket back down onto the floor.

“That's enough, I think.” John murmurs, brushing Sherlock's curls back from his forehead. “You did very well.” He smiles, sitting down onto the floor, spreading his legs each side of Sherlock's face, offering his cock again. Sherlock swallows it to the hilt, burying his nose in John's wet, wiry curls. He sucks and sucks, massaging John's shaft with his tongue, swallowing, the head pushed deep down his long throat. He's outright keening with need. John fucks into the tight heat, feeling Sherlock gag as he tries to relax his throat enough to accommodate John, and that's suddenly enough. John comes hard, spilling his seed down Sherlock's willing gullet, who sucks it down eagerly.

John stays in Sherlock's mouth, still hard, pulsing down his throat, and Sherlock is unable to breath. Spit and come drip onto the floor until he almost passes out. Only when John can feel him sagging, his arms almost giving out, does he pull Sherlock's head up and off his cock. His lips are glistening with saliva and milky white ejaculate. John brushes a thumb over Sherlock's lower lip and Sherlock's eyes flutter shut.

“God, that was brilliant.” John sighs as he stands up, his knees creaking. “You stay down there.”

Sherlock can't move, not with the heavy bucket still attached to his sore nipples. Of course, he doesn't think about removing it. It's like a ball and chain, tying him down. He'll wait until John releases him. If he releases him. While John tales a shower, Sherlock licks come and spit off the floor to keep John's taste fresh in his mouth.

When John returns to the kitchen in a bath robe, the spider gag is dangling from his hand.

“To keep you open, to use you whenever I want to.” He tells Sherlock while he fastens the strap around his head, the brackets keeping Sherlock's mouth gaping open. He starts to drool even more, crouching on the floor, his neglected cock still rock hard.

John keeps him like this while preparing dinner, turning to watch him from time to time while chopping vegetables and cooking pasta. He even puts his feet up on Sherlock's back when finally eating.

“Look at you. Slobbering all over yourself. You have no idea how hot you are like this.” John grins. Sherlock stays kneeling on all fours, held in place by the heavy bucket that would rip his rings out if he dared to get up.

Eventually, John unties the string from the nipple rings, and Sherlock is allowed to sit back up on his heels. “Ready for round two?” John asks, but doesn't wait for Sherlock's answer as he pushes four fingers right inside his soft, gaping mouth.

Sherlock is drooling around John's fingers. He can't even suck due to the spider gag. All he can do is take it. John tries to insert his whole hand after a while, stuffing Sherlock’s mouth. His fingers massage Sherlock's tongue as they push deeper and deeper, massaging the roof of his mouth. Sherlock chokes as John's knuckles brush past his lips, and gags as fingertips touch the back of his throat, his body spasming as he tries not to retch. John hums in appreciation.

Eventually, he removes his spit slick hand and wraps it around Sherlock's aching cock. It's like an electric shock. Sherlock's whole body jerks forward into the touch. He makes an undignified sound, something between a moan and a sob, thick beads of spit dripping from his mouth because he can't swallow properly. John strokes him firm and fast. Sherlock shudders, grunts, eagerly trying to gulp in air as he twitches in John's grip, making desperate high noises to warn him. But John doesn't stop until Sherlock pulses hot come all over his hand.

He's sobbing with relieve, even as John smears his come all over his face. Sitting back onto his heels, he lets his head drop down to nuzzle briefly against John's collar bone. John allows him a few moments of rest and closeness.

When Sherlock's breathing has evened out, John attaches the weights to his nipples again, and leads Sherlock up the stairs to his room on all four, pulling on the leash.

While Sherlock crawls up the steps, John's eyes are fixed on the black tattoo above Sherlock's wiggling bum. They'll have to do something about that. The words seem disgusting now. John desperately wants Sherlock to forget what was done to him by his own flesh and blood.

Up in John's room, Sherlock is drooling onto the wooden floor. A puddle of spit forms below his face as he kneels again on all fours. He's exhausted after the long hours of playing, drained by his orgasm, but John's not finished with him just yet. He got hard again while wanking Sherlock. Now, Sherlock's mouth has to service John once more. He pushes in deep, his glans rubbing over Sherlock's soft palate. John watches the weights dangling from his chest, pulling and flicking them a bit, making Sherlock moan but not hurting him, just giving him a pleasant distraction.

John sits on the edge of the mattress and lets Sherlock service him for some time, enjoying his wet hole. They are both relaxed by now, not as keyed up as earlier. Their orgasms have taken the desperate edge off it. The sex is languid, sensuous. John strokes Sherlock's face and hair, plays with his nipples, touches his warm, damp skin. Sherlock slides up and down his hard cock, taking him deeper and deeper, submissive and content, humming happily around John.

Sherlock's face is covered in his dried come, so John eventually decides to add some fresh of his own to it, painting Sherlock's cheekbones and forehead with thick white streaks. Afterwards, he ties the leash to the bedpost. Sherlock can put his head on the mattress, but is unable to lie down. John leaves the spider gag in place, so Sherlock will be ready to take him in again in the morning.

Sherlock rests his face in a puddle of his own spit, crouching next to the bed, experiencing John's come drying on his face. He's deep into subspace, just a hole to be used and filled as John pleases. John's taste fills his mouth. Everything else is pushed aside, lingering just at the boundaries of his perception.

His hands aren't tied, so he could remove the gag or touch himself. But he won't. That's just for John to do. His cock is not his own anymore, only for John to play with. Instead of touching himself, he pushes his own hand down his throat during the night, to keep himself open and on edge. He eventually gets all five fingers into his mouth, past the third knuckles, moaning softly as not to wake John.

He must have fallen asleep sometime, though, cause he wakes with John's morning erection pushed into his mouth without any preliminaries. John pounds into him ruthlessly for a while before untying the leash and ordering him to lie flat on his back on the bed, with his head hanging over the edge of the mattress. John stands over him and pushes in again, reaching much deeper at this angle. Sherlock has no choice but to open his throat and take it while John fucks his mouth like this, fast and hard. John can see his cock shift beneath Sherlock's skin, sliding inside him, moving in and out of that long, pale collum. It's unbelievable hot.

Sherlock floats. He's in the perfect place. John uses him for one of the few things he's good for – taking John's cock, pleasuring him, finding satisfaction in submitting to John's wishes. He drools and gags, slurps and sucks as best he can, slackening his throat muscles to take even more of John.

John grunts and fucks him into oblivion. Sherlock loves it. Especially when he can suddenly feel hot, sticky wetness fill his mouth as John comes deep inside his body. Sherlock can't swallow properly, so some of John's come drips out of his mouth. As his face is angled upside down, it trickles up his nose and over his cheekbones, slowly seeping into his hair.

John stays in his mouth until he's soft, his cock retracting from Sherlock's throat until it just rests inside his oral cavity, trapped flaccid between his tongue and the roof of his mouth.

“You know what's coming for you now, don't you?” John asks after a while, and Sherlock blinks as an answer. Oh, yes.

When Sherlock can taste the first droplets of salty piss dabble his mouth, he tries to moan, but it comes out as some kind of gurgle. Upside down, with a spider gag keeping him open, he can't gulp John's urine down, as much as he wants to. But he can revel the taste of it before it runs in rivulets out of his mouth, filling his nostrils, bathing his face in John's release. He closes his eyes and just enjoys warm piss drenching him. He loves it.

“Now you.” John tells him when he's finished, still keeping his limp cock in Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock is hard, but wills his erection away and manages to squirt up some drops of piss. After his initial restraint is overcome, however, he relaxes enough to finally relieving himself. Hot piss streams over his abdomen and down between his legs, soiling the sheets and the mattress. John watches him lose control. It's a glorious, mesmerising sight.

Sherlock has to lie in his piss all morning as John forbids him to get up. Meanwhile, he showers, has breakfast, checks his emails, reads the paper and goes to Tesco to do some shopping. Sherlock is left alone, curled up in their soiled bed, the wet cotton clinging to his skin, wrapping him like a cocoon. He's achingly hard, and just yearns to hump a pillow, but he doesn't, because he's pretty sure John wouldn't approve.

John looks in to him when he returns from the shops. Sherlock is staring up at him hungrily, spit covering half his face, the obscenely glistening coating making him appear even more debauched and helpless. Sherlock is moaning softly, gyrating his hips, his leaking, angry red cock head protruding from the filthy sheets. John has succeeded to reduce Sherlock to a wanton mess, and it's just beautiful.

To give him something to occupy his gaping mouth with, John remembers the double-dildo he brought with him downstairs yesterday; he gets it, dribbles some honey he's just bought on it, and fucks Sherlock's mouth with it for almost an hour, pushing in deep. There's no resistance as Sherlock's mouth is held open by the braces of the spider gag. He drools even more, his eyes pleading John to stop. But John shushes him and reminds him of his training back in Sussex: “I know that you can take bigger toys, Sherlock. Just relax.” John watches him with dark eyes, a tight smile on his face. This is not so much about getting off but about domination and submission. Sherlock surrenders.

Tears run down Sherlock's face as his gag reflex is triggered and he retches violently before eventually accepting the intrusion, lying still, allowing John to play with him. The sugary flavour of the honey overlays the stale taste of come and piss. From time to time, John pinches his balls or tugs at his nipple weights. Pain shoots through Sherlock's body like a bolt of lightning, almost driving him over the edge despite the sweet abuse his mouth and throat suffer.

Before he can come, however, John replaces the spider gag with the double-dildo. But he inserts it the other way round, with the longer part down Sherlock's throat. Sherlock chokes and gags as John forces it inside his mouth. It's nearly too much, yet he takes it, lets John push it deep inside him and strap it around his head. John makes him wear this harness for the rest of the day, a short black rubber cock protruding from his mouth while the much longer part impales and fills his throat.

It starts to hurt soon. The large rubber cock is unyielding. It's hard to swallow around it. But nonetheless, John makes him wash the bedding and put clean sheets on the bed. He's only allowed to shower afterwards.

In the afternoon, Sherlock kneels naked besides John's chair, the dildo still in place, the silver weights dangling form his nipples, the collar still tight around his neck. John also has attached a row of cloth pins to the sparse padding of his lower belly, his inner thighs and the insides of his arms. His cock juts out in front of him, one of Mrs Hudson's knitting needles inserted in his urethra, and the sensation is so intense that Sherlock's mind is wiped completely blank, awash with endorphins. He's both alert and relaxed at the same time, oblivious yet focused.

John looks over at him from where he's having a cup of tea in his chair, carding his hand through Sherlock's still damp, riotous curls. “It seems that you are in the right place now, Sherlock. Exhausted, well fucked, grounded by pain. Come on, think. Be clever for me, for us.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and drifts, going under; his mind expands, wrapping itself around their problem, tossing and turning it around in his head. As he enters an up until now unknown level of concentration, he opens doors in his mind palace that were previously kept locked. Suddenly, the puzzle pieces fall into place, one after another. A plan is forming in Sherlock's over-stimulated brain. He suddenly knows what they'll have to do. But he'll need some time to figure out the details. He'll start when John is finished with him for tonight. Which he hopes will not be too soon. The feeling of the cloth pins biting his flesh is exquisite, and the long hard needle up his cock is an indescribable sensation, even better than the the catheter. Sherlock sighs behind his gag and smiles a little as darkness falls over London with the promise of another night filled with lust and pain.

Chapter Text

Sherlock’s eyes snap open, shining bright and almost feverish. John can see their feral gleam, even in the low light of their darkened sitting room. An audacious smile spreads on Sherlock’s up until now almost dreamy features, a stark contrast to his submissive posture, on his knees, with clothes pins clamping down on his sensitive skin and a knitting needle up his cock. Yet pain and humiliation seem to light up Sherlock’s neural pathways, heightening his perceptiveness.

He moans around his gag, his voice low, not just from sexual arousal. There’s true Sherlockian excitement in the sounds he makes.

John leans forward in his chair, closing the gap between them, yet not quite touching.

“What is it, beautiful? Did you figure something out?”

Sherlock almost purrs, like the cat that’s about to get all the cream, and nods, the small black dildo protruding from his mouth bobbing up and down.

“You want to tell me?” John flicks one of the clothes pins sitting low on Sherlock’s stomach, and Sherlock’s slim hips buck forward involuntarily. His face contorts in pain when he’s forcibly reminded that John had put a metal rod up his urethra; his eyes roll back in his head as a low growl escapes his throat. “Or do you want to stay like this a little longer? Let me play with you.” John breathes, the words skimming warm over Sherlock's heated skin.

John’s face is so close, his eyes dark with the promise of exquisite torment. It’s been so long, just the two of them... The previous night had just been a suggestion, hinting at something dark yet tender they could explore together. It’s unspoken and fragile, hanging between them, unfathomable but becoming more lucid the longer they test their boundaries.

Suddenly, Sherlock is sure that he wants and needs this – not only servicing John, being his whore to use as he pleases, but getting hurt by him as well, exploring their limits.

He gives another determined nod and surrenders himself body and soul to John’s very capable hands. Elaborating on further details of his plan can wait a few hours. Despite, he might even be able to focus more intently after an excessive session. Nothing clears his mind as effective as pain, he has discovered over the last few weeks.

And John doesn’t disappoint him.

He lightly brushes his fingertips over the ends of the clothes pins biting down on Sherlock's lower abdomen before moving to the ones attached to his inner thighs. Sherlock shivers at the waves of pain rolling over him. The skin trapped between the clamps has gone numb over the last hour or so that Sherlock has been kneeling on the floor. Now, every motion triggers shocking agony rippling through his abused body.

“Hands behind your head.” John orders quietly, and Sherlock raises his arms and folds his hands at his nape. The clothes pins John has put on the soft skin of his upper and lower arms rattle with the movement. As the skin beneath them tightens, Sherlock groans in delicious anguish. John's finger flick the pins playfully, and Sherlock's breath catches as he moans in response.

“Does it hurt?” John asks. Sherlock nods. “Good.” John smiles, stroking his knuckles up and down Sherlock's sides.

Under John's persistent touch, Sherlock's abdominal muscles tense and flex, setting the pins below his belly button wiggling. His erect cock twitches, and a drop of precome drips from the tip of the knitting needle protruding from his urethra.

John stares down, licking his lips. “I'm going to fuck your slit now. Nice and slow.” He announces, taking the needle between thumb and forefinger as he slowly pulls it almost all the way out of Sherlock's cock. Before inserting it, John had taken some SurgiLube from his kit to slick it up nicely. Sherlock had watched wide-eyed as the rod glided up his urethra. He'd been half hard by then. It hadn't felt unpleasant, just strange. John had gone very slowly, for which Sherlock had been grateful.

Now, John sets a sensuous pace, the needle sliding in and out of Sherlock's erect penis. It doesn't outright hurt but is still odd. The needle is not as big as the catheter had been, but as it moves back and forth, the friction provides an unfamiliar yet rather thrilling sensation.

“God, Sherlock, I'm fucking your pisshole, and you are letting me.” John whispers in his ear, his breath hot and moist on Sherlock's neck. They are both staring down at Sherlock's groin. “You know, there are rather large sounds to do this with? I think I'll get a set. And then I'll stretch your slit like I did stretch your arsehole. I want to push my finger inside you, up to the second knuckle. And I want to watch you finger yourself, your pinkie up your cock. Will you do that for me?” Sherlock stares down, fascinated, as the needle is swallowed by a hole he'd never really thought about, but like all his body's orifices, of course even his urethra is for John to use and play with. Therefore, Sherlock moans, giving his consent.

Suddenly, the rod glides almost all the way in. Sherlock huffs as he can feel some inner barrier being pierced. “God, I think I just pushed right inside your balls.” John's voice is rough with arousal. “Does it feel good?” Sherlock experiences slight discomfort at the idea of being penetrated by a sharp object. But he trusts John, so he nods again and hums in approval.

John leans back a little on his heels and presses Sherlock's cock up against his abdomen. It brushes the clothes pins there, making Sherlock moan in agony.

“I think I can even see it.” John mumbles, sounding almost in awe of what Sherlock lets him do as he continues to fuck Sherlock's cock with the needle. His eyes are dark and glazed over, and he's panting hard, a large bulge visible at the front of his jeans.

Suddenly, John removes the needle and gets up. “Be right back.” He gasps, walking over into the kitchen, where Sherlock can hear him rummaging through their drawers. He can feel a light burn inside his penis, but he's also already missing the peculiar feeling of something being pushed inside him that way.

After a few moments, John returns, carrying a few items that make Sherlock's eyes go wide: a paintbrush, a pencil, an old toothbrush, a long wooden spoon and a screwdriver. He lays everything on the small table next to his chair, in full view of Sherlock, before getting more SurgiLube, nitrile gloves and a bottle of hand sanitizer from his doctor's bag.

Over the next hour, all those objects go up Sherlock's slit. John shows him which one's next, holding it up in front of his face before disinfecting it with the sanitizer. Then the object is lubed up and inserted into Sherlock's urethra. Very slowly.

The pain intensifies as the objects become larger. The small paintbrush isn't that bad; neither is the pencil, even if its increased size stretches Sherlock's hole noticeably. John holds Sherlock's cock up again, and now even he can see the pencil glide beneath the sensitive skin at the underside of his shaft. It's simultaneously a bit disconcerting and utterly arousing.

The toothbrush feels interesting because of its shape. Its girth widens at the grip; having this inserted inside his very tight urethra is a challenge. But Sherlock manages it after a while. John admires the display, only the head of the toothbrush protruding from the glans. He relishes the sight, stroking Sherlock's spread inner thighs and flicking the clothes pins there until Sherlock's hips buck and twitch while he keens behind his gag.

“God, you're unbelievable. So amazing. I want to keep you like this.” John murmurs against Sherlock's sweaty temple before brushing a feather-light kiss there. Sherlock moans, raw and needy.

The spoon is fiendish, though. It's large, long and kind of rough, even when thickly coated with lube. John takes his time, patiently pushing, waiting and pulling until even this object slides easily in and out of Sherlock's pisshole. Sherlock can feel the wooden handle move deep inside him, even brushing his prostate, and his whole body arches and spasms, going rigid at the incredible feeling. He would have yelled if not for the stiff rubber cock down his throat. As it is, he can only pant hard, exhaling hot gushes of breath through his flared nostrils.

Last to go in is the screwdriver. John holds it by its handle as he fucks Sherlock's tight channel. It feels amazing. Sherlock and John both watch it slide beneath Sherlock's most tender skin, stretching a part of Sherlock's body that was clearly not designed to take such a variety of objects.

“Oh god, Sherlock... this is so hot. I'm fucking your cock, your dirty little pisshole. Go on, I want to see you come.”

Sherlock stares down at his crotch, unsure if he can manage this, but John wants it, so he'll try. The large metal rod glides up his cock again and again, causing a bizarre friction mixed with slight pain, and the sheer idea of what they are doing, combined with John's open admiration and obvious delight, is suddenly enough to drive Sherlock over the edge. He can fell his balls tighten – and now this does really hurt a lot – and while he's still grunting in pain, hot, white come wells up his slit, past the stainless steel, coating the grip of the screwdriver and John's fingers in thick, white goo. Sherlock bucks up, fucking into the feeling, the clothes pins on his abdomen and thighs sharply biting down as his muscles tense during his orgasm. His whole body shudders, and he has trouble to stay upright.

John watches, mesmerised. “Jesus, Sherlock, what a filthy mess you’ve made. God, this is so lewd.” He breathes, slowly pulling the tool out. More come gushes out of Sherlock’s slit in its wake, and Sherlock wails at the burning pain that accompanies the squirting.

“Shh, I know...” John says soothingly, carelessly putting the screwdriver aside to fumble with the strap that holds the double-dildo in place. As he removes it from Sherlock's throat, Sherlock's jaw slackens, his mouth falling open, spit dripping from his lips as he retches and sways slightly. His throat hurts almost as much as his cock as he tries to swallow; his insides feel raw. A sob is wrenched from his body, and he wants to slump forward, but John's hand, planted in the middle of his chest, keeps him upright. He can still feel the faint outlines of the words Mycroft’s cronies had carved in Sherlock’s white skin, despite the scars having almost healed.

“Please...” Sherlock whispers, but John only smiles and shakes his head.

“We are not done yet.” He says, looking pointedly down at his groin. His jeans can't hide his arousal as the denim stretches around his stiff cock. “You are going to finger your cock while I fuck your face until I come. Now, open.”

John gets to his feet and hastily unzips. He doesn't even bother to pull his trousers down before pushing his hard cock deep down Sherlock's abused throat. Luckily, the dildo has prepared him to deep throat. Sherlock obediently swallows John down to the hilt, dark blond pubic hair tickling his nose.

“Come on, finger your cock. You are still so nicely stretched. Do it.”

Sherlock whimpers as he touches his over-sensitive cock and searches the slit. The clothes pins on his arms bite into his flesh as he moves, and he groans in agony. He can't see, as John's groin is blocking his view. But the pain guides him. He manages to insert the tip of his index finger before another raw choke shakes his body. He's almost convulsing in pain now, and the clothes pins pinching his skin only add to his utter discomfort.

John doesn't care. He pounds into Sherlock's mouth, holding him by his curls while grunting in encouragement. Thankfully, it doesn't take long for him to come down Sherlock's throat. After pulling out, he holds Sherlock's chin up in a vice-like grip for long moments, watching come and spit drip from Sherlock's swollen lips. All the while, Sherlock keeps his fingertip inside his glans as John hasn't allowed him to remove it.

“You filthy whore.” John growls before spitting right into Sherlock's open, panting mouth.

“Yes, John. Thank you, John.” Sherlock whispers after swallowing.

John stares down at Sherlock's crotch, where his slit is stretched obscenely around his fingertip.

“Do you like that, fingering your little pisshole like the dirty cunt you are?”

“Yes, John. I like that very much.” Sherlock whispers as his eyes flutter shut while his cheeks burn with embarrassment.


The slap hits his face unexpectedly. His eyes fly open as he's almost knocked off balance.

“Say it!”

“I... I love to finger... my little pisshole, for you. Because I'm... I’m a dirty cunt. I want to you watch me... putting my finger inside me.” Sherlock stammers, underscoring his words by trying to push his finger in even deeper until his face contorts in pain. He looks pleadingly up at John, yet stays quiet.

John watches him a moment longer, his eyes dark, his face a blotchy pink.

“Enough.” John decides eventually, and Sherlock slowly withdraws his finger. His slit is red, gaping a little. John moans softly at the sight, licking his lips. “God, you look delicious.”

Suddenly, he pulls Sherlock up by his hair and drags him to the bathroom where he's ordered to piss in a mug. It burns like hell, but there's no blood. John makes Sherlock drink the whole mug in one go, holding it up to his mouth and only lowering it when it's empty. Hot piss escapes the corners of his mouth, running down his throat, mixing with the dried come and saliva there.

“Good boy.” John pets Sherlock's sweaty curls and smiles. “Now, let's deal with the clothes pins. They must really hurt by now.”

Sherlock spends the next half hour standing in the middle of their bedroom while John flicks off the pegs in random order. He really hopes that Sherlock's high yelps and shrill screams don't alert the neighbours. He's been thinking about fitting out 221c with soundproofing. Tonight, that would have been convenient. Luckily, the married ones and Mrs Hudson are used to all kinds of strange noises emanating from 221b. Some yelling doesn't arouse suspicion.

Sherlock is openly crying when finally the last clothes pin comes off. Immediately afterwards, he sinks onto his knees, crouching down, thanking John for his firm hand, for the pain he had to endure.

“I deserved it... I'm such a pain slut... Thank you, John... You are so kind, so generous... so good to me.” His breathing is ragged, his eyes red-rimmed, yet his cock is rock-hard again as he looks up at John from below heavy lids.

John can feel his own cock fill in sympathy. He loves it when he's got Sherlock like this – reduced to a boneless, abased mess, humiliated, sobbing with pain, his voice raw from crying and moaning, yet still wanting more. So sensitive, so responsive – yet so insatiable as well. It's the perfect combination for a sub – at least in John's opinion.

John smiles a sly smile as he steps back while Sherlock is still kneeling on all fours, his back arched, the vertebrae visible beneath the taught, pale skin. He walks over to the chest of drawers, on which Sherlock keeps an antique silver candle holder and some matches (from the one time an experiment has resulted in the fuses blown, leaving the flat without electricity overnight).

John lights one of the white candles, takes it in his hand and squats down next to Sherlock. “Sit back.” He says, and Sherlock hurries to scramble back and sit upon his arse. “Spread your legs.” Sherlock complies, his cock jutting proudly upwards, red and swollen.

John gives him a few loose strokes to get him to focus. It's not really pleasurable, though, because his cock is still sore and sensitive. Sherlock gasps, yet his erection doesn't falter. His slit is still a little engorged and stretched. John fingers his glans a bit, pressing and prodding, until the hole opens a bit wider, again gaping slightly.

“You know what's coming, don't you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock draws in a shuddering breath and nods.

“Beg me.” John demands. “Tell me how much you want it.”

Sherlock swallows audibly. “Please, John, hurt me.” He gasps.

“Where do you want it?” John's voice is rough with desire, his eyes boring into Sherlock's. The hand holding the candle shakes a little. Hot wax runs down its side, trickling onto the carpet.

“My... my cock. Pour it inside my slit.” Sherlock huffs, watching intently as John raises his hand and dips the candle slightly. The liquid wax that has been pooling in its caldera drips down, hitting Sherlock's open slit. They both moan as it is swallowed, seeping down Sherlock's pisshole, the white stearin a stark contrast to the dark red flesh.

John tilts the candle again – and again, slowly filling Sherlock's urethra with hot white wax. Sherlock tries to stay still and not to flinch, yet his hips undulate on their own accord while he gasps in shock. John takes his time, waiting for enough wax to melt before tilting the candle again. Sherlock's heaving breaths fill the room in between, his body covered in a sheen of sweat. He's holding his hard cock in place for John, tugging between the drops of wax hitting him, stimulating himself to endure the next onslaught.

Soon, the wax has filled the small orifice and starts to coat Sherlock's cock head. John continues his ministrations until Sherlock's cock is covered in a congealed layer of white stearin, looking almost like a candle itself. Even Sherlock's fingers are coated, resembling frozen come. It looks absolutely stunning. John crushes his mouth onto Sherlock’s in a bruising kiss.

As they part, Sherlock throws back his head, opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue. John catches on swiftly and pours hot wax over Sherlock's twitching, wet tongue. He grunts and gurgles as the scalding liquid makes contact with his tender organ.

“Close your eyes.” John is panting heavily as well. Sherlock's eyelids flutter shut, and John trickles hot wax all over the eye sockets, effectively sealing them. The white stearin runs in rivulets down Sherlock’s face, like ghostly tears, even paler than his alabaster cheekbones. He looks like carved in marble.

When John’s satisfied with his work, he grabs Sherlock's nape, right out biting down on Sherlock’s lower lip, sucking up blood before fucking his tongue inside Sherlock's slack mouth. Sherlock moans as their tongues brush and twirl, opening wide, and John can taste wax, come, piss and blood – the flavour of desperation and arousal. They groan into each other, John sucking on Sherlock's tongue, until they part for breath, pressing their brows together. Crimson droplets drip from Sherlock’s lips, resembling a debauched Snow White with his tousled black hair and his milky skin.

“More?” John asks, and Sherlock smiles eerily, getting on his hands and knees again, spreading his legs, pushing his arse up in the air.

“Oh god, yes.” John sighs, clambering behind Sherlock, spreading his cheeks wider.

“Pour it down my crack.” Sherlock pleads in a soft voice, and John dips the candle and watches mesmerised as white wax runs down Sherlock's cleft, held up only by his tight balls. Sherlock's pink hole twitches as the hot tallow hits it. The sutures have dissolved, leaving his anus tight and almost virginal again. It's so beautiful that John can’t suppress a moan, kneading Sherlock's arse cheek with his right hand, listening to Sherlock humming with arousal, his hips bucking forward into thin air as his wax-coated cock seeks some friction.

John continues to pour wax down Sherlock's cleft until the candle has almost melted. It looks like Sherlock's arse has been flooded with come. John moves over to the pale globes of Sherlock's cheeks, generously dripping wax onto them as well while watching Sherlock writhe and squirm in front of him.

John's not sure if Sherlock is already healed enough to take his cock, though. He doesn't want to risk tearing him apart again. The doctor in him tells him to wait for a few more days. Yet, he needs friction. He's at least as hard as Sherlock. But he doesn't desire another blow job.

Suddenly, John has an idea. “Clench your legs like the shy little virgin you are, slut.” John growls. “I’m going to give you my big, fat cock now.” When Sherlock doesn't react immediately, John slaps him hard on his left hip. Sherlock quickly presses his thighs together and hooks his ankles.

They don't have lube at hand but that doesn't matter as they are both sweaty and John is leaking copiously. Ad he pushes in between Sherlock's legs, the friction is exquisite. It's so tight! His hard shaft is rubbing along Sherlock's perineum and balls, brushing the by now cold wax covering Sherlock's cock, eliciting a long, needy sigh from the man in front of him.

From time to time, John remembers to drip hot wax along Sherlock's arching spine. Sherlock throws back his head at the sensation, begging John to take him harder.

“God, you are so tight. It feels like it’s your first time.” John gasps out between gritted teeth, before dropping the candle to the floor, grabbing Sherlock's narrow hips in a death grip, speeding up.

Sherlock gets it, whimpering in a needy tone: “Oh god, John, you are so big. This feels so good. I’ve never done this before. I’ve waited for you. You are my first. I love your cock. Show me how good this can feel. All I want is to ride your fat cock.” He still sore from the clothes pins; the pained little gasps he’s making are not entirely faked.

John plunges in between Sherlock's thighs hard and fast, slapping his wax-coated arse cheeks from time to time, and Sherlock squeals, rutting like a horny bitch, desperately seeking friction, a touch... something. Anything.

Finally, as John feels close, he brings one hand round Sherlock's body and wraps it around his neglected cock. Sherlock yelps and eagerly pushes in, despite his flesh being tender from the wax treatment. It doesn't take long for the stiff coating to crumble under John's touch, allowing him contact with Sherlock's hot, hard shaft. Sherlock literally howls before coming all over John's fingers. John follows suit, bits of wax sticking to his cock as he fucks himself to completion between Sherlock's strong legs.

They collapse in a pile of sweaty limbs onto the bedroom rug, too exhausted to care or move. Later, John will be glad that the candle died on the wooden floor next to the carpet, not burning the place down. At this moment, however, how couldn't be arsed.

After some long minutes, they finally stir. John carefully peels the wax from Sherlock's eyelids, bows down and kisses him softly, just on the corner of his bruised mouth, wrapping his arms around his still trembling torso. Later, he runs a bath for both of them – more snogging ensues while he gently soaps Sherlock's exhausted body – before he assembles some kind of improvised midnight supper (cheese, cookies, apples cut in slices, a shared bottle of beer). They eat while leaning naked at the kitchen counter, stealing kisses in between, John feeding Sherlock apple slices while Sherlock tries to catch John's fingers between his still swollen lips.

Sherlock spends the next two days outstretched on the sofa, thinking, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. He's wearing comfortable pyjama pants, an old, frilly t-shirt and his blue silk dressing gown. The loose garments are welcome on his still sore skin. The only sign of life are his long white toes wiggling from time to time. John supplies him with tea, biscuits and chips, leaving him in peace otherwise.

On the evening of the second day, Sherlock's disgruntled frown is slowly melting off his face, until there's a smug grin replacing his sullen discontent. When his eyes snap open, they shine a deep cerulean blue.

John, who's been sitting in his chair, sipping a beer and reading the paper, glances over at Sherlock and puts The Guardian aside.

“So?” He asks, and Sherlock turns his head and looks at him before sitting up, decidedly planting his bare feet on the living room rug.

“I have an idea.” Sherlock states. “More than an idea. A plan.”

“That is... good?” John sounds a bit unsure.

“Maybe. I have to go out. Meet some people. Call in some favours.” Sherlock is up and already half-way down the corridor to his bedroom when John's voice stops him in his tracks.

“Sherlock.” Just the one word, his name, but it pins him to the spot. “No secrets. Tell me, what are you up to?”

Sherlock slowly returns to the living room and sinks to his knees in front of John's chair, bowing his head. “I can't.” He breathes as he rests his cheek against John's thigh.

“That's not how this works.” John explains, carding his left hand through Sherlock's curls. “You know that.”

Sherlock swallows; John traces his cheekbone with his fingertips.

“Mycroft wants to destroy you and presumably me as well.” Sherlock begins. “Therefore, we have to beat him to it.”

“What do you mean?” John frowns.

“We should be the driving force in this, to stay in control. If someone discredits our reputation, it should be us, don't you think?” Sherlock looks up at John from under his lashes, licking his lips. “He won't resort to open violence, that is not my brother's MO. No, he'll weave an elaborate web around us, of which we'll be unaware until we'll stumble and fall. But if someone pre-empts him in this... he might think that others are doing his dirty work for him, and lean back and relax.” Sherlock's voice is very low as he nuzzles his face into John's lap.

“And that one will be... you?”

“No. Yes, well, I will set it in motion, but, of course, I will cover my tracks. I have to do that alone. The people involved... they know me, not you.” Sherlock beseechingly explains.

“Friends of yours?” John sounds sceptical.

“No, John, don't be daft.” Sherlock grins. “Enemies, of course. But Mycroft’s as well.”

John sighs. “Sherlock, I don't like that.”

“I know. But these people won't let you near them. They are very suspicious. Paranoid even.” Sherlock sits back up on his heels and holds John's gaze with his gleaming, sea-blue eyes.

“I want to know where you're going and who you're meeting. Your phone stays switched on. If you don't return in time, I'll call you. If you don't answer, I'll come looking for you, no matter what.”

Sherlock agrees.

He leaves the flat half an hour later, dressed in dark jeans, trainers and a dirty hoodie. He'll spend the night on the streets with various members of his homeless network, but promised to call John every hour on the dot. And, much to his own surprise, he keeps his word.

Chapter Text

Sherlock only returns the next morning, tired, feeling filthy and raw from the cold and too much cigarettes. He faceplants into bed next to John and stays there, almost unconscious, until the afternoon. After a quick shower, he's back on the streets, hanging out in illegal East End clubs, by the river, in squats in Rotherhithe over the next few nights. John rarely sees him face to face. Their only mode of conversation are quick, hushed phone calls and short text messages, stating Sherlock's current whereabouts.

After three days, however, John has enough. When Sherlock emerges from the bedroom, hair mussed, still wearing the same clothes he's slept in over the past few days, John blocks his way.

“We have to talk.”

“John, I have an appointment. It's important.” Sherlock tries to slide past but John grabs his upper arm.

“It'll have to wait. Because this is more important.”

He drags Sherlock into the bathroom and yanks his reeking hoodie over his head. Sherlock's smell hits him full force, a mixture of unwashed male, stale cigarette smoke and wet dog. His fingernails are bitten and dirty, his hair greasy. He has dark half-circles below his eyes and his cheeks are hollow. John is about to scold him because he's neglecting himself, but falls silent when Sherlock wraps his thin arms around his torso. Too late, for John has already seen. Hot, white anger fills his chest.

“Sherlock, show me your arms!” He bites out.

Sherlock doesn't move, clutching his hands under his armpits.

“Sherlock!” John's voice is sharp and fierce. He grabs Sherlock's biceps again, but Sherlock wiggles out of his grip and ducks, almost making it to the bedroom. But John's still fast on his feet. He pins Sherlock against the bathroom wall, knees him in the solar plexus and pulls his arms up as Sherlock sacks forward like his strings have been cut.

John stares down at the track marks in a mixture of horror, rage and disbelieve. Sherlock pants and coughs in front of him, looking up at John in defiance from below his dirty fringe while fighting to get his breath back.

“What the fuck, Sherlock... Seriously?” John's voice trembles with fury.

“I had to. To blend in.” Sherlock hisses between clenched teeth.

“This is...” John is unable continue, speechless with frustration. But instead of hitting him again, John manhandles Sherlock over into the bedroom and throws him onto the unmade bed, towering over him. Sherlock rolls on his back and stares up at John, waiting.

“This wasn't part of the plan!” John yells.

“Well, I can't allow those people to become suspicious. Besides, it proofed to be rather useful.” Sherlock tries to explain, yet sounding way too cocky for John's liking.

“Useful? How can shooting up be useful?” John shouts, throwing his hands up while glaring down at Sherlock, who's lounging nonchalantly on their bed.

“Well, it provides certain interested parties with ammunition.” Sherlock leans up, supporting his body on his elbows. He's so thin that John can count his ribs, even in the low light. His nipple rings sparkle on his emaciated chest.

“And what did you provide in return, Sherlock?” John growls.

Sherlock has the nerve to smirk. “God, John. I paid. With money.” He nearly rolls his eyes. “Those dealers are more interested in some dosh or a nice pair of tits than in my cock and bony arse.”

Somehow, his reassuring words haven't the calming effect he's hoped for, because John's frown only deepens. “You are not going down there anymore.” He states eventually.

Sherlock outright laughs in John's face. “That's really not for you to decide, John. I'm well onto...”

John slaps him so hard that he's thrown sideways onto the mattress, before being pulled up by his hair and pushed onto his knees on the floor.

“Shut up, Sherlock. Just shut the fuck up, or I can't guarantee for anything.” Sherlock goes very still. Never has he seen John's anger directed at him with such a force. His mouth is pressed into a tight line while a vein throbs on his creased forehead. Sherlock instinctively knows that he has to treat very carefully.

John needs a moment to steady himself. “We had an agreement. I trusted you. And now I have to find out that you... that you betrayed my trust. This is not good, Sherlock.” John draws a frustrated breath through his nose, his nostrils flaring.

Sherlock is suddenly sure that he's in trouble. This is not one of their games. John is deeply hurt.

“What we have is based on trust. Without trust, there's nothing. Without trust it's just cruel, pointless acrobatics.” John hisses, holding Sherlock gaze until he lowers his eyes. In response, John releases him, sighs and sinks onto the mattress, scrubbing his hands over his face. He looks drained and tired. “What am I to do with you, hm?”

Sherlock swallows audibly, his eyes still cast down, not daring to look at John. It slowly dawns on him that he might have made a grave mistake. “I'm sorry.” He whispers. John makes a non-committal noise.

In the following silence, Sherlock reaches a conclusion. He has to come clean. “Heroin. I shot up heroin, two.. no, three times. With a bloke called Victor, and his mates. We went to a party afterwards, at a friend's house. She's a journalist, working for one of those large tabloids that belong to Charles Augustus Magnussen. I know that my brother has dealings with him from time to time. She recognised me. Tried to get me drunk, offered me some pills, asked me if I would stay the night...”

John's head jerks up.

“I didn't, John, please, of course, I didn't.” Sherlock is almost babbling, the words spilling out of him in a desperate attempt to get back into John's good books. “But I'm sure she recognised the company I was with. They were snorting coke at her kitchen table, and she eyed me all the time. I'm sure she took some photos on her mobile.” John groans. “But don't you see, this is perfect, John. My drug habit will make the papers. They'll have a field day, calling me a junkie, unstable, and whatever else. That's exactly what we need.”

“Oh, Sherlock...” John whispers. “You'll ruin your health, your unique mind. You have no idea what you're injecting. The risk of hepatitis, or even HIV...”

“John, I don't share syringes. And I know from whom to buy. It's good quality.” Sherlock assures him.

“Why didn't you tell me?” John sounds more sad than angry.

“Because I feared exactly what is happening right now. I know your attitude towards some of my habits. But I see that was wrong. I see it now. Please, forgive me, John.” With that, Sherlock crouches down at John's feet, pressing his forehead against the faded carpet that still shows traces of their wax plays from a few nights ago.

John is silent for a long while. Sherlock knows he's being judged right now. He'll accept any punishment John will come up with.

But John only shakes his head after a few minutes and gets up. “I'm going for a walk. I need some space to think. I hope you are still here when I return.” With that, John takes his coat from the hook in the hallway and leaves.

He returns about two hours later, after a stroll through Regent's Park and a pint down the pub. The flat's dark except for a fire burning in the fireplace. In front of it, John can make out Sherlock's slim silhouette. The flames behind him seem to lick his pale skin, dipping him in flickering orange light. He's naked, kneeling on the hearth rug, holding up his riding crop like an offering.

John quietly closes the door and leans his back against the wooden frame, not stepping closer, taking in the display of submission presented to him. Sherlock doesn't raise his head either, just looks down onto the floor, waiting for John to punish him.

Nearly a minute passes.

Eventually, John takes a few steps into the room, coming to stand in front of Sherlock. He picks up the riding crop, but instead of striking Sherlock with it he puts it aside onto the desk. Sherlock looks up, and even in the dim light his perplexity shows.

“This is not how this works, Sherlock.” John says, reminding Sherlock of the very beginning of their journey towards dominance and submission. “When I punish you in this way, it's for your pleasure as well as mine. It's not... it's not a real penalty. I don't believe in beating people because they did something I perceive as wrong, you know.”

Sherlock lowers his head again, but John can see the confusion on his face. “But what can I do, John? How can I make it up to you?” He whispers.

John sighs. “I think we have to talk?” He sounds almost equally daunted by that prospect. “And you'll have to accept that I won't initially forgive you. These things take time.”

Now it's Sherlock's turn to sigh in exasperation. “We don't have time, John.” He raises his head in defiance. “We have to stand united against my brother, or we won't stand a chance.”

“You should have thought about that before acting like you did behind my back.” John retorts, walking over to the sofa and sitting down.

Sherlock doesn't get up. He stays on his knees in front of the fire, clears his throat and says: “I'm truly sorry, John. It won't happen again. I promise.”

John has had time to cool down a little. He's reached a conclusion. “I accept your apology. But this plan stops here. You keeping secrets from me stops here. We are in this together. I can't have you doing drugs. It's my duty to protect you, and I will protect you, Sherlock, even from yourself.”

Sherlock swallows. “Thank you, John.” The relieve is audible in his tone. His gaze wanders over to the riding crop on the table and lingers there. John tries very hard to suppress a grin.

“You think you've earned that? After what you did?” John's voice is firm. Sherlock visibly shudders.

“No, John.” His eyes glide back onto the rug.

“And yet you can't stop thinking about it. Me giving you a good, hard thrashing.”

Sherlock shifts on his knees and sighs. “No.” He breathes.

“You are a dirty little pain whore, Sherlock Holmes.” John states, his voice dropping an octave.

Sherlock nods and whispers: “Yes, John.”

“So, how about I don't beat you as a punishment, but as a reward for me?”

“Please, John. I live to serve.” Sherlock's voice trembles a little as the words drip from his lips, sweat and thick like treacle.

“Get up, then, and bend over the kitchen table. I don't suppose I have to tie you up.” John can already feel his trousers tighten at his groin. Elegantly, Sherlock rises to his feet, walks into the kitchen, and drapes himself over the table most enticingly.

Oh, it's been a while, John muses. He'll utterly enjoy this.

John takes the riding crop from the desk and follows Sherlock into their kitchen.

“Grab the edge.” He says, and Sherlock’s long fingers curl obediently around the polished teak.

“Beg me.”

“Please, John, let me pleasure you... hit me. Beat me really hard. I don't deserve your attention, but please, use me for your enjoyment.”

John lets his free hand roam possessively over Sherlock's arse cheeks, kneading them a little before pinching them hard. Crimson marks bloom on the pale skin. Sherlock yelps before he tries to stifle his gasps.

“Be as loud as you want. I like to hear you scream.” John brushes his knuckles over the reddened flesh and hears Sherlock inhale sharply.

Sherlock's bruises have faded over the past few days. As John spreads his cheeks a little, he's satisfied to see that his rectum has fully healed as well. Some rather tempting ideas start to play out in his mind.

He steps back and lets the lip of the crop brush over Sherlock's buttocks. The black leather is a stark contrast to the pink skin.

“I want you to count.” John growls.

“Yes, John.”

The first whack hits Sherlock’s arse, setting his cheeks jiggling. A bright red stripe appears, welling up quickly .

“One.” Sherlock’s voice is steady if a little thin.

Another blow hits him, a few inches below the first.

“Two.” Sherlock hisses. John smiles.

When they reach ten, Sherlock's arse is decorated with a crimson zick-zack pattern. John is completely in his element.




“Thirteen!” Sherlock screams, the muscles in his back flexing beneath his skin every time he hears the whistling of the crop in the air and feels its draught just before the impact. John loves how he falls apart in front of him, allows him to see how vulnerable, how human he is.





“Twenty.” Sherlock sobs, his breathing ragged. His cheeks are bright red and burning hot as John touches them, massaging the sore flesh. The power he is wielding right now is intoxicating. He holds Sherlock in his open palm. How easy it would be to crush him...

“I'll give you at least twenty more, Sherlock. You look stunning like this.”

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock whispers, pushing his arse into John's hands.




“Twenty... two.” Sherlock's voice falters as his sweaty fingers skitter over the table top in need of purchase.

John gives him a moment to compose himself and grab the wood again. He wants to make this so good for both of them.

At thirty, Sherlock’s back is glistening with sweat. His bollocks hang heavy between his slightly parted, shaking legs. A few welts have cracked open, exposing raw flesh. Small rivulets of blood trickle down the back of his legs.

John admires his work, caressing the buttocks with the tongue of the crop. Sherlock is openly crying by now, biting down on his lower lip. John steps up close behind him and brushes his clothed groin over the sensitive skin. Sherlock can't suppress a groan as John rocks his hips against his abused body.

“Can you feel my hard cock, Sherlock? Can you feel how much this turns me on? How much you turn me on.”

“Yes, John. Oh my god.” He splutters, moaning despite the pain as John rubs himself against his raw buttocks.

The next five blows hit Sherlock in a quick succession. His voice has become hoarse as he utters higher and higher numbers. Yet he stays in place, sacrificing his body for John's pleasure. They are joined by pain, one inflicting it, the other one receiving it.



Sherlock isn't even screaming anymore, just panting and snivelling. His eyes are closed as tears run down his face, almost as red as his backside.


His whole body spasms, a shiver running down his spine. His eyelids flutter as his mouth crinkles in a dreamy smile. He drifts. John can almost taste his pain, his surrender. It's amazing.


The sharp blows feel like an electric shock Sherlock simultaneously fears and needs. John feels powerful, alive.

Eventually, they reach forty.

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock gasps, but stays in place; John hasn't allowed him to get up. His arse is a lump of red, raw flesh, decorated with angry crimson welts. John puts the crop aside. Sherlock can't take any more of this. But he's not done yet. In fact, he might have acquired a taste.

John eyes their sparse kitchen appliances until his gaze catches on their spatula. It's broad, made of hard black plastic, with a few diagonal slots. Perfect.

Sherlock literally howls when the broad blade hits his left arse cheeks. John alternates, decking each cheek in turns. The spatula leaves delicious marks. It's a bit like pounding raw meat, John thinks.

He gives Sherlock twenty blows with the slice. His screams fill the small, untidy kitchen, the air by now heavy with tangy musk and sweat. Finally, Sherlock's knees buckle and give out, and he sinks to the floor, a sobbing mess.

“Get up.” John orders, but it takes a moment for Sherlock to scramble onto his feet again. His legs seem to be made of jelly. Yet his head is light; he feels almost high.

John pushes his chest down onto the table again. He's aware that Sherlock can't take any more spanking. Nevertheless, his ordeal is far from over yet.

John grabs their salt tin and pours a generous amount of salt into his open palm, which he then massages into Sherlock raw right arse cheek. The salt coalesces wit the sweat and blood, forming a smarting varnish. Sherlock yelps. It's a high-pitched sound that has the window panes vibrating. Thank god Mrs Hudson has gone out earlier.

John repeats the procedure on Sherlock's left arse cheek. Sherlock yells again, his breath catching in his throat. As it takes a few moments to rub the salt in, Sherlock’s agonising moans nearly drive John over the edge. He's so hard it hurts. A wet patch is showing at the front of his jeans.

“Stay like this, I'll be right back.”

John can hear Sherlock trying to suck in air around the biting pain radiating from his arse as he runs up the stairs to his room. He returns with a large black dildo with a suction cup on its base. John slams it down onto the seat of one of their kitchen chairs, leaning over and decorating its tip with a generous dollop of spit.

“Sit.” He beckons Sherlock over. “Hurry.”

Sherlock staggers towards the chair, turns, spreads his legs and sinks backwards until he can feel the wet tip nudge his entrance. It's been more than a week since he had something up his arse, and when John had repaired the damage done by the Great Dane he had tightened his by then somewhat loose hole a bit. Therefore, it’s not that easy to take the large dildo. Yet Sherlock knows that the spit will quickly run down the silicone, so if he wants to profit from the sparse lubricant provided, he'll better act fast. Therefore, he forces the toy up inside him, trying to relax as best he can.

He's longed for being filled the whole week. The drugs have helped to keep his need at bay, but now it just feels incredible, despite his cauterised arse cheeks. He desperately wants to fuck himself, longs to bob up and down on the toy, but John has ordered him to sit, so he just sinks down on it until his abused buttocks meet the seat.

It hurts. He grunts.

“I love to see you like this, Sherlock. I love the way you take it.” John whispers, stroking his hair, his face. Sherlock's eyes flutter shut. Something wet hits his eyelids. John has spat in his face. He sighs as he feels the warm, gooey rivulet run down his tear-stained face.

“Open. I want to spit in your mouth.” John breathes against his temple. Sherlock's lips part. A fat drop of John's saliva hits his tongue, still tasting of the pint of London Pride he's drowned an hour earlier. “Swallow.” Sherlock obeys.

John's eyes travel down his flushed torso. Sherlock's cock stands proud between his legs, hard and leaking. John smiles. “You like that as well.” He states. Sherlock's nods, his eyes still closed.

“More?” John asks, and Sherlock opens wide to welcome all John has to offer. “Look at me.” Sherlock does, and moans as John drips thick beads of saliva into his mouth, gulping it down when told to, licking his lips afterwards.

“Good boy.” John's praise is like a soft blanket, hugging Sherlock's hurting body.

To heighten the sensation, John walks over into the sitting room and takes Sherlock's 'Wiley's Encyclopaedia of Forensic Science' from the shelves. The five volumes weigh around eleven pounds. John slowly places one book after the other in Sherlock's lap, steadily increasing the pressure on his sore arse and stiff cock. As Sherlock's body is weighed down, the pain spikes up, sharp and searing. He groans.

“Does it hurt?” John asks, piling volume upon volume.

“Yes, John.” Sherlock huffs, gazing up at him from glazed eyes. John grins.

When he's finished, he once again attaches a string to Sherlock's nipple rings, but this time, he draws it over his shoulders. The half-filled bucket hangs between Sherlock's shoulder blades, pulling on his nipples, stretching them upwards. It's nearly insufferable. Sherlock squirms in pain. The dildo moves inside him, grazing his walls, and his mouth falls open as his eyes roll back in his head. Pleasure and pain mix, intertwined in a wicked tangle, setting his skin on fire while every nerve in his body vibrates with lust-fuelled agony.

John watches him writhe and smiles darkly.

“You'll be alright here for a while?” He asks, and Sherlock groans softly. In the distance, his phone chimes, forgotten in their living room. “I'll tell your friends you're indisposed.”

John saunters off, leaving Sherlock impaled and hurting in their kitchen. He could get up, but he feels no inclination to do so. If John wants him like this, he will endure it for as long as it takes.

After a few minutes, however, John comes back. “That was your new friend, Kitty. I told her to fuck off.” John grips his chin. “She didn't sound too happy, hearing you were taken.”

“You shouldn't have to...” Sherlock murmurs. John smiles down at him.

“I'd really like to come on your face now.” He says, unzipping, talking over Sherlock and his objections.

It only takes a few moments for John to shoot his load all over Sherlock's mouth and cheekbones. He strokes his fat cock in front of Sherlock's face, giving him just the head to taste.

“No, no. You don't have earned all of my cock. But you may suck the tip. Come on, kiss it.”

Sherlock does, greedily swirling his tongue round and round, lapping up the rest of John's ejaculate.

John leaves him like this, come dripping off his face, stuffed with the large toy, his arse on fire, his nipples stretched. He tries to rut against the heavy books, but it's no use, their weight is preventing any satisfying motion. Meanwhile, it feels like his nipples might be ripped off. He tries to even his breathing, concentrates on John's taste in his mouth. Sherlock can hear him switch on the telly and settle onto the sofa. Ok, he'll have to wait.

John lets Sherlock stew for more than an hour before returning to the kitchen. By that time, Sherlock is nearly mad with arousal, squirming on the dildo while his hard cock throbs beneath the tower of books in his lap, pressing down on him. His sore arse has gone numb. His nipples are stretched almost past endurance. John's come has dried on his face, itching. He looks a right mess.

He's not tied up, he could have ended his ordeal any time. He's here voluntarily. Knowing that makes John's cock again strain against his denim confines. He's doing this to Sherlock Holmes, who's by now not only willing but rather eager to submit to him, reduced to a panting cock slut. His panting cock slut.

“God, you really get off on this, don't you?” He asks Sherlock, who opens his eyes and nods. His gaze is glazed over, his mouth hanging open in a silent moan.

“I'd really like to fuck you.” John strokes Sherlock's sweaty hair from his grubby forehead, staring down at him. Spit, tears and come have agglutinated into an obscene patina on those unusually beautiful features.

Sherlock licks his lips before answering in a low, pleading voice: “Yes, fuck me, John. Please. It's been so long.”

John grins. “Oh, yes.”

He quickly takes one volume after the other off of Sherlock's legs; finally, his cock springs free, dark red and dripping. Next, John removes the bucket, and Sherlock sighs in relieve, rolling his strained shoulders. When he's allowed to get up, the dildo slides from his arse with a wet, slurping sound. Sherlock whimpers at the sudden emptiness.

“Bed. Now.” John tells him, and Sherlock skitters over into their bedroom as fast as his smarting arse allows. “On your hands and knees. Face the headboard.”

Sherlock clambers onto the mattress and does as he's told, his stiff cock bobbing between his shaky legs. John has taken the dildo from the kitchen chair and now attaches it to the wooden headboard with its suction cup, the black rubber almost poking Sherlock in the eye.

John would love to go without lube, just spitting a few times into Sherlock's still gaping hole before pushing in, but even he knows that that might be too much right now for Sherlock to take. He quickly pulls his jeans down and his jumper off, then takes the bottle from the bedside table and slicks himself up with a few languid strokes before climbing onto the bed and lining up, nudging Sherlock's entrance with his fat, glistening cock head.

Sherlock sighs. His arse is still bright red. John presses his palms to his buttocks, leaving white marks on the raw flesh. Sherlock groans again, both in pain and impatient anticipation. His skin feels hot under John's touch, pulsing. The salt surely still irritates his sore skin.

John looks down as he pushes just the head in. He can feel Sherlock's rim flutter around his ridge before clenching. John stays like this for a moment, cherishing the incredible tightness he'd missed so much. His strong hands prevent Sherlock from rocking back, taking him deeper. He just wants to feel him like this, just breach and tease him a little, poising on the precipice of their mutual desire.

Sherlock moans low in his throat and wiggles his arse a bit to provoke John to finally slam into him. Yet John waits a little longer, actually pulling back a fraction – eliciting another needy whine from Sherlock – before pushing in in one firm, smooth glide. He watches his cock sink all the way into Sherlock the way he needs it so badly and has been deprived off for far too long.

Sherlock's sensuous groan turns into a sharp gasp as John's pelvis brushes his arse cheeks. John starts to rub himself against Sherlock, who makes a sound between a moan and a sob, agony and arousal mixing into one intoxicating experience of blinding bliss.

“Grab the headboard.” John hisses between clenched teeth, the friction and warmth provided by Sherlock's body almost too much to handle, even for him.

This won't take long.

Sherlock is already nicely prepared from the dildo that sits now only inches away from his face. It has been inside him for more than an hour. It must still taste of him...

As John starts to pounds into Sherlock, urging him a forward, he demands: “Open. Come on, show me what a good cock slut you are.”

Sherlock's mouth obediently drops open with a low whimper as he swallows the toy down until his lips almost crush against the headboard.

“You greedy thing!” John groans, and starts to fuck him in earnest. Every thrust drives the dildo deep down Sherlock's willing, open throat. He moans around it and quickly starts to drool; John's vision blurs as he's desperately chases his own orgasm, despite having just come an hour before.

When was the last time he spilled his load inside Sherlock? He can't remember, the last week has been too insane. God, he'd missed this.

He speeds up, his hips snapping forward in a brutal pace. Sherlock is making gurgling sounds around the black rubber, wailing and keening, shoving his sore arse back onto John's cock, needing it just as badly as John does. The dildo is glistening wet, shining with saliva when it glides from Sherlock's mouth, just like John's cock when he pulls out, only to thrust in again harder and deeper.

The noises Sherlock makes when John hits his prostate send a shiver down John's sweaty spine, spurring him on.

Suddenly, John feels the internal muscles wrapping his cock clench as Sherlock's rim clamps down around his root. Sherlock makes destitute, choking sounds as he's coming, soiling the crumpled bedsheets beneath him. John follows suit, overwhelmed by this intimacy he'd been denied for so long. He throws his head back and perhaps even howls, bellowing Sherlock's name as he squirts deep inside Sherlock's quivering body, already going limp while he's riding out the last waves of pleasure from his own orgasm.

“Jesus.” John pants, pulling out and collapsing onto the bed. Sherlock's wet mouth slides off of the dildo, a thick bead of spit clinging to the black rubber head. He stays upright long enough for John to watch his come leak out of his hole, running over his balls and dripping onto the duvet.

Sherlock's arms and legs are shaking and threatening to give out. John can see that he's had enough. He nudges Sherlock's hip with his elbow, and the pliant, exhausted body sinks down beside him with a content sigh. John pulls him close despite the weak hiss that escapes Sherlock as John's flaccid groin is pressed against his sensitive arse.

“Alright?” John mumbles into Sherlock's ear, who can only nod, already drifting off. John smiles against his nape, inhaling the unique scent of musk, sweat, sex, lube and Sherlock gathered in this particular spot, before closing his own eyes as well. Just a minute, he thinks.

They are both startled awake a few hours later in the early hours, grey light lazily seeping through the curtains. Both their mobiles start ringing insistently and simultaneously. That's not a good sign, John thinks, as he blearily staggers into the kitchen to take his call and retrieve Sherlock's phone from the desk in the living room.

By the end of the day, John's hunch will have proven to be the understatement of the century.

For this turns out to be the day he loses Sherlock.

Chapter Text

“Hi! Is this Doctor John Watson?” A voice that sounds way too cheerful for the godforsaken hour greets John as he answers his phone.

“Y-yes.” He mumbles wearily and a little confused.

“Great! Sorry to disturb you at this hour, John, but we wanted to give you the chance to comment on the rather disturbing revelations regarding your... partner, Sherlock Holmes.”

John needs a moment; he isn't sure he got this right. “Sherlock? Sorry... what revelations? Who's speaking, anyway?”

“Oh, pardon me, John, this is Colin Maxwell from The Sun. Haven't you seen...?”

John presses disconnect at almost lightning speed and just stares at his mobile in still drowsy bewilderment, only to nearly drop it as it rings again. The number shows but doesn't register with him. Not overtly keen to have yet another conversation with a tabloid journalist in which he's clearly at the short end of the stick before he even had the chance to have some tea, he switches his phone off and rummages around the desk to find Sherlock's. It hadn't stopped ringing. He eventually locates it beneath a pile of newspaper clippings.

“Hello?” John barks, his anger sparked by dark apprehension.

“Is this Sherlock Holmes speaking? This is Mary Sykes from The Daily Mail. Would you like to answer...”

John doesn't let the eager voice finish before hanging up on her, shoving the phone beneath the Union Jack pillow on the couch. He grabs the laptop and stalks back into the bedroom.

“Shit! Buggery, fucking shit!” he hisses under his breath.

Sherlock sits naked on the edge of the mattress, his face contorted in pain, his hair a hideous areola of twisted black curls.

“What is it?” He mumbles sleepily.

“Don't know yet.” John sits next to him and powers the computer up. The screen flickers as it comes alive.

John goes on Google and searches for the news, nearly having a coronary when the search results show up after he's entered Sherlock's. Oh. My. God.

“Famous Detective Tripping” - 'Shocking Reveal: Sherlock Holmes Filmed in Drugged Orgy'

“He Made Me Wear The Hat” - 'Our Correspondent Kitty Reiley Gives An Exclusive Account Of Her Hot Night With The Super-Sleuth And His Friends'

“Sherlock Holmes – The H(e)at Is On” - 'How Drugs And Fame Destroyed A Fragile Genius'

“Sex, Drugs and a Stradivari – Sherlock Holmes Confesses To A Life On The Edge”

“Like A (Sex) Machine! Ten Things You Didn't Know About Sherlock Holmes”

“The Private Life Of Sherlock Holmes”

There are pics of Sherlock all over the web. Some are manips, made to show him looking thin, ill, spaced out, slightly degenerated. In one he's with Irene, not giving her name but describing her as a 'notorious bawd' – insinuating either that Sherlock used her services or is somehow employed by her. There are some snapshots with Molly, asking if she's one of Sherlock's flings, his therapist or even his secret wife – depending on the stance the article takes on the whole issue. Some show him with members of his homeless network, and are used to illustrate his ostensible social relegation by insincerely commiserating him. Not only Kitty Riley's article features shots of Sherlock with a group of young men, snorting coke. On almost every site, on every front page, is a somewhat grainy pic of a haggard Sherlock in his black hoodie, crouching over a table on which treacherous white lines are clearly visible.

John groans. Sherlock giggles.

“What's so funny about?” John shouts, and is tempted to smash the laptop onto the floor. Instead, he just shoves it onto the mattress, disgusted.

“Well, they have been creative, don't you think?” Sherlock chuckles.

“Creative? Sorry, his is so rude... it's unbelievable! How can you laugh about it?”

Sherlock shrugs, carefully takes the laptop and goes first to his site, then to John's blog. Both are flooded with messages and comments, mostly from strangers, but there's also a question from Molly.

'Sherlock, John, what is all this about?'

“Molly!” John sighs. “They are all over poor Molly. As if it hadn't been bad enough for her alre...”

He's interrupted by a knock on the door of the flat. Sherlock sets the laptop down onto the bed, where John takes over browsing the web again, puts on a dressing gown and walks into the corridor.

It's Mrs Hudson, who must have returned sometime late last night.

“Sherlock, there are people on the front door.” She sounds anxious. Sherlock can hear the rattling of the knocker downstairs.

“That'll be the press.” He explains.

“Reporters?” Mrs Hudson is just in her long nightdress. “Dear me...”

“Just, don't open. Ignore them. Go back to your flat and stay there. John and I will deal with this.” Sherlock promises her as reassuringly as he can, ushering her down the stairs again. When she's gone, he closes the door and leans back against it.

This is it. So it has begun. He briefly closes his eyes before striding back into the bedroom, where John is silently cursing at the screen.

“How bad is it?” Sherlock asks almost too gleefully.

“You want a summary? You are a junky, either on heroin, cocaine and or crack since uni. You are HIV positive, dying of AIDS, because you went on the game when barely legal. You are suffering from manic depression, schizophrenia and psychosis. You are suicidal, and have attempetd to off yourself at least three times. You indulge in sadistic child pornography, BDSM, you are highly promiscuous, gay, bisexual... The only thing you are apparently not is the head of ISIS, but as it's literally early days, who knows where we'll end up?” John sounds incredulous.

“Who's running with the most vicious stories?” Sherlock asks, prying over John's shoulder.

“The Express and The Daily Star.”

“Magnussen's newspapers.” Sherlock mumbles.

“Newspapers? You are too kind. I wouldn't wipe my arse with them. Here: 'Confession Time For Sherlock Holmes. Super-Sleuth Exposed As Sick Pervert' and 'Dirty Secrets – Learn All There Is To Know About Sherlock's Dark, Raunchy Past'. And those pictures...” John trails off, sounding slightly sick.

Sherlock smiles. “Where's my phone?” He enquires.

“I stuffed it between the sofa cushions. It wouldn't stop ringing.”

“I have to make a call.” Sherlock declares and strides off into the living room. John hurries to follow.

“Yes, hello, it's Sherlock Holmes speaking. - Yes, that's right. Could you please put me through to Mr Magnussen? - Thank you.” John openly gapes at Sherlock, who just puts his index finger to his lips to quieten him. “Mr Magnussen? So kind of you to take my call. - Yes, Miss Riley... I was wondering...” He almost sounds a little perturbed. “I'd really like to set the record straight, so to speak. No pun intended. Could we meet? - Your office might be a bit too exposed. - Could you come to Leinster Gardens? No, just you, I don't want to sound petty, but I'm not sure Kitty will be able to handle the story right. - Great. At Eleven. Thank you.”

Sherlock hangs up and outright beams at John.

“What was that? Did you just make an appointment with the man who's currently dragging you through the mud?” John can't quite believe what he just heard.

“Oh, John, don't be so dull and decent. It really doesn't suit you.” Sherlock saunters past him into the bathroom. “I'm in desperate need of a shower.”

John sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He could murder for a cup of tea.


Sherlock emerges half an hour later, dressed in tight black jeans that really must cling painfully against his sore bottom, and an even tighter black shirt; his nipple rings are clearly visible through the thin fabric. He doesn't look as shabby as the days before but not like his usually impeccable self either. Instead, he looks a bit spoilt, debauched, shifty even.

“This is how you want to face Magnussen?” John asks, eyeing Sherlock suspiciously.

“Problem?” Sherlock retorts and winces slightly as he leans back against the counter, sipping from John's mug of tea, only to pull a wry face at the lack of sugar.

“I'm not sure...” John frowns.

Sherlock sets the mug down and stares at him for a long moment before suddenly dashing into the corridor, pulling on his coat. John follows him onto the landing.

“Where are you going?” He sounds impatient. It's only half past seven.

“Out. I have some things to do before meeting Magnussen.” Sherlock explains rather aloof.

“What about me?”

“Magnussen wants to meet just me. Alone.” Sherlock turns and fixes John with a strangely intense gaze. “You know how much I trust you, John. I just proved it again last night. Please, today, you have to trust me. I promise it will all be alright.” He looks way too serious for John's liking, but that might actually be a good thing for once.

John sighs, crosses his arms over his chest and nods in agreement.

“Thank you.” Sherlock says softly, before stepping close and brushing his lips against John's while closing his eyes. He just stands there and time freezes while John cherishes the utter intimacy of the moment, their quiet understanding.

Until Sherlock pulls back and swallows audibly before speaking again. “Now, what I need you to do is to step outside and say something.”

John groans. “Sherlock, I'm in my pyjamas, and half of London's yellow press is already camping on our doorstep...”

“Precisely. And for me to escape them, I need you to distract them. Your pyjamas will be a great help with that.” Sherlock smirks, glancing down at John's crotch.

“What am I supposed to say?”

“No idea. Just make something up.” With that, Sherlock turns and runs down the stairs.

“How will you leave without being seen?” John trails after him, his bare feet getting cold on the wooden stairs.

“I'll climb out of one of the windows of 221c. I promise I get in touch later. Now it's show-time John.” With that, Sherlock winks and disappears behind the cellar door leading down to the mouldy basement flat.

“The game is on.” John mumbles before pulling the door to the street open, facing the world's most malicious journalists in nothing but his rumpled sleepwear.

He's almost blinded by the spotlights that flash in his face; the shouts of the reporters are deafening, slurring together into a cacophony of meaningless noise.

“John, where's Sherlock?”

“Did you know...?”

“What do you have to say...?”

“John, look over here...!”

John blinks, coughs, and starts spinning a yarn.

If he'd known that Sherlock would never return to 221b Baker Street, he surely would have acted differently. But as of yet, John has no idea that this day will end in the ultimate catastrophe.

He gives Sherlock about ten minutes to escape. That's how long he's able to face the mob at their front door. He tries to come over as confused but genuine, denying as best he can the allegations hurled at him.

“No drugs... no child pornography, for god's sake... no promiscuity...”

“What's your relationship with Sherlock, John?” A young man yells at him over the heads of the crowd.

John freezes, blinks. Takes a deep breath. “I completely trust him. I know him. He's the best and wisest human being I've ever known...”

“Yeah, but what our readers are really interested in... are you two shagging?” The young man shouts, a cruel ring to his voice. Others around him break into a giggle.

“Yes, tell us, John, are you allowed to wear the hat as well? Or are you just cleaning up afterwards?”

John just gives them a two fingered salute before slamming the door shut. Great! Very mature, John! He's sure his enraged face will make the headlines next day. Yet it's too late to dwell on that now.

He climbs back up the stairs. God, he needs a shower!


At half ten, John still hasn't heard anything from Sherlock. He's pacing their living room, cursing at his phone that is swamped with calls from the press he ignores, pressing disconnect every so often in the hope that Sherlock might be able to get through or at least send a text. He's so desperate that he actually answers another number he recognises, despite fearing it might be a grave mistake.

“Mycroft.” He states, and hates the slight tremor audible on his voice.

“Have you read the news, John?” Sherlock's brother asks dangerously smooth.

“Apparently, the news are flocking on my doorstep, as you very well know.”

“Yes. Nice pyjamas. Rather dashing. How's Sherlock?”


“So he's with you? I thought he was off to strike a deal with some sleazy tabloid mogul, but maybe I'm mistaken... what do you think he might offer Charles Augustus Magnussen to let him off the hook? Some more sordid details about his past? Or perhaps something even more intimate? I know Charles is a true connoisseur.”

“Fuck off, Mycroft.” John hisses.

“If you only knew, John. Anyway, it's nice for once getting help from someone I didn't quite expect. You'll both go down and I won't even have to move a finger. I think the drug's squad will be over at your flat by noon. Good day, John.” Mycroft hangs up.

John fumes. It's a quarter to eleven. Sod it, he thinks, grabbing his coat, running up to his room to take his gun. Who knows what Sherlock has got himself into this time. Better safe than sorry.

But when he opens the drawer of his bedside cabinet, his Sig is gone.

“Shit!” He slams the drawer shut and runs downstairs, taking two steps at a time. If Sherlock can climb out of a window, so can John.


He arrives at Leinster Gardens just about ten past eleven. The traffic has been hellish. He knows those empty houses Sherlock proclaims to have won at a card game years ago from some of their stakeouts. They are eerily beautiful by night but rather unassuming and dilapidated during the day.

The door is slightly ajar, allowing John to enter silently. He can hear voices and tries to keep quiet as not to attract attention.

“But tell me, Mr Holmes, how do you explain about the drugs?” The voice is cool, with a somewhat harsh Nordic accent. “There's photographic evidence.”

“I know!” Sherlock sounds frantic. “Please, Charles... I was desperate. I was so stupid. But I'm sure we can come to a mutual arrangement.” Sherlock seductively lets his voice drop an octave at the end of the sentence.

John carefully preens around a corner. Sherlock has his back to John, facing a tall, slim man. John's first impression of Charles Augustus Magnussen is grey: grey-blond hair, a grey three-piece-suit, hard grey eyes, assessing Sherlock from behind rimless glasses. In contrast, Sherlock looks almost flamboyant in his provocative clothing.

Now, he's taking a few steps towards Magnussen, even touches his chest, playing with a button of his grey waistcoat.

“You know, that reputation I have... it's not entirely unfounded.” Sherlock stage-whispers, his tone dripping with lewd promises.

But Magnussen seems not to notice. “So you are admitting to doing drugs, Sherlock. What else do you want to tell me? There was talk about young boys, very young boys...” He trails of, looking right at Sherlock, starring unblinking at his face with his sharp dead eyes. Sherlock's flinches a little and shrugs as if embarrassed.

“That's... well, what can I say, Charles? If, hypothetically, maybe some aspects of those stories might be accurate... could you help me? I'd be very grateful.” Sherlock tilts his head and cants his hips enticingly.

“Ah, I'm afraid, Sherlock, I'm a newspaper editor. I stand on the side of the truth...” A rather unpleasant knowing smile creeps onto Magnussen's face.

“But perhaps I could offer you something in exchange, something more valuable and important than stories about my sex-life.” Sherlock almost purrs.

“And what would that be? You know, I could sell an awful lot of newspapers if I made your and Doctor Watson's affair public.”

Sherlock suddenly goes rigid, stepping away from the man. Magnussen continues, with a smirk on his otherwise stony face: “Oh, are you getting cold feet now? I thought you were doing rather nicely. Come back over here, let's proceed. What were you about to offer me?”

But Sherlock stays at arm’s length away. “How much do you know?” He asks breathlessly. John's suddenly not sure if he's still shamming.

“Well, I know about Irene Adler's establishment that you both frequented. I know about a certain encounter there with a maid called Kate and another woman, who might have been a police officer. I know about another incident involving four builders. How am I doing so far?”

“You are certainly not doing yourself a favour here, mate.” John steps around the pillar he's been hiding behind, and Magnussen raises his head to look at him over Sherlock's shoulder with those cold, calculating eyes. Sherlock turns a little as well, but John just catches a quick glimpse at his distinctive profile, his face flushed pink as if agitated, his gaze unusually pale yet intense, before he looks back at Magnussen.

“Ah, the good Doctor Watson. Did you come to rescue your damsel in distress?” The smile that distorts Magnussen's mouth is abhorrent.

John decides to ignore him. “Sherlock, what's going on here?”

“John...” Sherlock mumbles weakly, still not looking at him. “I wasn't expecting you.”

“Well, tough luck, here I am.”

“God, this is so adorable.” Magnussen outright gleefully wrings his hands. “Will you stand by this little tabloid whore when I'm finished with him, John? May I call you John? I've heard from reliable sources that you are into calling him your whore yourself.”

John slowly turns his head and stares at the man with contemptuous determination. “What do you want?”

“Oh, I want to hang your lover out to dry. Sex sells. People are so petty, don't you think, John? How much they love to see their heroes fall.”

“Listen, those are all just rumours, hearsay. You don't have any proof...” John balls his hands into fists.

“But I don't need proof, John. I just need to print it. If I write that your little slut here likes to take it up the arse, getting... what is the crude word you English use?... Ah, yes, getting dicked down by total strangers while you watch, people will take delight in all those filthy details. Who cares if they are true? But we both know they are.” The smile on Magnussen's face doesn't falter, making John's stomach turn. He can sense Sherlock tensing up next to him.

“Why would you want to drag those things out into the open? It's private. It's nobody's business.” John has to bide some time to come up with a plan to get them both out of here.

“Oh, but you two are celebrities now. People have a right to know what you are up to, how you love to tie your fucktoy down, for example, and beat him into submission.” Magnussen's voice is cultivated, quite distinguished, which makes listening to him using all those dirty words even more insufferable.

“The fuck they have...” John squares his shoulders and, bypassing Sherlock, takes a few steps towards Magnussen, who suddenly retreats, his eyes widening in surprise.

“No, don't...” The man gasps, and for a split second, John thinks he's afraid of him. But those grey eyes linger on a spot above John's shoulder. It might be a cheap trick, but John looks around anyway. What he sees lets him freeze in shock.

Sherlock is standing at the far end of the long room, near the door, a gun pressed to his temple.

“Sherlock, what the hell... put that gun down!” Is it his, John wonders? Jesus fucking Christ!

“John, stay where you are. He's got us, don't you see? There's no way out. God, the humiliation, the shame... think about my brother, my parents...” Sherlock flicks back the safety. John slowly turns, extending his hands to placate Sherlock, to calm him down. Behind him, Magnussen makes a strangled noise.

“Sherlock, please...” John pleads.

“No! I can't anymore... Goodbye, John.”

They lock eyes. Sherlock's shine way too bright. Then he pulls the trigger.

The sound is deafening in the narrow, high passage. John's ears ring. Time slows down to molasses. Sherlock falls to the ground as if his strings had been cut, the back of his head hitting the concrete with a dull thud. Magnussen moves behind John's back, retches, then stumbles past him and outside, his phone pressed to his ear. John stands frozen, shell-shocked.

He has no idea how long it takes for him to stagger over to Sherlock's body, lying on the floor. It feels like if his feet are glued to the ground, as if he's wading through quicksand. When he eventually reaches Sherlock, he can see blood oozing from the back of his head. His eyes are open, staring blindly at the ceiling, unblinking. John bows down to feel his pulse at his wrist. Nothing.

Suddenly, there's movement around him. He's pushed aside by people in white coats, shoving him away as they are busying themselves with Sherlock. A stretcher rattles. Someone is shouting, but John can't understand any of it. He's numb, deaf, paralysed.

He stands there long minutes even after Sherlock has been carted away, leaning against the damp wall, staring at the blood still pooling on the floor.

“Sherlock...,” he whispers, reaching out a trembling hand before toppling over, falling to his knees, vomiting all over the concrete.


Four weeks later...

John is sitting at a small table outside a cafe on Prinsengracht, overlooking the Westerkerk at the opposite side of the waterway. The bells are chiming, the sun is warm on his face, and the idyllic setting suddenly almost overwhelms him, especially after the events of the last twenty-four hours. He'd love to have a beer to relax, but he's drunken way too much over the past few weeks. Besides, it might be better to have a clear head for whatever revelation he's about to be confronted with. Therefore, he's just nursing a surprisingly good coffee as he sits and waits.

He's not sure for what or whom.

The last couple days have been rather insane, even by John's admittedly blurred standards. It had all started with a burner phone he'd found in an enveloped addresses to him, pushed through the letter slot at 221 Baker Street in an unstamped envelope. John was still living there, in their flat, even after... He had been unable to muster enough energy to go hunting for a new flat, despite the ghosts of the past that haunt him at Baker Street.

The phone had been sitting silently on the mantel for two days before it had chimed with an incoming text not twenty-four hours ago. The number had been withheld but the message had read as follows:

I have vital information on SH. Meet me in Amsterdam, Cafe de Oude Wester, tomorrow at 6 a.m. Take Eurostar to Paris, then train to Amsterdam. Pay cash.

No signature.

John had stared at the text for two full minutes. He'd had to blink the small screen into focus, as he'd already been well through a bottle of Tequila, even if it was just late afternoon.

Was he really interested in anything to do with Sherlock anymore? Why should he be? After his... demise, his whole live – or what the media had been able to unearth – had been tabloid fodder. It had lasted about a week. John doubted there was anything left he didn't know about Sherlock. It was over. He had to let go and move on.

On the other hand, who was he kidding? He was only able to sleep with the aid of pharmaceutics and drink, otherwise, sooner or later, he'd come again face to face with Sherlock's lifeless eyes and a pool of his own dark-red blood. He was unable to work, and couldn't distract himself otherwise. The worst were people trying to help him by stopping by or calling, offering to talk to him about IT.

So, after a while, John had abandoned the Tequila, made himself a coffee and had sat in his chair, thinking. When the sun had started to rise, he'd not even bothered to pack a bag, just showered, changed and left the flat. He'd walked along Marylebone and Euston Road until he'd reached St Pancras station to board the next Eurostar. At Gare du Nord, he'd taken another train to Amsterdam, where he'd arrived at three in the afternoon, wandering the streets until it had been time for his appointment.

John really had no idea who he'd been meeting. An old friend of Sherlock with a message from beyond the grave? An old enemy, still holding a grudge, out to settle the score once and for all? Some lunatic, who'd lured him onto the continent to share a particularly crazy conspiracy theory (there had been some disturbingly insane posts on the blog last time he'd bothered to look)?

Well, as it was, he'd nothing better to do anyway, so why not travel across Europe just because an anonymous text message told him to? He'd done stranger things in his life...

Only, nothing of those had prepared him for what is about to happen. As the bells stop ringing, just after six o'clock, a shadow falls over his table. John had been fiddling with the burner phone, anticipating maybe another message, chasing him across town, but it had stayed quiet since last night. He only glances sideways as the chair next to him is pulled out from under the table and a woman sits down, wearing a long floral dress combined with a rather ridiculous I Love Amsterdam cap under which short ginger curls protrude.

Later, John couldn't have said what exactly it had been that made him look again. Was it that he was expecting someone? Or some vague familiarity his brain caught on but didn't translate immediately? He's not sure, yet he looks once more at the woman, giving her a quick once-over from the corner of his eye. She's rather tall, even when sitting, and thin, like a model; a grey scarf is wrapped around her neck, a bit unusual for the warm weather.

When John's gaze reaches her face, it's just in time to catch her remove her sunglasses. As their eyes meet, John gasps, because he's sure he'd recognise those eyes anywhere: pale silver-blue with a splash of green, large, expressive, slightly almond-shaped. Only, the last time he looked into them, they'd been lifelessly staring back at him from a head fractured by a bullet.

John freezes, and the woman holds his gaze, looking calmly back at him. He can't comprehend. Everything around them blurs and fades away. And when the woman opens her mouth – her pale pink, impossible mouth, the upper lip graced by the most beautiful Cupid's bow – and softly says: “Hello, John.” - He just can't anymore.

He pushes back and gets up clumsily, staggering backwards, only narrowly avoiding another table. Then he turns and runs. Because this is like his worst nightmare come true and he's sure he's losing his mind.

Sherlock's ghost has come to haunt him.

Chapter Text

John cuts a corner, skittering down a narrow lane. But this is fucking Amsterdam, full of fucking canals but nearly not enough fucking bridges to fucking cross them, so he quickly ends up facing a black iron railing. He can hear fast steps running after him, getting closer, and an eerily familiar voice calling his name, yet he doesn't stop. Instead, he turns left, sprinting along the canal in hope to escape this spectre from a past he desperately wants to forget but seems not allowed to.

As he is about to cross the road to get rid of his pursuer in the maze of little streets that make up this part of town, he has to suddenly jump backwards to avoid being run over by a Vespa. The driver shouts something at him that doesn't sound too friendly, and John slows down to preen around a corner to be on the save side before continuing his flight. But this turns out to have been a mistake when long, strong fingers grab his arm, clutching around his biceps.

“John, please, stop.” The deep, velveteen voice gasps behind him. “These shoes are really not made for running after you.” It’s breathless, and sounds so much like John's memories of Sherlock - beneath him, in bed, held down and forced into submission - that it actually hurts in his chest. Yet John doesn't dare to look around.

“Go away!” He whispers. “You're dead. You're fucking dead. You blew your brains out in front of me, so kindly piss off, will you?” John raises his voice at the end of the sentence, hating how absolutely broken he sounds. People on the other side of the pavement turn their heads.

“John, please, I know it's a shock, but you have to calm down. You are attracting attention.” The voice mumbles, suddenly shockingly near John’s left ear, warm breath ghosting over prickling skin. Do hallucinations always feel this real?

“I am... I am attracting attention?” He asks, bewildered. “Well, as I'm chased by a fucking ghost through Amsterdam, what else am I supposed to do?” Hysterical giggles threaten to bubble up in John’s throat, and he has to swallow hard to keep them down.

“John, I'm not a ghost. Please, turn, look at me.” The voice is so soft and pleading that John finally gives in, coming face to face with the tall red-haired woman. She's again wearing her sun-glasses, hiding her eyes, which makes looking at her somehow easier. But that mouth... John can all too vividly remember it wrapped around his cock, moaning beneath him, begging; or distorted in pain, screaming. There are other features, too: Sherlock's mother-of-pearl earlobes, his prominent nose, those high cheek bones one could cut his hand slapping, his slim yet dextrous fingers still holding onto John's arm. Only now, his fingernails are painted in a glossy shade of pink.

“Let go.” John bites out, and the hand is pulled back as if burned.

“John, please, let me explain...” The woman removes her sunglasses. John averts his eyes, staring down at the pavement. “Listen to me…”

But John can't listen anymore. He screws his eyes shut, shaking his head. “You are not real! I've finally snapped. You’re just a figment of my imagination.”

“Touch me.” The voice says.

John blindly lungs forward, his fist connecting with that treacherous mouth. Sharp teeth grate his knuckles and he can hear a hiss of pain. The woman staggers backwards against the brightly painted wall of a townhouse, quickly covering her bleeding lip with her hand. John stares down at his throbbing fist, sore and chafed, smeared with blood.

“Ghosts don't bleed, do they?” The woman asks, voice muffled by her fingers hiding the damage. A couple is walking towards them, giving them a strange look. “Come on, let’s go, before someone arrests you for assault.”

The woman grabs John's injured hand, and he lets himself be willingly pulled down a small lane. It’s like in one of his dreams. John suddenly feels tired, raw and empty. Why any longer resist the inevitable?

He quickly loses track of where they are heading, until they stop a few minutes later in front of a small guest house. The woman produces a key from her bulbous handbag, opens the door, and leads John up a steep stair and into a spartanly furnished room. After locking the door, she sits down on the double bed and kicks her high-heels off. She has rather large, bony feet, John observes, the toenails painted pink as well.

As she follows John’s gaze, she smiles, removes her silly cap and darkened glasses and wiggles her toes. “Do you like that, John? Isn’t it too tarty? I tried to keep it classy.”

John raises his head and looks her square in the face. Her pale eyes are large, pleading, and a little sad. The short copper curls framing her long face seem strange, yet utterly attractive in combination with her fair skin, her cheekbones even more prominent, subtly highlighted by rouge.

John wants to reply, say something, but his head is swimming and he’s lost for words. He can just stare, unblinking, numb.

After a moment’s silence, the woman stands up, removes the grey scarf from her neck, pulls the flowery dress over her head, quickly unhooks her padded bra and sinks onto her knees.

It’s no doubt Sherlock, very much alive, kneeling on the cheap brown carpet in the middle of this dingy room in Amsterdam, wearing nothing but tight navy-coloured panties, his hair a little longer than usual and dyed ginger, his nipplerings sparkling in the sunlight. He watches John, his hands resting on his thighs, holding himself very still, barely breathing.

John stumbles backwards until his legs give out and he slides down onto the floor as well, his back against the pale yellow wall. The room is so small, there’s only about three feet of old carpet separating them, yet it feels like an unbridgeable abyss. John can't stop shaking his head. His hands tremble.

Sherlock hadn’t expected this. He’s more than a little helpless in the face of John’s devastation. Unsure of what else to do, he crawls over to a little table by the sole window. There’s a bottle on top of it, which he passes to John, staying an arm-length away. John just sets it to his lips and takes a large swig. It burns, restoring some warmth to his frozen body.. Cognac. John takes another sip, coughs, wipes his mouth with the back of one shaking hand.

Sherlock, still crouched on the floor, watches him from below his lashes, darker and longer now because of the mascara he wears. Dried blood sprinkles his chin. Despite the distance between them, John can feel the heat radiating off his mostly naked body.

“Jesus, Sherlock...” John trails off, his voice hoarse, his throat tight. He cards his left hand through his silver-blond hair. “Ginger? Seriously?”

Sherlock’s gaze shifts, confused by John's choice of topic. “I tried to bleach it, and this is what happened.” He shrugs, gesturing vaguely at his curls.

“Blondes have more fun, they say.” John retorts dryly. He feels sick. He feels elated. He feels hot and cold all over at the same time. The cognac sloshes in his empty stomach, his heartbeat picking up. His skin prickles. He can’t take his eyes off Sherlock. He desperately wants to touch, to feel.

Suddenly, almost in shock, realising that he can, John lungs forward and grabs the back of Sherlock's neck, pulling him in for a long, hard kiss. He tastes blood. Sherlock smells odd, too sweet, and his skin is too soft, not even sporting a hint of stubble. It's all wrong. It's perfect.

When they break apart, John presses their foreheads together, still clutching the liquor in his right hand. He's sure he'll need it tonight, but not the way he needed booze over the last few weeks; not to sedate him, but to celebrate. Due to his sudden movements, some cognac has spilled over his hand. He holds his damp fingers up, and without being told, Sherlock’s tongue darts out, pink and wet, to lap the sticky liquid up, tentatively licking before boldly sucking John’s fingers into his mouth, one after the other.

When he’s finished, he whispers John’s name against his palm, his lips warm, his breath hot and moist.

“Yes, love.” John answers, his free hand stroking Sherlock’s gleaming curls.

“You are crying.”

It's true. A hitching sob is wrenched from John's throat but he doesn't care.

“Of course I'm crying. You were dead. And now I'm holding you again. What else am I supposed to do?” He chokes out, grinning, tears running down his face.

“Punch me?” Sherlock proposes, entwining his long, white fingers with John’s short and sturdy ones he's just sucked.

“But I already did that.” John laughs out, finally letting go of Sherlock to wipe his eyes. He brushes his thumb over Sherlock's lower lip, still slightly swollen. Sherlock’s make-up got a little affected by John’s emotional outbreak; his mascara is smeared, his skin blotchy where their kissing and John’s stubble scraped off the carefully applied foundation that had given Sherlock’s face an almost porcelain complexion.

“Come on, let’s clean you up. And then you have to tell me. Everything.” John takes another drink from the bottle before getting to his feet, pulling Sherlock up with him.


A quarter of an hour later, they sit on the bed, Sherlock still just wearing those silky panties, as he apparently has only female clothes with him here. John finds this utterly arousing and very appealing, even though he wants as much pure male Sherlock for their reunion as possible.

“Tell me.” John mumbles into his nape, stroking his shoulders while leaning back against the headboard. Sherlock's spine is pressed against his chest as he reclines between John's spread thighs.

“I knew there was only one chance to escape my brother. I had to die. He can be very persistent, as you might have noticed.” Sherlock smiles a wry smile. John snorts. “But it had to be convincing, in the presence of an independent eyewitness. Well, the easiest way is to stage a suicide. Not too many people involved. I would be in control. But, of course, I needed a motive.”

Sherlock lays his head against John's collarbone. John’s arms wrap around him, not sure if he'll ever be able to let go again.

“Therefore all the shenanigans with the drugs and the press?” John asks, burying his nose in those soft ginger curls.

“Precisely. Driven to suicide by the defamatory slander of the tabloids. Neat, don't you think?” Sherlock sounds rather proud of himself. John sighs, resting his chin on top of Sherlock’s red curls. “Oh, sorry. You weren't supposed to be there.” Sherlock interlaces their fingers and squeezes reassuringly.

“But how did you do it?”

“Well, I know people working for the BBC. We went to school together, they owed me a favour. Long story. The gun wasn't yours, it was a prop. I used blanks and had a small pad filled with artificial blood as used on TV hidden beneath my hair at the back of my head. When I shot myself,” Sherlock has to disentangle their hands to make air quotes with his long fingers, “I fell backwards, the pad ruptured, and it looked like blood oozing from my head. I hoped Magnussen would be too shocked to look at me thoroughly. You arriving at the scene complicated matters a little. But I had people from my homeless network on stand-by, to intervene quickly. They posed as ambulance staff and carted me away.”

“But your eyes. Those were dead eyes, broken. I knew what I saw. I’m a Doctor, remember.”

Sherlock moves and tilts his head a little to look up at John. John gazes into those bright silver eyes that gleam and sparkle once again with life.

“Contact lenses.” Sherlock explains.

John remembers how strange Sherlock's eyes had looked at Leinster Gardens. Back then, he'd attributed it to the low light and Sherlock’s agitation.

“Where did you get the ambulance from?”

“Molly. She also provided the corpse my family had to identify. She shot some poor stiff she got on her slab and who resembled me in the mouth with your gun, thereby obscuring his face. It was her way to get even after the whole Moriarty business.”

They both fall silent. Sherlock shivers a little and John holds him tighter.

“But Mycroft wouldn't be so easily fooled, would he?” John mouths a kiss just behind Sherlock’s right ear.

“No.” Sherlock admits, leaning into the touch. “But there Anderson proved invaluable.”

“Anderson. As in Philip Anderson?” John asks incredulous, jerking his head back. “But he hates you.”

“Yet he hates my brother even more. My enemy's enemy is my friend.” Sherlock smiles darkly. “He provided very convincing DNA samples and dental records. I was dead. Even Mycroft believed it. Did you go to my funeral?”

“No.” John barely remembers the day. He drowned it in Tequila. “But Mrs Hudson went. She told me it was very decent.”

Sherlock laughs out loud, but it sounds more bitter than amused. “Pity. I suppose it was rather nice. Mummy does have a talent for such things.”

“So they don't know? That you are alive?” John’s not sure if he approves.

“God, no.” Sherlock shakes his head before turning around, kneeling between John's spread legs. “We left all of this behind. We are free.” As if to emphasise his words, he kisses John, deep and languidly. “Can you forgive me?” He mumbles against John's lips.

“I got you back from the dead, a second chance. Of course, I forgive you.” John once again feels a lump in his throat. The way Sherlock looks at him, so trusting, so full of adoration… how could he not forgive the bastard? He coughs to clear his throat. “But...”

“But what?” Sherlock’s voice has dropped an octave despite his innocent expression.

“I have a few ideas how you could make it up to me.”

“I'm sure you do.” Sherlock growls before bowing his head and lowering his eyes, fixing them onto the duvet.

“God, I missed you...,” John breathes, pushing his fingers into Sherlock's hair, tugging hard. Sherlock moans softly. John can see his cock hardening in his panties, the head poking already out a little, shining wet. John smirks, reaching out to palm Sherlock, and his whole body twitches before relaxing into the touch.

Sherlock's cock feels like a rod of steel wrapped in silk, hot and pulsing. He presses and strains against John's palm, starting to rub himself against John's knuckles. Suddenly, the small room smells of sex, heady and musky.

John pulls at Sherlock's hair again, dragging his head back while his other hand wanders up from Sherlock's cock until he can play with Sherlock's nipplerings, flicking them gently. Sherlock outright keens.

“Lie down.” John gasps, and Sherlock hurries to comply, shuffling up before rolling onto his back. John towers over him, bracketing his lithe body on hands and knees, looking his fill before diving down, invading Sherlock's mouth with tongue and teeth.

“It's been so long... God, I never thought I'd have this again... You utter dick... I love your taste... The way you feel against me... your fucking filthy mouth...” John pants into Sherlock mouth between bruising kisses, still tasting the faint flavour of blood. It almost drives him mad, reaching deep inside him, evoking some primal urge to mark and own. “You are mine!” He growls.

Some time later, after a somewhat uncoordinated tangle of limbs and clothes, John has Sherlock tied to the headboard with his dove grey scarf, his hands outstretched above his head. His ankles are bound together with John's belt. It's not perfect, but they have to make do with what is at hand in Sherlock's sparse hotel room.

What is actually now in John's hand is a knife. A bowie knife with a gleaming ten inch blade Sherlock keeps in his handbag for self-defence. He had stayed in some pretty grim neighbourhoods since his demise, to hide, and, after a gang in Paris had tried to mug him, he had decided that his Judo skills were not sufficient enough to fight off a whole group of thugs.

Sherlock's cock is fully hard, still trapped in his small knickers. John has removed his shirt and jumper but still wears his jeans, staring at the miles of pale skin in front of him, contemplating the best place to start. He needs to see Sherlock bleed, the warm blood that pulses through his veins extracted, to make sure he's truly alive. John needs this experience to convince himself that this is real. After all his drunken daydreams and hazy nightmares, John needs proof.

Sherlock's muscles twitch. His breath has gone ragged in anticipation as he watches John from huge eyes, his pupils blown wide. He needs this as much as John does, to seal their bond in blood. Pushing resolutely back the thoughts of the last time someone had cut him, he waits patiently for John to collect himself. They both know that he'll need a steady hand for this.

John eventually locks eyes with Sherlock and bows down, kissing him almost chaste before drawing the tip of the knife down Sherlock's exposed inner upper arm, stretched out above his head. It's just a shallow cut, but it instantly starts to bleed, dark red crimson rivulets trickling down milky skin. Sherlock inhales and closes his eyes.

“No, look at me.” John whispers, drawing the blade over Sherlock’s heaving sternum. Blood spills over his pale chest, droplets catching in the silver circles of his nipplerings. John dips his head to lick it up, to taste, sucking on Sherlock's left nipple until the distinct metallic flavour of the juice of Sherlock's life fills his mouth.

John raises his head, and the fierce look on his face almost frightens Sherlock. Suddenly, the knife is at his throat, pressing down just below his Adam's apple. Sherlock goes utterly still, not even swallowing. Heat pools in his cheeks and down in his belly as he melts under John's raw gaze.

“Say it, say yes!” John pants.

“Yes, John. Anything...” Sherlock whispers.

“Say you'll never leave again. Ever. Swear it.”

“Never, John. I swear. I'm yours.” Sherlock promises, and his vow is affirmed as John cuts him again and he willingly lets him. John's pupils dilate just before he lowers his head to Sherlock's neck to suck his warm blood from his throat.

When John looks up again, his face is wild, his lips smeared crimson. The knife moves down Sherlock's body, and he arches into the contact. As John reaches his crotch, he slices the thin silk from Sherlock's hips with two precise cuts. The fabric is soaked with Sherlock's precome, clinging to his bollocks. John grins almost manic as he presses the flat side of the knife against the underside of Sherlock's shaft, who responds with canting his hips upwards, rubbing himself against the sharp blade. After a moment, John pulls away to give Sherlock two parallel lesions at the translucent skin in the hollows of his hips. The blood drips down, pooling at Sherlock's groin, and John smears it all over Sherlock's straining cock with his free hand, giving him a few long, slow strokes from hilt to tip.

“John, please... please,” Sherlock breaths out, and John leans in and kisses him again, crashing their mouths together. When he pulls away, he replaces his tongue with the bloody fingers of his right hand, and Sherlock sucks and laps at them with abandon...

Soon, Sherlock looks like carnage: blood is running down his arm, his neck, over his ribcage and his hips; his mouth and cock are smeared a vivid crimson. A copper tang fills the room. And suddenly, it's too much. John is back in the dim, dilapidated corridor at Leinster Gardens and can actually smell the gunpowder as he remembers staring into Sherlock's unblinking, dead eyes. The iron tastes in his mouth makes John retch as the heady scent fills his nostrils. He stills, lowering the knife, and shakes his head as he tries to focus on the warm, breathing body beneath him. Sherlock's gaze isn't dead and broken, just dazed as John's name falls from his bloodied lips.

The room tilts. This is not enough. John needs more. He has to feel Sherlock, crawl inside him, own him again. He quickly pulls the knife down his palm and presses the bleeding laceration over Sherlock's mouth, who sucks obediently for a long minute until John drags his hand all over his face and down his chest, painting him with the most precious, intimate fluid he has to offer.

Sherlock moans and almost sobs, red lips parted and body bucking up, completely undone. John can't wait any longer.

He urgently cuts the scarf binding Sherlock's hands before dropping the knife onto the bedspread. “Get up.”

But Sherlock is already too far gone, so John has to manhandle him, turning him onto his stomach before pulling him back and onto his knees by grabbing him around his midriff, his hands sliding through the smeared, tacky blood.

“Hold onto the head board.” John orders. As Sherlock raises his trembling arms, blood spatters onto the already soiled duvet.

John doesn't care. He unties Sherlock's ankles, peels the remnants of his panties away from his arse, nudges Sherlock's knees apart, and stills.

“What's this, Sherlock?” John asks, spreading Sherlock's arsecheeks.

“I knew I would meet you again today, so I got myself ready for you.” Sherlock breathes, his head hanging low between his arms, his sharp shoulder-blades forming a pale ridge on his sweaty back. The round, silver base of a plug is visible between his cheeks, protruding from his hole. It’s beautiful. John brushes his fingertips over the smooth metal before flicking it a few times. Sherlock rocks forward and moans.

“You had that inside you the whole time?” John marvels.

“I pushed it inside me yesterday, just after I wrote the text to you. I wanted you so badly.” Sherlock confesses. “It took some time. It's big, John, just as you like it. Since I left London, I had just fingered myself, thinking of you. I took pictures, to show you how much I missed you. I nearly did send them to you. But I couldn't. You had to believe I was dead...” Sherlock whispers dreamily until he falls silent, unsure if he gave too much away.

Sex and death mentioned in one sentence while covered in blood. Bid not good?

John doesn't seem to mind. He hums and gently pulls at the base of the plug. Sherlock groans in response.

“Did you clean yourself out before plugging your tight little arse?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock breathes. “And I haven't eaten since. I'm ready for you, whenever you want me.”

John kneads his arsecheeks, pulling them apart to watch the toy shift inside Sherlock's tight ring of muscle. It's mesmerising.

“Where's the lube?” John asks.

“Bedside cabinet. Drawer.”

John quickly finds the bottle and places it next to the knife. He stares at the plug, but avoids the black letters still decorating Sherlock's sacrum.

“This will hurt, Sherlock.” He announces. Sherlock just spreads wider and pushes his arse up. On the spur of the moment, he stuffs the damp rags of his panties in his mouth and waits, tasting himself sharp and bitter. He had agreed to this, to anything John wants. He knows it has to be done. And it has to be done by John. He's made sure that the knife is sharp as a scalpel.

“Ready?” John asks one last time, and Sherlock nods. John takes up the knife, holds it firmly in his left hand, presses the blade against the tattooed skin and cuts. Blood wells up. Sherlock growls into his gag.

John inflicts a gash, and another, carving inked skin open, slashing to the bone. Blood drips down the sides of Sherlock's waist, running down his cleft, dripping onto the duvet. The red crimson covering the silver base of the plug reminds John of surgical instruments after an operation. And isn't that what they are performing here? Amputating a limb, John claiming his pound of flesh.

Sherlock grunts in front of him, keening into the silk in his mouth while John cuts him in quick, precise succession until the hateful tattoo is marred with at least ten deep lacerations. Only when it's rendered illegible does John stop and leans back on his heels. After a moment, he pulls the soaked slip from Sherlock's mouth.

Panting hard, Sherlock asks in a broken voice: “Is it done?”

“Yes.” John nods in response, holding the bloodied knife in front of Sherlock's pale face, the blade dripping with his blood. Sherlock's eyes are glazed over, but he smiles despite the pain distorting his features.

“Fuck me, John. Please, fuck me.” He pleads, raw and hoarse, flayed, his core laid open. John instantly drops the knife, unbuttons his jeans and pulls them down to mid-thigh. As his stiff cock springs free, he takes the lube and slicks himself up.

He removes the plug in one swift motion. Sherlock gasps as its bulbous head breaches him. His hole flutters shut, now empty, twitching enticingly for John to push inside. Blood is still running down Sherlock's crack, and John smears it over the pale globes of Sherlock's arse until they are painted in varying shades of rusty crimson. It looks and smells like a slaughterhouse: blood, sweat, musk, fear, heat. Its primal. It's intoxicating.

John's vision goes foggy as he grabs Sherlock's hips with his bloodied fingers and pushes in, sliding inside Sherlock in one languid motion until he's fully seated, his balls brushing Sherlock's perineum. His fingers leave dark red traces on Sherlock's white skin as they rub small circles into his back.

John is so keyed up, he can't go slowly. Not this time. The battlefield their bed has become calls for action. Sherlock moans like a whore in front of him, pushing eagerly back, at least as needy as John himself. Blood is everywhere, making their bodies slippery with their own brand of gory lube. John smears it all over Sherlock’s body, as he touches every inch of skin he can reach, his fingers scratching, eliciting one pleading scream after another from Sherlock, calling for mercy, calling for more.

When John can feel his climax approaching, he pulls Sherlock upright into his lap, until his spine makes contact with John's sternum. His hands search blindly on the mattress until he finds the belt, wraps it around Sherlock's long pale neck, and pulls it tight. He's controlling Sherlock with just this makeshift leash. Swathed around his left hand.

“Come on, fuck yourself on my big, hard cock.” He growls into Sherlock's ear, and Sherlock starts to bounce up and down in his lap, impaling himself on his cock. It must brush his prostate with every thrust, because Sherlock keens with abandon; the pain from the deep cuts seems almost forgotten, wiped out by pleasure, yet warm blood starts to pool in the vee of John's jeans around his crotch, mixing with the lube dripping from Sherlock's arsehole into some kind of sanguine additive.

John pulls the belt tight once more, and Sherlock makes a choking sound. John grunts: “Come on, Sherlock, ride my cock like the slut you are.” - and can suddenly feel Sherlock's hole clench, his inner muscles spasm. Sherlock comes hard, shooting thick squirts of goo all the way up the wall above the headboard, and as John watches it drip down the pale yellow wallpaper, he plunges over the edge himself, almost blacking out as he spills his come inside Sherlock's tight, spasming passage.

Yet he has no time to indulge in post-orgasmic bliss. He swiftly removes the belt and lowers Sherlock onto his front on the duvet before pulling out. As he quickly gets up and walks into the bathroom to retrieve some towels and a glass of water, he can hear Sherlock hiss in pain.

John cleans Sherlock up as good as possible, covering the cuts on his back with another towel to soak up the blood, then takes a hurried shower and dresses. Sherlock has told him that there is a pharmacy just round the corner where he'll get everything he needs.

Before he leaves, he asks: “Are you alright, Sherlock?”

Sherlock answers with a dopey, sedated hum. He looks like he's been hit by a lorry, dried blood all over, yet he seems blissfully content, sprawled out on the bloodstained duvet, wearing his new marks with pride.

“I'll be right back.” John promises and Sherlock sighs with satisfaction by way of a goodbye.

It takes a while to patch him up and disinfect the wounds. The one on his back will scar heavily. And John's sure one go won't be enough to remove Mycroft's possessive inscription. But in time it will fade, obliterated like the memory of Sussex.


Late that night, when John had popped out again and bought some bread, cheese and wine, they sit naked and cross-legged on the bed (the duvet soaking in the bath) while Sherlock tells him about the last four weeks. John smiles and frowns, nods and listens. He will tell Sherlock in return how badly he missed him, alone in London, but not tonight. This is their reunion, their celebration, and he will not spoil it with his grief.

“I stayed the first night at Molly's. Mycroft never took her seriously. The next day, I dyed my hair, borrowed some of her baggy dresses and took the Eurostar to Paris. As you've seen, there are no border controls. My French is passable. I slept at shelters for homeless women for a few nights until someone from the homeless network came over from London and provided me with some cash. I think Anderson and Molly both chipped in. With that, I took buses through the North of France and Belgium until I arrived here. I went by the name of Violet Smith. I had already ordered a credit card in her name and transferred some money into that account over the last week in London. She in turn distributed it to various accounts. I had to be careful as not to attract Mycroft's attention. He monitors my funds scrupulously.” Sherlock smirks.

“So you have some money at your disposal?”

“Enough for the moment, at least. For the two of us. Except you have developed certain extravagant habits while on your own?”

“My only vice has been Tequila.” John confesses. “But I don't think I'll need that much of it from now on.”

“Don't underestimate my talent for causing trouble, John.” Sherlock grins.

“I've already lived with you, remember, you prat?” John can't suppress the smile that creeps up into his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

Sherlock looks down and starts fiddling with the sheets before asking way too nonchalantly: “So you'll keep me company for while?”

John reaches out and takes his twitching hand between his palms, clasping at it before hissing because of his own injured hand. “Of course I stay with you, you beautiful lunatic. What is there left for me in London without you?”

Sherlock's fingers softly squeeze back as a blush tints his cheeks an adorably shade of pink, matching his still polished nails.

“Do you still have the pictures and the video you took from me and Mycroft?” he asks off-hand.

As much as John had wanted to forget, he's not a sentimental fool. He knows how dangerous Mycroft Holmes is, and trusts him as far as he can throw him. “Of course.”

“On your mobile?” Sherlock sounds surprised and a little uneasy.

“No. I transferred them to a memory stick a while back. I didn't want to delete them, in case... well. But I didn't want to have them on my phone any longer.” They reminded him of things he couldn't afford thinking about if he wanted to stay sane, but these are thoughts John keeps to himself. “I've got the USB drive in my wallet. Always.”

Talking about his phone, John is suddenly reminded that he hasn't checked his messages since yesterday. He'd only toyed with the burner. Perhaps Mrs Hudson is wondering where he went? He gets up and walks over to the chair he's draped his jacket over, rummaging through his pockets. Yet to no avail.

“Fuck! I know I took it with me this morning...”

“Don't bother.” Sherlock says. He's once again playing with the sheet.

“What do you mean, don't bother. I want to check my phone, my emails...” He trails off. His pockets are empty. He slowly turns around towards Sherlock, arching an eyebrow. “Care to elaborate?” He sighs, understanding dawning on him.

“Someone might have nicked it?” Sherlock mumbles. “Paris is a dangerous place, full of pick-pockets...”

“Did you hire someone to pinch my phone? Jesus, Sherlock...” John shakes his head in exasperation as he sinks back onto the mattress.

“It can be traced, John! When you won't come back to London, my brother will try to find you. All he will discover is that your phone signal got lost somewhere in France...”

John knows he should probably be furious, but all he feels is affection and mild amusement.

“Well, it was a nice phone.” Is all he can come up with by way of scolding.

“I'll get you another one. A better one.” Suddenly, Sherlock scrambles stiffly to his feet, his face distorting in pain as he moves.

“What is it? Sherlock, let me... There's no need...” John his half-way out of the bed himself when Sherlock pushes him back down onto the mattress, where he bounces in between the remnants of their improvised dinner.

“I've got something for you.” Sherlock tells him, his eyes shining bright. He opens his suitcase and throws a small, dark-red book at John – no, not a book, a passport. John opens it curiously. His own face stares back at him.

“Ormond Sacker? What kind of name is that, Sherlock? I sound like a total twat.” But he grins up at his lover, who beams back at him.

“I had to take what was on offer.” Sherlock smiles by way of explanation.

“And who are you?” John asks curiously. “Please tell me you won't keep up the persona of Miss Violet Smith.”

“Why not? I thought I was rather dashing.” Sherlock huffs in indignation before flashing John another passport, also red, but with a different coat of arms on its front. He tries to pull away before John can take a proper look, but John moves quickly and snatches it from Sherlock's hand. “Sven Sigerson? Why do you have a cool Scandic name and I'm stuck with Ormond Sacker?” John chuckles. “But I have to admit, you look hot in your pic.”

“Because, as I said before, I had to make do. Sigerson is the right age and height. That wasn't easy to get hold of.” Now it's John's turn to huff in indignation. As if to appease him, Sherlock states: “We have to bleach my hair again.” He sighs, sounding rather unhappy. “You can help me with that tomorrow.”

He climbs carefully back onto the bed, stretching out on his stomach, his chin resting on his folded arms.

“So, new identities.” John says after a while, leaning in to brush an errant curl off Sherlock's forehead.

“Sherlock Holmes is dead. John Watson has vanished as well.” Sherlock closes his eyes, relishing John's tender touch. “I could organise for you to be declared dead as well, perhaps even some sort of mutilated body might turn up.” He mumbles sleepily. “But I wanted to consult with you about that before setting things in motion. You have a sister, actually, who might suffer from losing you.”

John feels rather touched. “Thank you. I'll think about it.” He chews his lower lip. “So, where will we go? What will we do?”

Sherlock opens his eyes and smiles back up at him, a lewd, promising grin on his face. “Anywhere. I'll go anywhere you want, John Watson. Even to hell.”

John returns the smile, but his is much darker, as is his voice as he says: “Oh, you will, Sherlock. And you'll absolutely love it.”

Chapter Text

Sherlock is lying in bed the next morning, aching, lingering. John is still curled up beside him, fast asleep, but Sherlock has been awake for almost half an hour now, watching the sun rise – or rather, their room getting brighter as the light permeates the curtains, for he can't see the sky from where he's resting beneath the crumpled sheets.

He has to lie on his belly because his lower back hurts too much, despite John treating the wound with antiseptic ointment and some bandages. He's always hurting these days. Emotions are a complicated, raw, messy thing.

For some time, he'd hoped that the pain John's inflicting upon him would drown out his fears. God, he'd been so very wrong.

If he's honest with himself, he's afraid of their future. He needs John, yet is not sure how to keep him. Won't John tire of him rather sooner than later, when the newness of their... affiliation has faded. Are they even in a relationship? John calls him love but he also makes him hurt. The former is way harder to bear than the latter.

And yet, Sherlock loves both.

What does that make him? A freak? A codependent, horny slut? Does he have no pride? Or is John simply giving him what he needs, regardless of other people's narrow views on healthy relationships? Are they perhaps both the other's saviour?

Sherlock feels content and guilty at the same time and it drives him mad.

He stays in bed a little longer, watching John sigh in his sleep as he turns on his back. Sherlock moves closer, smelling John's sweat, feeling the heat radiating from his body. He wants to taste him, lick the hollow of his throat, suck at the wiry hair of his armpit, press his lips against his sacrum, suck at his toes until John squirms and laughs while his cerulean eyes go dark and his hands tighten in Sherlock's hair.

Just as Sherlock contemplates getting up and using the toilet, those blue eyes suddenly open, fixing him with a surprisingly focused stare.

“Where do you think you are going?” John asks, his voice rough with sleep as his hand tightens around Sherlock's wrist.

“Bathroom?” Sherlock smiles shyly, a little unsure.

John shakes his head. “No, I don't think so.” He reaches over and finds the empty wine bottle from last night. “Take this.”

Sherlock is blushing furiously but obeys. He gets up, takes the bottle and positions his cock over the bottle-neck.

“Come on, let go.” John encourages him, grinning with a wicked undercurrent.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and relaxes. After a moment, his piss starts to flow, quickly filling the bottle. The splattering noise is strangely loud in the silent, stuffy room.

When he's finished, he's unsure how to proceed, offering the bottle to John. It feels warm in his hands, his fresh urine sloshing around in it.

But John shakes his head. “What am I to do with that, Sherlock? It's filthy.”

Sherlock blushes even more. “What do you suggest?” He asks, biting his lower lip.

John tosses him the lube. “Think of something to amuse me, you dirty bugger.”

Sherlock is quick to catch on. He slicks up the bottle-neck, places the full bottle on the floor, squats over it and slowly sinks down.

The small upper neck isn't a problem. But when the bottle starts to widen, Sherlock slows down. He carefully bobs up and down a few times before sinking deeper. A small pained sigh escapes him as the broader part breaches him. Yet he continues to fuck himself on the bottle. John is sitting up in bed by now, watching him while slowly stroking his own cock.

“Is it deep inside you?” He asks after long moments filled with gasping and panting.

Sherlock nods. Only the lower third of the bottle is protruding from his arsehole.

“Fuck yourself on it, nice and slow.” John tells him, and Sherlock does. He slides up and down the glass cylinder, his pink rim pulled taught around it. It gets easier after a while.

John has moved to the edge of the mattress by now to get a better view. Sherlock's face is flushed, crimson heat spreading down his throat and chest. His nipple rings are glittering in the early morning light. His thighs start to tremble from the effort of crouching and flexing. Yet his cock is hard by now, standing to attention between his slightly spread legs.

John reaches for him and weighs his shaft in his right hand, loosely circling it. Sherlock can feel the calluses of John's palm against the underside of his cock where his protruding dorsal vein is throbbing, pulsing with hot blood.

“I wonder if I should let you come.” John says, sounding almost sympathetic to Sherlock's obvious need. It's not a question Sherlock is prepared to answer. But when John rubs his thumb over his wet slit, he moans in response.


John's hand is suddenly gone.

“Not so fast. But go on. Bring yourself off.”

Sherlock starts to move in earnest now, pushing down, then sliding up again. The stretch feels like he's being split in half.

“Take it.” John growls, standing up to move even closer, slapping Sherlock in the face with his hard, leaking cock, smearing glistening precome onto his cheeks. But when Sherlock tries to catch John's cockhead with his mouth, John tuts and yanks his head back by his still sleep-mussed curls.

Sherlock whines in disappointment and John grins down on him. But there's a fondness in his look that makes Sherlock's heart clench. He has to lower his gaze. He can deal with John's lecherous smile but he's not sure how to handle his affection.

To distract himself from those dangerous thoughts Sherlock speeds up, riding the bottle as if it's John's huge cock. Meanwhile, John rubs the object of Sherlock's desire against the side of his face, his balls hitting Sherlock's chin. Sherlock holds onto John's hips and thighs to steady himself, to pull him closer, offering himself to John any way he likes him, breathing him in while being subjected to his whims.

Suddenly, John is stiffening, his cock swelling against Sherlock's skull where his skin is stretched tight over his zygomatic arch. Hot wetness spills over his temple, soaking his hair. Sherlock makes a small needy sound, opening his mouth in hope to catch some of John's release. Instead, come trickles into his left eye and he has to blink a few times, his eyelashes sticky with ejaculate.

When John slumps back onto the mattress, his cockhead still shows traces of come clogged beneath his wrinkled foreskin. Sherlock licks his lips as he has to reach out to the bed for balance while he continues to fuck himself on the bottle up his arse, his own cock leaking beads of clear precome.

His lower back starts to hurt, the wound John has superficially covered last night threatening to open up again. His legs really burn by now, as does his abused hole. He's sure he'll be sore for some time. Maybe it will show when he tries to walk, the slight chafing reminding him of the lewd things he did to please John.

But the agony morphs into something achingly sweet as he can feel his own orgasm built. He huffs, breathing fast through his nose.

“Look at you, like a grunting pig, shoving that bottle full of your own piss up your arse, riding it like it's a fat, hard cock. You like that, having your arse destroyed by huge dongs, don't you, Sherlock? I'm sure you'll be gaping by now. Let me have a look. Turn around.”

Sherlock obeys, slides off the bottle and gets on all four, his arse towards John, pushed up in the air. He can feel how open he is, lube oozing out of his exposed hole. He must look a real slut, his rim red and swollen like he'd been taken by a whole gang of ruthless men.

When John brings his finger up to circle his gaping sphincter, it's more than Sherlock can take. He comes hard, his cock spurting violently, adding to the mess already evident on the cheap carpet. Afterwards, his arms give out and he slumps down, pressing his forehead against the rough rug, panting hard.

He needs a few moments to get his breath back and John allows for it before swatting his arse.

“Enough of that. Ge up.”

Sherlock clumsily scrambles up on his knees, feeling dizzy and wobbly, shuffling around, getting carpet burns on his knees, adding to the battlefield his body must resemble by now. When he looks up at John, he holds the still full wine bottle in his hand, arching an eyebrow. He offers it to Sherlock who takes it, repulsed and wanting at the same time. What is wrong with him that he longs for John to force his own urine down his throat?

When John nods, he puts it to his lips and takes a first tentative sip.

“Drink it all up.” John tells him as he's about to lower the bottle. “Don't spill a drop.”

And so Sherlock greedily swallows his own piss down from a bottle he'd just had up his arse, blushing furiously, tasting his salty urine while John watches, smiling.

He'll do anything, and they both know it. This is the greatest freedom he's ever known. But it's coming with a responsibility John can only hope to be worth of.