everything you won't tell me (2/2), John/Sherlock, NC-17
Title: everything you won't tell me (is mapped in your scars) (2/2)
Rating: NC-17
Length: 15,100 words
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Warnings: BDSM, kink
Summary: It's never felt like this before, like wanting to say, “I'd rather not, but if you wanted, I'd get on my knees for you.” Because John is a dom, and Sherlock is a dom, and John wants him anyways. Except, one of these things is not quite true.
Notes:BDSM!AU, for the kinkmeme, prompted here, pulling inspiration from helenish's Take Clothes off as Directed and aris_writing's Directed!Verse. Set in the same verse as you need someone and it's easy.
Sherlock steeples his fingers under his chin, eyes narrowed thoughtfully at the film on the telly. “The main character's actor is sleeping with her director. You can see it in the way he's positioned her collar -- it reveals the tan line from her real one, which she wears higher up on her throat.”
But John doesn't care about that, doesn't have any idea what Sherlock has just said, because he has caught sight of Sherlock's wrists, from where the sleeves of his dressing gown have slid downwards. There are rings of red around his wrists, the sort of shiny, bright red that comes from struggling when your wrists are bound. He doesn't realize he's grabbed one until he has his thumb firmly over the pulse-point of Sherlock's wrist and feels the unexpectedness of Sherlock's fingers wrapping around his wrist tightly.
John squeezes automatically, and Sherlock lets go.
“You're hurt,” he says stupidly. Sherlock rolls his eyes.
“I've no cases on. I can afford to not be in top form for a short while.”
He pushes Sherlock's sleeve up further, but the rest of his forearm is bare, and suddenly John wants, desperately, to know. To know who did this, who took him and hurt him and left their mark all over him. He wants to know who Sherlock had said yes to, when he'd said no to John.
Sherlock turns his head and John gets a glimpse of another mark, mostly covered. Sherlock doesn't shove John away when he tugs down the neck of his t-shirt, revealing the love bite on the junction between his neck and his shoulder. He doesn't jerk away when John runs his thumb over it, but he flinches a little when John presses his thumb against it, making the skin go white from the pressure.
“When?” John asks, feeling a rush of dark possessiveness, of anger.
He'd thought -- he doesn't know what he'd thought, since obviously Sherlock had had sex before (but that was before he'd met John, and he never acted like a sub, never tried to attract a dom, so who had he slept with?). He'd thought -- he'd thought that maybe Sherlock had sworn off it altogether. He'd thought maybe that when Sherlock had turned him down, it'd meant he wasn't interested right now.
He'd thought Sherlock had, in his own way, wanted him. But he'd been wrong -- obviously wrong, so very wrong, because while Sherlock may have crawled into John's bed with him and wrapped an arm around his waist before going to sleep, it'd been someone else who had tied him down and put their mouth on him and claimed him.
Sherlock has tilted his head to give John better access to the mark on his throat, and there is something languid in his posture, as if his spine has suddenly become liquid. “Last night,” he says, eyes half-lidded at the memory. “After I returned the fingers to the morgue.”
Sherlock hadn't been home when John had gone to bed. He knows why, now.
Sherlock arches his back a little when John pushes up the hem of his shirt, and he shudders when John pushes down one side of his trousers and pants, just enough to see the four, finger-shaped bruises on Sherlock's hips. He puts his fingers over them -- spreads them out but can't comfortably touch them all at once. A man, then. He presses on them, and Sherlock twists, knocks his hand away.
“He fucked you,” John says, and presses his palm, hard, over Sherlock's hip, against the bruises as if he can wipe them away, as if he can take them and make them his. The base of his palm skirts the edges of Sherlock's erection, noticeably tenting the loose fabric of his pajama bottoms. “What else did he do to you?” He demands. “Let me see.” When Sherlock hesitates, he growls, “Show me.”
Sherlock slides out of his dressing gown gracefully, kneeling on the armchair. He turns his back on John, then pulls his shirt off -- there are bruises on his upper back and long, thin marks -- from a whip, stripe up and down his back, crisscrossing over each other. John traces one with his finger, and Sherlock makes a soft, breathy noise.
He wants to hear it again. He runs his hands over the bruises on Sherlock's upper back, not gently, and Sherlock shivers and makes the noise again and says, “John.”
“Who did this?” Who did you choose over me?
Sherlock shakes his head. John tangles his hand in Sherlock's hair and jerks his head back, and Sherlock sways backwards, held tilted back, throat exposed, lips parted. “Tell me,” he orders, and presses his mouth to Sherlock's throat, biting down.
“Safeword.”
It's like being thrown into a tub of ice water, and John's jerking away, stepping back, raising his hands to show he's stopped. “Sorry,” he stammers, and starts to reach forward, but Sherlock's already twisting away from him. He pulls his hand back. “Sorry, I --” and his face twists in confusion, because he doesn't know what he did wrong.
Sherlock really is much taller than him, John notices when Sherlock stands up. His face is an unreadable mask, and he looks at John for a moment -- deducing something, but John doesn't know what (everything, probably), before walking to his bedroom.
The door slams shut behind him.
--
John can't stop replaying the last few minutes in his mind, trying to figure out when Sherlock had gone from “yes, please” to “I need you to stop right now,” and how he could have possibly missed the time in between where Sherlock must have been at “no, don't.”
Sherlock hadn't warned him away when John had touched his wrists, hadn't stopped him when John had hurt him, pressing fresh pain over the marks he wore on his body. He'd taken his shirt off when John had told him to. And then John had asked him a question and he'd called out his safe word, the generic one everyone knew (even though they hadn't gone that far, even though John didn't remember Sherlock telling him to stop, even though he'd thought he hadn't pushed too far but clearly he had).
Safewords were supposed to be for when 'no' wasn't enough -- Sherlock shouldn't have said it unless he'd thought John wouldn't have stopped at 'no', and that thought makes his stomach clench unpleasantly.
He knocks, tentatively, on the door to Sherlock's bedroom. “Sherlock? Are you okay?”
“I'm fine,” Sherlock replies -- his voice is even and closer than John'd expected. He sounds tired. He's right on the other side of the door. John sits down. He leans back against the door and wonders if, on the other side, Sherlock is doing the same thing.
“I'm sorry,” he says. “I didn't mean to hurt you.”
Sherlock makes a humming noise -- the kind he does when he's thinking, and it's a quiet noise that John barely hears.
“I didn't mean to frighten you either,” he continues. “I wasn't going to do anything you didn't want. I'm sorry.”
“I'm not angry at you,” Sherlock says through the door, which didn't have anything to do with what John was saying, but did answer the question he'd been afraid to ask. “Nor did you frighten me. Really, John,” and his voice is so full of his usual irritated condescension that John can't help but laugh weakly.
“Well, that's... That's good.”
“Lestrade.”
“What?”
“You wanted to know the dom I was with last night. Lestrade.”
“You slept with Lestrade? As in, DI Lestrade?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he asked and I wasn't busy,” Sherlock replies, as if it's that simple.
“I didn't know you did one night stands,” John says, but what he means is, I offered and you said no, and then you slept in my bed and looked at my mouth and you keep teasing me and I don't know what you want from me.
“I don't. Just him.”
“So, he's the one you... How long?”
“Few years now,” and, while John is still marveling at that -- years, Sherlock and Lestrade have been together for years, “It's not what you think. He's not my dom; we just have sex. I like him, but not that much.”
--
After that, Sherlock gives him a wider berth than usual -- he doesn't rummage through John's pockets, he doesn't crowd John on the sofa when he sits down before Sherlock does (doesn't sit there at all when John's already sitting in it), and he stops casually stealing bites from John's plate when they go out for dinner.
But he keeps casting glances at John -- long, focused looks whenever John isn't paying attention. He tries asking “What?” once, when he catches Sherlock at it, but Sherlock just shakes his head and says, “It's nothing.”
Lestrade notices while they are examining the latest in a recent rash of burglaries that may be connected to a series of murders from five years ago. “You and Sherlock have a row?”
John shrugs. “I'm not sure, actually,” he admits. “Sherlock told me about he and you.”
Lestrade shoots him a look of surprise. “Did he, now. What'd he say?”
“Nothing, really. Just that you were the one he was with, the other night.”
“I can tell when you're talking about me,” Sherlock interrupts before John can say anything more, suddenly there, and steals the cup of coffee from John's hand. He takes a long drink, and the sight of Sherlock's throat working as he swallows makes up for the fact that he gives the cup back empty. “Whatever you're saying, it's not important. What's important is that the victim's sub is cheating on him, and we need to find out with whom.”
“She won't speak to any doms without her dom present,” Lestrade says. “It's part of their,” and he makes a fiddly motion at his throat, where the collar had been on the sub, “agreement.”
“I'll be a sub, then. I know the right questions to ask,” Sherlock says. “Have either of you got a spare collar?”
Lestrade says, “Not right now, nor have I any I can get on short notice.”
But -- “I have one at home, somewhere,” John says.
--
And that is how Sherlock ends up knocking on Maria Thornton's door with John's collar tight around his throat, in a pair of even tighter trousers that look like they're cutting off circulation to vital parts of his anatomy, while wearing an unbuttoned shirt that shows off his chest. Her dom is in Scotland Yard, still making his statement -- they have an hour.
When the door opens, Sherlock is slouching down, smaller and more delicate (John thinks it's got to do with his lack of coat, which he'd left at home). He smiles at her, and flicks his eyes to John. She looks at John expectantly.
“Miss Thornton?” John says. “Do you mind if my sub asks you some questions about the burglary?”
Sherlock touches her hand, and leans closer, and says confidingly, “It'll help us find the culprit. My dom's already said he doesn't mind waiting outside if your dom doesn't want him coming in.”
She nods, and lets him in, and John lets his head bang against the wall as he tries to decide whether or not it'd be inappropriate for him to have a wank later while thinking about Sherlock with John's collar on his throat, calling John his dom. And if so, how inappropriate. Too inappropriate to do it anyways?
Sherlock comes out twenty minutes later, looking smug. “Cheating on him with the brother, who has ties to organized crime,” he says. “That was easy once I convinced her to cooperate. Let Lestrade know.”
John sends the text obligingly, and when he looks up, Sherlock's watching him again. “What?”
“Nothing. Let's go home.”
John stares at Sherlock the entire way home, and he's sure Sherlock notices, but Sherlock doesn't seem to mind. Because Sherlock is -- Sherlock's practicing, he's putting on and taking off submission like it's something he can switch on and off. One second, he's John's sub, collared and claimed and his, and the next he's just -- just a dom with a random collar that's on too tight and a shirt he inexplicably hasn't bothered to button yet.
John thinks he's going to get whiplash trying to keep track of it all. Or possibly die of lust.
Sherlock crowds him against the door as soon as they're inside their flat, his palms on either side of John. It gives him a beautiful view of the collar (his collar) around Sherlock's throat, and John finds himself wishing, wildly, that it was real.
“You want me,” Sherlock says.
“I thought you were avoiding me.”
“You were distracting me when I was thinking. It's not the same. You want me,” he says again, and John drags his eyes from Sherlock's throat to his face.
John nods.
“No, say it,” Sherlock insists.
“I want you,” John replies cautiously.
“I'm married to my work.” Sherlock lifts his hands to the back of his neck and unbuckles John's collar. It drops to the floor, and the sound it makes sends a pang of loss through his chest.
“I know you are.”
Sherlock looks down at his shirt, then starts doing up the buttons quickly and efficiently. He glances at John's mouth, but doesn't catch his eyes. “I'm not your property.”
“I know.”
“I don't do what you tell me.”
“I don't actually expect you to.”
“I'll probably cut my hair soon. It's been getting long.”
“There's a decent place a couple streets away that'll do it for cheap.”
“I'm smarter than you.”
“Noticed that when we first met.”
“I won't let you control me.”
“I don't want to control you.”
“I --” Sherlock stops, and he looks away for a moment. “I don't want this to change things between us,” he says, finally, and there is a vulnerability there that John's never seen on Sherlock's face before.
“It won't,” John breathes. “I promise."
At his words, Sherlock exhales slowly. He is close enough to kiss, and John tilts his head up to press their mouths together.
This time, Sherlock kisses him back, and he's good at it. He parts his lips for John to slide his tongue in, and it's warm, wet, and just a little bit sloppy, like Sherlock isn't used to making out with anyone. Sherlock fists his hands in the front of John's jumper, and -- he kisses like this is the means to an end, like it's filler while he waits for John to do something else.
“What do you want?” John asks between kisses, confused.
Sherlock stops, mouths the side of John's jaw. “I -- What do you want? Let's do that. Tell me what you want.”
That's not an answer to his question, except that John barely notices that at all, because Sherlock is sliding gracefully to his knees, and putting his hands on John's belt, and that's about the point where John's thoughts abruptly grind to a halt, because Sherlock presses the heel of his palm against John's cock.
“Yeah. That's good. That's perfect.” He threads his fingers through Sherlock's hair, gets a good handful of it in his fist and tugs. “Do you like it when I do this?”
Sherlock doesn't answer, but he doesn't need to, because when John pulls his hair, his eyes go wide and he makes a noise, a noise that goes straight to his groin that makes him want to find out what other sounds he can coax from Sherlock. He presses Sherlock's face to his erection and Sherlock goes without resistance, rubbing his cheek against it.
John had been afraid that Sherlock wasn't interested -- that he wasn't attracted, except that John's clearly been blind or something, because Sherlock moves eagerly, mouthing John's cock through the layers of fabric, shoulder pressed against John's thigh like he's hungry for contact.
“I want to fuck your mouth,” he says -- because he does, because he's been wondering about what it'd be like for ages, and suddenly Sherlock's hands are unbuckling his belt, pulling down his trousers and underwear, and Sherlock's mouth is on him.
He jerks his hips in surprise, thrusting into Sherlock's mouth, cupping the back of his skull, and Sherlock sinks down on him -- takes him in deeper and deeper until his lips meet the thick curls at the base of John's cock. He'd never known Sherlock could do that -- never imagined Sherlock would bother learning a trick like that.
“No gag reflex,” John notes between pants, trying to keep his words steady -- trying to keep his hips steady, but he's failing miserably at that, because Sherlock's doing something with his tongue that's sending spikes of white-hot pleasure through his body. “I should have known you'd be brilliant at this.”
He fucks Sherlock's mouth -- roughly, because the faster he goes the looser Sherlock gets, pliant and peaceful like there's nothing else he'd rather be doing than choking on John's cock. And it's -- it's sort of glorious, the way Sherlock's looking up at him, meeting his eyes, looking at him like all he wants from the world is for John to want him.
When he comes, Sherlock swallows it down, licks him clean and tucks him back into his trousers with easy, efficient movements. He even re-buckles John's belt, leaving no evidence of what they'd been doing. You've done this before, John thinks, and then, a little hysterically, Sherlock Holmes just sucked me off against our front door.
“Your turn,” John says, and pulls Sherlock up for a kiss. The kiss is indulgent this time, slow and intimate. He can taste himself on the inside of Sherlock's mouth. He reaches between them and tugs down Sherlock's trousers; he's not wearing pants. He wraps his fingers around Sherlock's erection, and Sherlock groans against his lips. “What do you like? How do you touch yourself?”
“Faster. Tighter, sometimes , if I want to -- if I want it to be quick. Anything. Anything you want,” Sherlock gasps brokenly, and it sounds like a promise. Anything you want.
So John takes his time, teases gasps and moans from Sherlock with his fingers, until Sherlock is thrusting helplessly in John's fingers and leaving wet smears of pre-come against his hand and his stomach from where John's shirt has ridden up. “Please, John. Please,” Sherlock begs into his ear, and it is the sweetest sound in the world.
“Okay, yes, do it,” John commands, and Sherlock comes with a soft cry, spilling his release between them.
--
John was hoping for some post-coital cuddling, except Sherlock's clearly got other ideas, because when they're finished, Sherlock merely leans bodily against John until his breathing slows, before disappearing into his room. He doesn't come out again until John finishes cooking dinner -- nothing fancy, just pasta. He's traded the tight trousers for his normal ones.
“Are you eating today?” John asks. “I think there's still a couple clean plates in the cupboard.”
“Not hungry,” Sherlock replies, and curls up in his armchair with his laptop. “I'd like some tea, though.”
Sherlock smiles at him, bright and surprised, when John brings him the cup of tea, and accepts the kiss that John presses against his mouth.
--
The sex is good.
Sherlock knows a million different tricks to please him, and John gets a thrill, every time, at seeing Sherlock's submission, at seeing him peaceful and quiet and still. He fucks Sherlock's mouth and makes out with him sloppily on the sofa, straddling him and pinning his wrists above his head.
He ties Sherlock down and maps his body with his tongue, and presses his fingernails into each scar as if he can claim them, or wipe them away. There is a small, faded S carved into Sherlock's hip, and when John touches it, Sherlock twitches away but doesn't say anything, like he's not sure what he wants John to do.
He flogs him and fucks him and spanks him and pushes his thoughts further and further away, until “You're going to leave bruises with that” becomes “Please, don't stop, more” becomes incoherent moans.
Sometimes -- not always, but sometimes, after they finish, when they are both satisfied and content, Sherlock will spend the night in his bed, sprawled on top of John, and they will both sleep soundly until morning.
Unfortunately, everything else is sort of a disaster.
Because Sherlock says, “It's just sex,” and then curls up next to him on the sofa, putting his head on John's shoulder sweetly. Because when John wakes up in the mornings, if Sherlock hasn't gone to sleep the night before, Sherlock will sometimes have breakfast waiting for him. Because Sherlock will look at him sometimes, and he'll look away when John catches him at it, like there's something he doesn't want John to know.
Half the time Sherlock does whatever he wants, and the other half of the time, he stops and looks at John expectantly, and if John gives him permission, he gets angry, and if John forbids him from doing whatever he was going to do, he gets angry, and if John doesn't say anything and just looks confused, he gets frustrated and annoyed. Or Sherlock will say no to him, or do something he knows John doesn't like -- inexplicably, for no reason, like it's a test and John doesn't know what the right answer's supposed to be but he really resents being subjected to mind games.
Or a sub will flirt with John, and Sherlock will get sulky and jealous for the rest of the night, which is not fair at all, because supposedly, they aren't even dating, because sometimes if a sub flirts with Sherlock, he flirts back.
“He just doesn't make any sense,” John complains to Harry -- which, you know, he's in pretty dire straights if he's asking Harry for advice. “I don't know what he wants from me.”
“Maybe you should break up with him, then,” Harry replies.
“We're not dating.”
“Yes, you are.”
“He's made it pretty clear that he doesn't want to be my sub,” John says. “We're just friends who have sex.”
“You want it to be more.”
“I've wanted it to be more for ages.”
“So tell him that.”
“He already knows. He'll just turn me down. Again.”
Harry's silent for long enough that John checks his phone to make sure the connection hasn't been lost. “You know why I broke up with Rebecca in secondary school, John?”
“Because you're gay?”
“I'm not, actually. I like both. So, no.” And sticks her tongue out at him (he can't see her, but he knows her well enough to tell). “I broke up with her because she told me I wasn't allowed to have friends who were tops. And I mean, obviously not all tops are as stupid as her,” Harry interjects before John can say anything. “But a lot of them -- a lot of them, they think subs need to be controlled, that we can't get on by ourselves. That we're just things they can use. So it's easier to date subs, if you like both.”
“I don't do that,” John protests, but he knows she's right, because he's not stupid and he knows what doms talk about when there's no subs around, and that it's nearly impossible to press rape charges, when signs of a struggle look the same as signs of having a good time.
“I know, but you're not everyone,” Harry says, and for a moment, she sounds so weary that his heart breaks, just a little. “Anyways, just... Maybe he just wants to make sure you won't treat him like that now that he's your sub.”
“He's not my sub.”
“He might as well be.”
--
“Do you want to be my sub?” John blurts, when Sherlock announces he's going out to get his hair cut and stops at the door, looking at John expectantly.
Sherlock's face goes complicated and unreadable. “I -- do I have to?”
“No, of course not. You don't have to do anything you don't want to. I just -- I just thought I'd ask.”
“Why? Do you want me to?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want me to do?” Sherlock asks, one hand still on the door. He sounds curious.
“Whatever you want. I just want you to admit that there's something between us, and it's not just about the sex. You know I care about you, Sherlock, and I want to know if you feel the same.”
“I'm going to cut my hair,” Sherlock repeats, more firmly this time.
“Stop asking me for permission if you're going to get mad at me for saying no.”
“What will you do if I cut my hair?”
“Nothing? It's really none of my business.”
--
Sherlock comes home with his hair too short to even hint at being a sub, so short that it doesn't curl. “Well?”
John makes a beckoning motion and Sherlock joins him on the sofa. He sits down next to John and bows his head so that John can run thoughtful fingers through his hair. John closes his fingers consideringly, and tugs lightly -- not too short to grab, except at the sides. “I liked the curls, but this is nice too,” he says pleasantly.
Sherlock gives him that smile again -- the quick, surprised one, and John knows he's said the right thing.
--
“You're afraid I'll go too far,” John says, as he lights the last candle, setting it next to the other ones, and picking up the first one. “You've been fucking with me for weeks, because you want to know what I'll do when you push me.”
“I can get my hands free,” Sherlock says to him, and starts to tug at the loops of rope binding his wrists to the headboard; he stops when John touches his hand.
“That's not the point. The point is that you can't get free by accident.” John angles the top of the candle downwards, about a foot above the underside of his wrist. “At least this way you can't run away when I try to ask you a question.”
A thin stream of melted red wax lands on his wrist; it hurts, but doesn't burn. He flexes his wrist thoughtfully, then scratches it off with his fingernails.
“I don't care how short you cut your hair, or whether or not you want to wear my collar.”
“Wrong,” Sherlock replies, and hisses through his teeth as John tips a small amount of melted wax onto his stomach. He raises one of his knees protectively, and John pushes it down, then leaves his hand there, soaking in the sight of Sherlock, like this -- exposed, vulnerable. “You want to claim me. You want everyone to think I belong to you.”
“That's only natural. I hate when Molly flirts with you, you know. I don't mind when it's the other subs, but you flirt back when it's her.”
“I'm not attracted to submissives,” Sherlock says, and makes another noise, when more hot wax lands next to the first one. “You know that. I only do it so she'll give me access to the mortuary.”
“You could try being friends with her, instead of manipulating her,” John says, and continues, “I don't know what you want from me.”
“I want you to fuck me.” It's a diversionary tactic, and a bad one.
“I thought at first that you just didn't care about me,” he says, pouring the wax on Sherlock's belly, forming a straight, diagonal line, switching candles when he runs out of melted wax. “But I don't think that's true.”
“It's not,” Sherlock agrees.
“Why do you keep testing me? You keep doing things you think I won't like. Do you want me to punish you for them? You don't seem like the sort of sub who'd be interested in that.”
“I'm not.”
“So if you don't want me to punish you for it, what are you doing?” Sherlock doesn't answer. The muscles on his torso jump as more wax lands on them, the beginning of the second line. John squeezes Sherlock's knee. “Answer me.”
Another long pause, punctuated only by their breathing. John drags his fingers over the wax, fascinated by the way Sherlock quivers at the touch. Sherlock says softly, apologetically, “The cases come first. Before you, before me. I won't change that for you.”
“I know that already,” John says absently. He finishes the second line, forming a V on the left side of Sherlock's belly, and starts on the third. “I'm not going to throw you away or leave you just because there's something you don't want to do.”
“You can't control me when I'm working.”
“I'm pretty sure we've had this conversation before,” John says pointedly. Fourth line -- the last one, starting at the base of the third and moving outwards, finishing the blood red W drawn across Sherlock's torso.
“I won't be enough for you,” Sherlock whispers. He turns his face away.
John sets the candle aside and leans forward to kiss Sherlock's jaw. “I don't care. You're enough now.”
--
Afterwards, when they are finished, when John has scraped the wax off Sherlock's body with a butter knife, teasing the oversensitized skin with his tongue and with ice cubes, when John has kissed and bit and fucked his claim onto Sherlock's skin, and wiped away the semen from between Sherlock's legs and on his belly, and checked his wrists and put away the rope and the candles and binned the butcher's paper they'd put over the sheets --
Afterwards, when John has asked, “Are you sleeping tonight?”, and Sherlock has rubbed carefully at the stained W on his belly (he stops when it starts to smear), and replied, “Yes, I think so,” and they have curled up in John's bed --
Afterwards, when Sherlock has placed his head on John's scarred shoulder and his palm over John's chest, and his breathing has slowed and evened --
John whispers, when he's sure Sherlock can't hear him, “I love you, you know. I don't care about the rest of it.”
--
“I don't suppose I can tempt you to eat dinner tonight?” John asks, without much hope. “I made roast beef.”
“I ate at noon,” Sherlock replies, not looking up from the book he's currently perusing. Noon is less than 24 hours ago, so John just sighs and lets it go.
Halfway through John's dinner, Sherlock gets up and walks over. John offers him a smile. “Changed your mind?”
“Not quite,” Sherlock says, and kneels, gracefully, on the floor to the right of John's chair. John's heart skips a beat, then skips another when Sherlock rests his head on John's thigh and reopens the book, attention shifting to it.
“What are you doing?” John asks, mesmerized.
“Reading.” The obviously is implied.
“Why?”
“Because I like to read, and the book interests me.” Sherlock turns a page. He hasn't bothered to look up yet.
“No -- I meant, why are you reading here?”
“I wanted to see if it was more comfortable here.”
“Is it?”
“It's passable.” Sherlock glances up at him. “Do you want me to move?”
John's hand drops to the back of Sherlock's neck. “No!” he says, more emphatically than he'd meant to, and Sherlock smiles at him, quick and brief. John's cheeks burn with embarrassment. He lets go. “I mean,” he stammers. “If you want to, you can. But I like you here.”
Sherlock goes back to the book, but he's grinning widely.
“I'd be more comfortable if you were stroking my hair,” he comments pointedly, after they have been sitting in silence for a few minutes, and John lets his hand drop to Sherlock's head.
--
“It bothers you that people think I'm a dom,” Sherlock says while they are on their way to the latest crime scene. They are on opposite sides of the cab's backseat -- Sherlock is looking out the window. When John doesn't reply, Sherlock shifts his attention to him, eyes narrowing. “No -- not quite that.”
John makes a face at him. “Stop deducing me. Just ask like a normal person.”
“No need,” Sherlock replies smugly. “It's not that people think I'm a dom. It's that they don't know we're together. You'd rather they think I was a dom and we were together than that I'm an unattached sub.”
John shrugs and looks away. True, obviously -- he wants people to know that Sherlock belongs to him and only him. That of all the people he could have, he chose John. Except that Sherlock is prickly about that -- about belonging, about being claimed, about people knowing he chooses, sometimes, to give himself to someone else.
John knows it has to do with the scars Sherlock wears -- the sloppy ones on his back, and more importantly, the small, deliberate S on his hip that Sherlock refuses to talk about. You're not supposed to mark a sub like that -- you don't mark a sub like that, unless you're in love, unless you're talking about forever, and making a claim more serious and permanent than a collar.
A sub won't let you, unless they think you'll be the last one they'll ever belong to.
“It's not a secret,” Sherlock continues. “It's no secret that I'm a sub, and you can tell people you're my dom if it'll make you happy.”
“Will it make you happy?” John asks, because while normally he has a better sense for these things -- normally he can tell the difference between “I like this” and “I'm only doing it because you want to”, Sherlock is a mess to read, no matter how hard he tries.
“I haven't decided yet,” Sherlock says. “I need more evidence.”
So John takes Sherlock's gloved hand while they're at the crime scene, which lasts all of fifteen seconds before Sherlock gets bored of not having his hand free and pulls it away to peel back the victim's lips and examine his teeth.
John must have made some sort of sound at that, because after Sherlock rises from poking at the victim's molars, he sighs explosively and says, “Oh, alright, then,” before grabbing John's chin and tilting his head up for a rough, bruising kiss.
The murmur of conversation around them falls away into stunned silence, but John is caught up in the blissful feel of having Sherlock's mouth against his, for just a moment, before he realizes that --
“Ugh! You were touching a corpse with that hand!” John exclaims, and rubs fiercely at his chin.
Sherlock looks at him blankly. “So? It's hardly decayed at all.”
“You put your fingers in its mouth! And then touched me with them!”
“Well, he wasn't sick, so it's not like you're going to catch anything. Besides, you've touched corpses before.”
“Not with my face.”
But John doesn't mind, not really, and from the small, pleased smile Sherlock wears for the rest of the night, Sherlock knows it too.
--
“Don't touch me,” Sherlock says absently, staring at the photographs of the evidence, pinned to the wall. “You'll distract me.”
“I think you can afford to be distracted for a few hours,” John comments, and presses the energy bar into Sherlock's hand. “Eat this. And then you're taking a nap.”
“I'm working,” Sherlock protests, but he unwraps the bar and takes a bite anyways. The rest of the bar disappears quickly, mechanically.
“You're going to collapse if you don't get some food and rest in you. I'm a doctor, remember?”
“You're interrupting my case,” Sherlock says petulantly, but lets John herd him away from the photographs. He stops abruptly at the stairs to John's bedroom. “Um. I don't actually want to have sex right now.”
John rolls his eyes and shoves Sherlock into the room. “Just to sleep, Sherlock. You'll think better once you're more rested.”
“You'll wake me if the police find anything?”
“Of course.” Sherlock is still resisting, so John adds, “I promise.”
--
Sherlock has been asleep for not quite three hours when his phone buzzes in John's pocket. Lestrade, with more evidence.
“How long have I been asleep?” is the first thing Sherlock asks blearily when John goes to his room and shakes Sherlock awake.
“Almost three hours. We've got to go. The police found the missing hand in a skip; they need you to take a look at it.”
“You woke me up,” Sherlock says wonderingly, as he gets out of the bed, and, when John presses the warm mug into his hands, “And you made me coffee. But it's lukewarm.”
“I made myself coffee and you're lucky I decided to share,” John corrects, “because I haven't had enough sleep either, and I'm still going through the old case files Lestrade left with us.”
“You were working while I slept.”
“One of us had to stay up in case Lestrade called.”
Sherlock downs the coffee swiftly, and frowns at the energy bar John hands him. “Must I? Coffee makes me lose my appetite.”
“I'll give you the coffee second next time. Can you eat it without feeling sick?”
“I'll eat it in the cab. Where are we going?”
“Kensington Road. Ready?”
Sherlock kisses him. It tastes like coffee, and sleep, and something uniquely Sherlock. “Of course,” he says, and it sounds like more.
--
After the case ends, after another three days of running after criminals and hunting down evidence, when they have collapsed together in John's bed to catch up on sleep, John wakes up alone.
This isn't unusual. Sherlock tends to wander off when not under direct supervision, and rarely spends the entire night in John's bed. He can hear the smooth, warm sounds of Sherlock's violin, coming from downstairs.
But what is unusual, is this:
There is a bracelet on his nightstand. It wasn't there last night, and John picks it up, heart pounding.
The bracelet is thin, black leather, not at all showy or attention-grabbing, and looks not unlike the strap of a watch. He runs his thumb along the inside, feeling for an inscription, but there isn't one. He has to adjust it before it fits around his wrist (Sherlock's wrists are thinner than his), but the clasp is easy to open and close with one hand.
He puts it on, and goes downstairs.
Sherlock pauses in his playing when he sees John; there is a band of black around his right wrist, and even without looking at the hand that holds the neck of the violin, John knows that his other wrist is bare.
“Good afternoon,” Sherlock says, and looks at John's wrist. “The right one?”
“I am left-handed,” John replies.
“Are you going to wear it when you go out?”
“If you want me to. If you'll wear yours.”
“People will think you're subbing for me.”
“They already think that. I'm used to it by now.”
“Then yes,” Sherlock says, and his smile is radiant.
Part 1
Rating: NC-17
Length: 15,100 words
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Warnings: BDSM, kink
Summary: It's never felt like this before, like wanting to say, “I'd rather not, but if you wanted, I'd get on my knees for you.” Because John is a dom, and Sherlock is a dom, and John wants him anyways. Except, one of these things is not quite true.
Notes:BDSM!AU, for the kinkmeme, prompted here, pulling inspiration from helenish's Take Clothes off as Directed and aris_writing's Directed!Verse. Set in the same verse as you need someone and it's easy.
Sherlock steeples his fingers under his chin, eyes narrowed thoughtfully at the film on the telly. “The main character's actor is sleeping with her director. You can see it in the way he's positioned her collar -- it reveals the tan line from her real one, which she wears higher up on her throat.”
But John doesn't care about that, doesn't have any idea what Sherlock has just said, because he has caught sight of Sherlock's wrists, from where the sleeves of his dressing gown have slid downwards. There are rings of red around his wrists, the sort of shiny, bright red that comes from struggling when your wrists are bound. He doesn't realize he's grabbed one until he has his thumb firmly over the pulse-point of Sherlock's wrist and feels the unexpectedness of Sherlock's fingers wrapping around his wrist tightly.
John squeezes automatically, and Sherlock lets go.
“You're hurt,” he says stupidly. Sherlock rolls his eyes.
“I've no cases on. I can afford to not be in top form for a short while.”
He pushes Sherlock's sleeve up further, but the rest of his forearm is bare, and suddenly John wants, desperately, to know. To know who did this, who took him and hurt him and left their mark all over him. He wants to know who Sherlock had said yes to, when he'd said no to John.
Sherlock turns his head and John gets a glimpse of another mark, mostly covered. Sherlock doesn't shove John away when he tugs down the neck of his t-shirt, revealing the love bite on the junction between his neck and his shoulder. He doesn't jerk away when John runs his thumb over it, but he flinches a little when John presses his thumb against it, making the skin go white from the pressure.
“When?” John asks, feeling a rush of dark possessiveness, of anger.
He'd thought -- he doesn't know what he'd thought, since obviously Sherlock had had sex before (but that was before he'd met John, and he never acted like a sub, never tried to attract a dom, so who had he slept with?). He'd thought -- he'd thought that maybe Sherlock had sworn off it altogether. He'd thought maybe that when Sherlock had turned him down, it'd meant he wasn't interested right now.
He'd thought Sherlock had, in his own way, wanted him. But he'd been wrong -- obviously wrong, so very wrong, because while Sherlock may have crawled into John's bed with him and wrapped an arm around his waist before going to sleep, it'd been someone else who had tied him down and put their mouth on him and claimed him.
Sherlock has tilted his head to give John better access to the mark on his throat, and there is something languid in his posture, as if his spine has suddenly become liquid. “Last night,” he says, eyes half-lidded at the memory. “After I returned the fingers to the morgue.”
Sherlock hadn't been home when John had gone to bed. He knows why, now.
Sherlock arches his back a little when John pushes up the hem of his shirt, and he shudders when John pushes down one side of his trousers and pants, just enough to see the four, finger-shaped bruises on Sherlock's hips. He puts his fingers over them -- spreads them out but can't comfortably touch them all at once. A man, then. He presses on them, and Sherlock twists, knocks his hand away.
“He fucked you,” John says, and presses his palm, hard, over Sherlock's hip, against the bruises as if he can wipe them away, as if he can take them and make them his. The base of his palm skirts the edges of Sherlock's erection, noticeably tenting the loose fabric of his pajama bottoms. “What else did he do to you?” He demands. “Let me see.” When Sherlock hesitates, he growls, “Show me.”
Sherlock slides out of his dressing gown gracefully, kneeling on the armchair. He turns his back on John, then pulls his shirt off -- there are bruises on his upper back and long, thin marks -- from a whip, stripe up and down his back, crisscrossing over each other. John traces one with his finger, and Sherlock makes a soft, breathy noise.
He wants to hear it again. He runs his hands over the bruises on Sherlock's upper back, not gently, and Sherlock shivers and makes the noise again and says, “John.”
“Who did this?” Who did you choose over me?
Sherlock shakes his head. John tangles his hand in Sherlock's hair and jerks his head back, and Sherlock sways backwards, held tilted back, throat exposed, lips parted. “Tell me,” he orders, and presses his mouth to Sherlock's throat, biting down.
“Safeword.”
It's like being thrown into a tub of ice water, and John's jerking away, stepping back, raising his hands to show he's stopped. “Sorry,” he stammers, and starts to reach forward, but Sherlock's already twisting away from him. He pulls his hand back. “Sorry, I --” and his face twists in confusion, because he doesn't know what he did wrong.
Sherlock really is much taller than him, John notices when Sherlock stands up. His face is an unreadable mask, and he looks at John for a moment -- deducing something, but John doesn't know what (everything, probably), before walking to his bedroom.
The door slams shut behind him.
--
John can't stop replaying the last few minutes in his mind, trying to figure out when Sherlock had gone from “yes, please” to “I need you to stop right now,” and how he could have possibly missed the time in between where Sherlock must have been at “no, don't.”
Sherlock hadn't warned him away when John had touched his wrists, hadn't stopped him when John had hurt him, pressing fresh pain over the marks he wore on his body. He'd taken his shirt off when John had told him to. And then John had asked him a question and he'd called out his safe word, the generic one everyone knew (even though they hadn't gone that far, even though John didn't remember Sherlock telling him to stop, even though he'd thought he hadn't pushed too far but clearly he had).
Safewords were supposed to be for when 'no' wasn't enough -- Sherlock shouldn't have said it unless he'd thought John wouldn't have stopped at 'no', and that thought makes his stomach clench unpleasantly.
He knocks, tentatively, on the door to Sherlock's bedroom. “Sherlock? Are you okay?”
“I'm fine,” Sherlock replies -- his voice is even and closer than John'd expected. He sounds tired. He's right on the other side of the door. John sits down. He leans back against the door and wonders if, on the other side, Sherlock is doing the same thing.
“I'm sorry,” he says. “I didn't mean to hurt you.”
Sherlock makes a humming noise -- the kind he does when he's thinking, and it's a quiet noise that John barely hears.
“I didn't mean to frighten you either,” he continues. “I wasn't going to do anything you didn't want. I'm sorry.”
“I'm not angry at you,” Sherlock says through the door, which didn't have anything to do with what John was saying, but did answer the question he'd been afraid to ask. “Nor did you frighten me. Really, John,” and his voice is so full of his usual irritated condescension that John can't help but laugh weakly.
“Well, that's... That's good.”
“Lestrade.”
“What?”
“You wanted to know the dom I was with last night. Lestrade.”
“You slept with Lestrade? As in, DI Lestrade?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he asked and I wasn't busy,” Sherlock replies, as if it's that simple.
“I didn't know you did one night stands,” John says, but what he means is, I offered and you said no, and then you slept in my bed and looked at my mouth and you keep teasing me and I don't know what you want from me.
“I don't. Just him.”
“So, he's the one you... How long?”
“Few years now,” and, while John is still marveling at that -- years, Sherlock and Lestrade have been together for years, “It's not what you think. He's not my dom; we just have sex. I like him, but not that much.”
--
After that, Sherlock gives him a wider berth than usual -- he doesn't rummage through John's pockets, he doesn't crowd John on the sofa when he sits down before Sherlock does (doesn't sit there at all when John's already sitting in it), and he stops casually stealing bites from John's plate when they go out for dinner.
But he keeps casting glances at John -- long, focused looks whenever John isn't paying attention. He tries asking “What?” once, when he catches Sherlock at it, but Sherlock just shakes his head and says, “It's nothing.”
Lestrade notices while they are examining the latest in a recent rash of burglaries that may be connected to a series of murders from five years ago. “You and Sherlock have a row?”
John shrugs. “I'm not sure, actually,” he admits. “Sherlock told me about he and you.”
Lestrade shoots him a look of surprise. “Did he, now. What'd he say?”
“Nothing, really. Just that you were the one he was with, the other night.”
“I can tell when you're talking about me,” Sherlock interrupts before John can say anything more, suddenly there, and steals the cup of coffee from John's hand. He takes a long drink, and the sight of Sherlock's throat working as he swallows makes up for the fact that he gives the cup back empty. “Whatever you're saying, it's not important. What's important is that the victim's sub is cheating on him, and we need to find out with whom.”
“She won't speak to any doms without her dom present,” Lestrade says. “It's part of their,” and he makes a fiddly motion at his throat, where the collar had been on the sub, “agreement.”
“I'll be a sub, then. I know the right questions to ask,” Sherlock says. “Have either of you got a spare collar?”
Lestrade says, “Not right now, nor have I any I can get on short notice.”
But -- “I have one at home, somewhere,” John says.
--
And that is how Sherlock ends up knocking on Maria Thornton's door with John's collar tight around his throat, in a pair of even tighter trousers that look like they're cutting off circulation to vital parts of his anatomy, while wearing an unbuttoned shirt that shows off his chest. Her dom is in Scotland Yard, still making his statement -- they have an hour.
When the door opens, Sherlock is slouching down, smaller and more delicate (John thinks it's got to do with his lack of coat, which he'd left at home). He smiles at her, and flicks his eyes to John. She looks at John expectantly.
“Miss Thornton?” John says. “Do you mind if my sub asks you some questions about the burglary?”
Sherlock touches her hand, and leans closer, and says confidingly, “It'll help us find the culprit. My dom's already said he doesn't mind waiting outside if your dom doesn't want him coming in.”
She nods, and lets him in, and John lets his head bang against the wall as he tries to decide whether or not it'd be inappropriate for him to have a wank later while thinking about Sherlock with John's collar on his throat, calling John his dom. And if so, how inappropriate. Too inappropriate to do it anyways?
Sherlock comes out twenty minutes later, looking smug. “Cheating on him with the brother, who has ties to organized crime,” he says. “That was easy once I convinced her to cooperate. Let Lestrade know.”
John sends the text obligingly, and when he looks up, Sherlock's watching him again. “What?”
“Nothing. Let's go home.”
John stares at Sherlock the entire way home, and he's sure Sherlock notices, but Sherlock doesn't seem to mind. Because Sherlock is -- Sherlock's practicing, he's putting on and taking off submission like it's something he can switch on and off. One second, he's John's sub, collared and claimed and his, and the next he's just -- just a dom with a random collar that's on too tight and a shirt he inexplicably hasn't bothered to button yet.
John thinks he's going to get whiplash trying to keep track of it all. Or possibly die of lust.
Sherlock crowds him against the door as soon as they're inside their flat, his palms on either side of John. It gives him a beautiful view of the collar (his collar) around Sherlock's throat, and John finds himself wishing, wildly, that it was real.
“You want me,” Sherlock says.
“I thought you were avoiding me.”
“You were distracting me when I was thinking. It's not the same. You want me,” he says again, and John drags his eyes from Sherlock's throat to his face.
John nods.
“No, say it,” Sherlock insists.
“I want you,” John replies cautiously.
“I'm married to my work.” Sherlock lifts his hands to the back of his neck and unbuckles John's collar. It drops to the floor, and the sound it makes sends a pang of loss through his chest.
“I know you are.”
Sherlock looks down at his shirt, then starts doing up the buttons quickly and efficiently. He glances at John's mouth, but doesn't catch his eyes. “I'm not your property.”
“I know.”
“I don't do what you tell me.”
“I don't actually expect you to.”
“I'll probably cut my hair soon. It's been getting long.”
“There's a decent place a couple streets away that'll do it for cheap.”
“I'm smarter than you.”
“Noticed that when we first met.”
“I won't let you control me.”
“I don't want to control you.”
“I --” Sherlock stops, and he looks away for a moment. “I don't want this to change things between us,” he says, finally, and there is a vulnerability there that John's never seen on Sherlock's face before.
“It won't,” John breathes. “I promise."
At his words, Sherlock exhales slowly. He is close enough to kiss, and John tilts his head up to press their mouths together.
This time, Sherlock kisses him back, and he's good at it. He parts his lips for John to slide his tongue in, and it's warm, wet, and just a little bit sloppy, like Sherlock isn't used to making out with anyone. Sherlock fists his hands in the front of John's jumper, and -- he kisses like this is the means to an end, like it's filler while he waits for John to do something else.
“What do you want?” John asks between kisses, confused.
Sherlock stops, mouths the side of John's jaw. “I -- What do you want? Let's do that. Tell me what you want.”
That's not an answer to his question, except that John barely notices that at all, because Sherlock is sliding gracefully to his knees, and putting his hands on John's belt, and that's about the point where John's thoughts abruptly grind to a halt, because Sherlock presses the heel of his palm against John's cock.
“Yeah. That's good. That's perfect.” He threads his fingers through Sherlock's hair, gets a good handful of it in his fist and tugs. “Do you like it when I do this?”
Sherlock doesn't answer, but he doesn't need to, because when John pulls his hair, his eyes go wide and he makes a noise, a noise that goes straight to his groin that makes him want to find out what other sounds he can coax from Sherlock. He presses Sherlock's face to his erection and Sherlock goes without resistance, rubbing his cheek against it.
John had been afraid that Sherlock wasn't interested -- that he wasn't attracted, except that John's clearly been blind or something, because Sherlock moves eagerly, mouthing John's cock through the layers of fabric, shoulder pressed against John's thigh like he's hungry for contact.
“I want to fuck your mouth,” he says -- because he does, because he's been wondering about what it'd be like for ages, and suddenly Sherlock's hands are unbuckling his belt, pulling down his trousers and underwear, and Sherlock's mouth is on him.
He jerks his hips in surprise, thrusting into Sherlock's mouth, cupping the back of his skull, and Sherlock sinks down on him -- takes him in deeper and deeper until his lips meet the thick curls at the base of John's cock. He'd never known Sherlock could do that -- never imagined Sherlock would bother learning a trick like that.
“No gag reflex,” John notes between pants, trying to keep his words steady -- trying to keep his hips steady, but he's failing miserably at that, because Sherlock's doing something with his tongue that's sending spikes of white-hot pleasure through his body. “I should have known you'd be brilliant at this.”
He fucks Sherlock's mouth -- roughly, because the faster he goes the looser Sherlock gets, pliant and peaceful like there's nothing else he'd rather be doing than choking on John's cock. And it's -- it's sort of glorious, the way Sherlock's looking up at him, meeting his eyes, looking at him like all he wants from the world is for John to want him.
When he comes, Sherlock swallows it down, licks him clean and tucks him back into his trousers with easy, efficient movements. He even re-buckles John's belt, leaving no evidence of what they'd been doing. You've done this before, John thinks, and then, a little hysterically, Sherlock Holmes just sucked me off against our front door.
“Your turn,” John says, and pulls Sherlock up for a kiss. The kiss is indulgent this time, slow and intimate. He can taste himself on the inside of Sherlock's mouth. He reaches between them and tugs down Sherlock's trousers; he's not wearing pants. He wraps his fingers around Sherlock's erection, and Sherlock groans against his lips. “What do you like? How do you touch yourself?”
“Faster. Tighter, sometimes , if I want to -- if I want it to be quick. Anything. Anything you want,” Sherlock gasps brokenly, and it sounds like a promise. Anything you want.
So John takes his time, teases gasps and moans from Sherlock with his fingers, until Sherlock is thrusting helplessly in John's fingers and leaving wet smears of pre-come against his hand and his stomach from where John's shirt has ridden up. “Please, John. Please,” Sherlock begs into his ear, and it is the sweetest sound in the world.
“Okay, yes, do it,” John commands, and Sherlock comes with a soft cry, spilling his release between them.
--
John was hoping for some post-coital cuddling, except Sherlock's clearly got other ideas, because when they're finished, Sherlock merely leans bodily against John until his breathing slows, before disappearing into his room. He doesn't come out again until John finishes cooking dinner -- nothing fancy, just pasta. He's traded the tight trousers for his normal ones.
“Are you eating today?” John asks. “I think there's still a couple clean plates in the cupboard.”
“Not hungry,” Sherlock replies, and curls up in his armchair with his laptop. “I'd like some tea, though.”
Sherlock smiles at him, bright and surprised, when John brings him the cup of tea, and accepts the kiss that John presses against his mouth.
--
The sex is good.
Sherlock knows a million different tricks to please him, and John gets a thrill, every time, at seeing Sherlock's submission, at seeing him peaceful and quiet and still. He fucks Sherlock's mouth and makes out with him sloppily on the sofa, straddling him and pinning his wrists above his head.
He ties Sherlock down and maps his body with his tongue, and presses his fingernails into each scar as if he can claim them, or wipe them away. There is a small, faded S carved into Sherlock's hip, and when John touches it, Sherlock twitches away but doesn't say anything, like he's not sure what he wants John to do.
He flogs him and fucks him and spanks him and pushes his thoughts further and further away, until “You're going to leave bruises with that” becomes “Please, don't stop, more” becomes incoherent moans.
Sometimes -- not always, but sometimes, after they finish, when they are both satisfied and content, Sherlock will spend the night in his bed, sprawled on top of John, and they will both sleep soundly until morning.
Unfortunately, everything else is sort of a disaster.
Because Sherlock says, “It's just sex,” and then curls up next to him on the sofa, putting his head on John's shoulder sweetly. Because when John wakes up in the mornings, if Sherlock hasn't gone to sleep the night before, Sherlock will sometimes have breakfast waiting for him. Because Sherlock will look at him sometimes, and he'll look away when John catches him at it, like there's something he doesn't want John to know.
Half the time Sherlock does whatever he wants, and the other half of the time, he stops and looks at John expectantly, and if John gives him permission, he gets angry, and if John forbids him from doing whatever he was going to do, he gets angry, and if John doesn't say anything and just looks confused, he gets frustrated and annoyed. Or Sherlock will say no to him, or do something he knows John doesn't like -- inexplicably, for no reason, like it's a test and John doesn't know what the right answer's supposed to be but he really resents being subjected to mind games.
Or a sub will flirt with John, and Sherlock will get sulky and jealous for the rest of the night, which is not fair at all, because supposedly, they aren't even dating, because sometimes if a sub flirts with Sherlock, he flirts back.
“He just doesn't make any sense,” John complains to Harry -- which, you know, he's in pretty dire straights if he's asking Harry for advice. “I don't know what he wants from me.”
“Maybe you should break up with him, then,” Harry replies.
“We're not dating.”
“Yes, you are.”
“He's made it pretty clear that he doesn't want to be my sub,” John says. “We're just friends who have sex.”
“You want it to be more.”
“I've wanted it to be more for ages.”
“So tell him that.”
“He already knows. He'll just turn me down. Again.”
Harry's silent for long enough that John checks his phone to make sure the connection hasn't been lost. “You know why I broke up with Rebecca in secondary school, John?”
“Because you're gay?”
“I'm not, actually. I like both. So, no.” And sticks her tongue out at him (he can't see her, but he knows her well enough to tell). “I broke up with her because she told me I wasn't allowed to have friends who were tops. And I mean, obviously not all tops are as stupid as her,” Harry interjects before John can say anything. “But a lot of them -- a lot of them, they think subs need to be controlled, that we can't get on by ourselves. That we're just things they can use. So it's easier to date subs, if you like both.”
“I don't do that,” John protests, but he knows she's right, because he's not stupid and he knows what doms talk about when there's no subs around, and that it's nearly impossible to press rape charges, when signs of a struggle look the same as signs of having a good time.
“I know, but you're not everyone,” Harry says, and for a moment, she sounds so weary that his heart breaks, just a little. “Anyways, just... Maybe he just wants to make sure you won't treat him like that now that he's your sub.”
“He's not my sub.”
“He might as well be.”
--
“Do you want to be my sub?” John blurts, when Sherlock announces he's going out to get his hair cut and stops at the door, looking at John expectantly.
Sherlock's face goes complicated and unreadable. “I -- do I have to?”
“No, of course not. You don't have to do anything you don't want to. I just -- I just thought I'd ask.”
“Why? Do you want me to?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want me to do?” Sherlock asks, one hand still on the door. He sounds curious.
“Whatever you want. I just want you to admit that there's something between us, and it's not just about the sex. You know I care about you, Sherlock, and I want to know if you feel the same.”
“I'm going to cut my hair,” Sherlock repeats, more firmly this time.
“Stop asking me for permission if you're going to get mad at me for saying no.”
“What will you do if I cut my hair?”
“Nothing? It's really none of my business.”
--
Sherlock comes home with his hair too short to even hint at being a sub, so short that it doesn't curl. “Well?”
John makes a beckoning motion and Sherlock joins him on the sofa. He sits down next to John and bows his head so that John can run thoughtful fingers through his hair. John closes his fingers consideringly, and tugs lightly -- not too short to grab, except at the sides. “I liked the curls, but this is nice too,” he says pleasantly.
Sherlock gives him that smile again -- the quick, surprised one, and John knows he's said the right thing.
--
“You're afraid I'll go too far,” John says, as he lights the last candle, setting it next to the other ones, and picking up the first one. “You've been fucking with me for weeks, because you want to know what I'll do when you push me.”
“I can get my hands free,” Sherlock says to him, and starts to tug at the loops of rope binding his wrists to the headboard; he stops when John touches his hand.
“That's not the point. The point is that you can't get free by accident.” John angles the top of the candle downwards, about a foot above the underside of his wrist. “At least this way you can't run away when I try to ask you a question.”
A thin stream of melted red wax lands on his wrist; it hurts, but doesn't burn. He flexes his wrist thoughtfully, then scratches it off with his fingernails.
“I don't care how short you cut your hair, or whether or not you want to wear my collar.”
“Wrong,” Sherlock replies, and hisses through his teeth as John tips a small amount of melted wax onto his stomach. He raises one of his knees protectively, and John pushes it down, then leaves his hand there, soaking in the sight of Sherlock, like this -- exposed, vulnerable. “You want to claim me. You want everyone to think I belong to you.”
“That's only natural. I hate when Molly flirts with you, you know. I don't mind when it's the other subs, but you flirt back when it's her.”
“I'm not attracted to submissives,” Sherlock says, and makes another noise, when more hot wax lands next to the first one. “You know that. I only do it so she'll give me access to the mortuary.”
“You could try being friends with her, instead of manipulating her,” John says, and continues, “I don't know what you want from me.”
“I want you to fuck me.” It's a diversionary tactic, and a bad one.
“I thought at first that you just didn't care about me,” he says, pouring the wax on Sherlock's belly, forming a straight, diagonal line, switching candles when he runs out of melted wax. “But I don't think that's true.”
“It's not,” Sherlock agrees.
“Why do you keep testing me? You keep doing things you think I won't like. Do you want me to punish you for them? You don't seem like the sort of sub who'd be interested in that.”
“I'm not.”
“So if you don't want me to punish you for it, what are you doing?” Sherlock doesn't answer. The muscles on his torso jump as more wax lands on them, the beginning of the second line. John squeezes Sherlock's knee. “Answer me.”
Another long pause, punctuated only by their breathing. John drags his fingers over the wax, fascinated by the way Sherlock quivers at the touch. Sherlock says softly, apologetically, “The cases come first. Before you, before me. I won't change that for you.”
“I know that already,” John says absently. He finishes the second line, forming a V on the left side of Sherlock's belly, and starts on the third. “I'm not going to throw you away or leave you just because there's something you don't want to do.”
“You can't control me when I'm working.”
“I'm pretty sure we've had this conversation before,” John says pointedly. Fourth line -- the last one, starting at the base of the third and moving outwards, finishing the blood red W drawn across Sherlock's torso.
“I won't be enough for you,” Sherlock whispers. He turns his face away.
John sets the candle aside and leans forward to kiss Sherlock's jaw. “I don't care. You're enough now.”
--
Afterwards, when they are finished, when John has scraped the wax off Sherlock's body with a butter knife, teasing the oversensitized skin with his tongue and with ice cubes, when John has kissed and bit and fucked his claim onto Sherlock's skin, and wiped away the semen from between Sherlock's legs and on his belly, and checked his wrists and put away the rope and the candles and binned the butcher's paper they'd put over the sheets --
Afterwards, when John has asked, “Are you sleeping tonight?”, and Sherlock has rubbed carefully at the stained W on his belly (he stops when it starts to smear), and replied, “Yes, I think so,” and they have curled up in John's bed --
Afterwards, when Sherlock has placed his head on John's scarred shoulder and his palm over John's chest, and his breathing has slowed and evened --
John whispers, when he's sure Sherlock can't hear him, “I love you, you know. I don't care about the rest of it.”
--
“I don't suppose I can tempt you to eat dinner tonight?” John asks, without much hope. “I made roast beef.”
“I ate at noon,” Sherlock replies, not looking up from the book he's currently perusing. Noon is less than 24 hours ago, so John just sighs and lets it go.
Halfway through John's dinner, Sherlock gets up and walks over. John offers him a smile. “Changed your mind?”
“Not quite,” Sherlock says, and kneels, gracefully, on the floor to the right of John's chair. John's heart skips a beat, then skips another when Sherlock rests his head on John's thigh and reopens the book, attention shifting to it.
“What are you doing?” John asks, mesmerized.
“Reading.” The obviously is implied.
“Why?”
“Because I like to read, and the book interests me.” Sherlock turns a page. He hasn't bothered to look up yet.
“No -- I meant, why are you reading here?”
“I wanted to see if it was more comfortable here.”
“Is it?”
“It's passable.” Sherlock glances up at him. “Do you want me to move?”
John's hand drops to the back of Sherlock's neck. “No!” he says, more emphatically than he'd meant to, and Sherlock smiles at him, quick and brief. John's cheeks burn with embarrassment. He lets go. “I mean,” he stammers. “If you want to, you can. But I like you here.”
Sherlock goes back to the book, but he's grinning widely.
“I'd be more comfortable if you were stroking my hair,” he comments pointedly, after they have been sitting in silence for a few minutes, and John lets his hand drop to Sherlock's head.
--
“It bothers you that people think I'm a dom,” Sherlock says while they are on their way to the latest crime scene. They are on opposite sides of the cab's backseat -- Sherlock is looking out the window. When John doesn't reply, Sherlock shifts his attention to him, eyes narrowing. “No -- not quite that.”
John makes a face at him. “Stop deducing me. Just ask like a normal person.”
“No need,” Sherlock replies smugly. “It's not that people think I'm a dom. It's that they don't know we're together. You'd rather they think I was a dom and we were together than that I'm an unattached sub.”
John shrugs and looks away. True, obviously -- he wants people to know that Sherlock belongs to him and only him. That of all the people he could have, he chose John. Except that Sherlock is prickly about that -- about belonging, about being claimed, about people knowing he chooses, sometimes, to give himself to someone else.
John knows it has to do with the scars Sherlock wears -- the sloppy ones on his back, and more importantly, the small, deliberate S on his hip that Sherlock refuses to talk about. You're not supposed to mark a sub like that -- you don't mark a sub like that, unless you're in love, unless you're talking about forever, and making a claim more serious and permanent than a collar.
A sub won't let you, unless they think you'll be the last one they'll ever belong to.
“It's not a secret,” Sherlock continues. “It's no secret that I'm a sub, and you can tell people you're my dom if it'll make you happy.”
“Will it make you happy?” John asks, because while normally he has a better sense for these things -- normally he can tell the difference between “I like this” and “I'm only doing it because you want to”, Sherlock is a mess to read, no matter how hard he tries.
“I haven't decided yet,” Sherlock says. “I need more evidence.”
So John takes Sherlock's gloved hand while they're at the crime scene, which lasts all of fifteen seconds before Sherlock gets bored of not having his hand free and pulls it away to peel back the victim's lips and examine his teeth.
John must have made some sort of sound at that, because after Sherlock rises from poking at the victim's molars, he sighs explosively and says, “Oh, alright, then,” before grabbing John's chin and tilting his head up for a rough, bruising kiss.
The murmur of conversation around them falls away into stunned silence, but John is caught up in the blissful feel of having Sherlock's mouth against his, for just a moment, before he realizes that --
“Ugh! You were touching a corpse with that hand!” John exclaims, and rubs fiercely at his chin.
Sherlock looks at him blankly. “So? It's hardly decayed at all.”
“You put your fingers in its mouth! And then touched me with them!”
“Well, he wasn't sick, so it's not like you're going to catch anything. Besides, you've touched corpses before.”
“Not with my face.”
But John doesn't mind, not really, and from the small, pleased smile Sherlock wears for the rest of the night, Sherlock knows it too.
--
“Don't touch me,” Sherlock says absently, staring at the photographs of the evidence, pinned to the wall. “You'll distract me.”
“I think you can afford to be distracted for a few hours,” John comments, and presses the energy bar into Sherlock's hand. “Eat this. And then you're taking a nap.”
“I'm working,” Sherlock protests, but he unwraps the bar and takes a bite anyways. The rest of the bar disappears quickly, mechanically.
“You're going to collapse if you don't get some food and rest in you. I'm a doctor, remember?”
“You're interrupting my case,” Sherlock says petulantly, but lets John herd him away from the photographs. He stops abruptly at the stairs to John's bedroom. “Um. I don't actually want to have sex right now.”
John rolls his eyes and shoves Sherlock into the room. “Just to sleep, Sherlock. You'll think better once you're more rested.”
“You'll wake me if the police find anything?”
“Of course.” Sherlock is still resisting, so John adds, “I promise.”
--
Sherlock has been asleep for not quite three hours when his phone buzzes in John's pocket. Lestrade, with more evidence.
“How long have I been asleep?” is the first thing Sherlock asks blearily when John goes to his room and shakes Sherlock awake.
“Almost three hours. We've got to go. The police found the missing hand in a skip; they need you to take a look at it.”
“You woke me up,” Sherlock says wonderingly, as he gets out of the bed, and, when John presses the warm mug into his hands, “And you made me coffee. But it's lukewarm.”
“I made myself coffee and you're lucky I decided to share,” John corrects, “because I haven't had enough sleep either, and I'm still going through the old case files Lestrade left with us.”
“You were working while I slept.”
“One of us had to stay up in case Lestrade called.”
Sherlock downs the coffee swiftly, and frowns at the energy bar John hands him. “Must I? Coffee makes me lose my appetite.”
“I'll give you the coffee second next time. Can you eat it without feeling sick?”
“I'll eat it in the cab. Where are we going?”
“Kensington Road. Ready?”
Sherlock kisses him. It tastes like coffee, and sleep, and something uniquely Sherlock. “Of course,” he says, and it sounds like more.
--
After the case ends, after another three days of running after criminals and hunting down evidence, when they have collapsed together in John's bed to catch up on sleep, John wakes up alone.
This isn't unusual. Sherlock tends to wander off when not under direct supervision, and rarely spends the entire night in John's bed. He can hear the smooth, warm sounds of Sherlock's violin, coming from downstairs.
But what is unusual, is this:
There is a bracelet on his nightstand. It wasn't there last night, and John picks it up, heart pounding.
The bracelet is thin, black leather, not at all showy or attention-grabbing, and looks not unlike the strap of a watch. He runs his thumb along the inside, feeling for an inscription, but there isn't one. He has to adjust it before it fits around his wrist (Sherlock's wrists are thinner than his), but the clasp is easy to open and close with one hand.
He puts it on, and goes downstairs.
Sherlock pauses in his playing when he sees John; there is a band of black around his right wrist, and even without looking at the hand that holds the neck of the violin, John knows that his other wrist is bare.
“Good afternoon,” Sherlock says, and looks at John's wrist. “The right one?”
“I am left-handed,” John replies.
“Are you going to wear it when you go out?”
“If you want me to. If you'll wear yours.”
“People will think you're subbing for me.”
“They already think that. I'm used to it by now.”
“Then yes,” Sherlock says, and his smile is radiant.
Part 1