Tie You Down or Hold You Up - Sherlock - John/Sherlock
Title: Tie You Down Or Hold You Up
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Word Count: 4665
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Collars, leashes, light bondage
A/N: Written for the "collars" square of my kink bingo card.
Summary: Sherlock gives John a chain to wear around his neck. John isn't sure why he accepts.
"It's for good luck," he says when Donovan asks him, though it's clear that she doesn't believe him.
The chain feels heavy and hot around his neck, half-hidden by the collar of his cardigan. He tugs and pulls to hide it a little better, and instantly feels the weight of Sherlock's gaze on him from across at the other side of the crime scene.It hangs around his neck with no pendant or decoration, a thick chain like a necklace: a gift from Sherlock, given to him once he'd got out of hospital and recovered enough to appreciate it.
"He called you my 'pet'," Sherlock had said, tone light even if his gaze was intense. "Let's make it official."
And John would have liked to have been insulted by that, but they had ended up on the ground, Sherlock's hand twisting the new chain so that it pressed against his neck as they rubbed and frotted against one another. They'd had bruises and carpet burns afterwards, but it had worked: John had hardly taken it off since.
Donovan looks across the scene to Sherlock, then back to John's neck. She can probably see faint bruises there, even in the dim light. "Luck," she repeats. "Right."
John smiles sheepishly, a tense flash that disappears in a moment, before he walks around the body to reach Sherlock's side. "There's blood on the wall over there," he says. "Just a few specks, but it's splattered like a gun shot."
Interesting and grotesque, especially considering that their victim had been strangled.
Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Excellent," he says, and his hand comes up to rest on the nape of John's neck, his fingers stroking against a few links in the chain. John's face heats up, as he becomes painfully aware of the way that Donovan is watching them.
John takes him to the blood splatter, located low on the wall, and Sherlock's hand lingers as they walk, only fading away once they reach the blood and he has other matters to excite him. The metal burns like a brand into John's skin - but he doesn't take it off. Not for the first time, he wonders, What the hell am I doing?
*
At home, Sherlock traps John against the counter as he's trying to make dinner. It digs into his front and Sherlock is plastered against his back, tall and lanky and with something vampiric about his entire air. His hands are at the chain and then his lips nuzzle against the heavy clasp that keeps it attached.
"I should get a tag for you. 'Property of Sherlock Holmes. If found, please return to 221b Baker Street."
John snorts and tries to sound dismissive instead of aroused. He can already feel the firm bulk of Sherlock's erection pressed against him; it makes his mouth water. Pavlovian. "Piss off," he says. "I'm not your dog."
Sherlock gives a thoughtful 'hmm', and lets his hand glide down John's side. "We could get you micro-chipped. That's what they do these days - a chip under the skin so you can't go missing."
John laughs, a nervous giggle, and he feels one of Sherlock's rare smiles against the nape of his neck. "Might freak the vet out."
"Pity," Sherlock agrees. His hand strokes John thoughtfully for a moment longer, enough to make John wonder if he's going to wake up to find himself tagged and marked like an endangered bird. "Are you busy?"
"I'm making dinner, actually," John says, waggling his knife at the chopping board right in front of him.
"I need to borrow your mouth."
Suspiciously, John frowns and asks what for: Sherlock's answer involves pushing his hip forwards so that his cock presses more firmly against John's arse. "Jesus," he gasps, dropping the knife and slamming his hand against the surface to steady himself.
"You see my problem," Sherlock responds. "Dinner can wait."
"Yeah, maybe," John agrees. He's breathless despite himself, and there are the first heated stirrings in his groin. Sherlock backs off an inch or two, just far enough to give John space to turn around and face him.
As soon as he has done so, Sherlock grasps the chain around his neck and yanks down hard so that John has no choice but to drop to his knees, hurting himself on the floor. "Careful, Sherlock," he complains.
Sherlock doesn't let go of the chain, reaching with his other hand to pull open his trousers and pull himself free. It's alarming to feel his mouth flood with saliva at the sight of Sherlock's cock, hard and red and waiting for him, but he doesn't have time to think about it; Sherlock pulls him forward by his chain, guiding himself into John's mouth.
"Shit," he breathes - and the sound makes a little thrill shoot up John's spine. Sherlock never swears: too undignified.
The dick in his mouth is clean and choking; it clogs all other senses, so he has to close his eyes and focus. Sherlock tugs and guides him, gentle pressure through the chain around his neck, so that Sherlock slides in and out of his bobbing mouth. The pace is slow at first but it speeds up fast, and Sherlock's hips move too, pumping into his mouth - and it's deep, too deep, more than John can take but he will take it, he will, because Sherlock wants it and that means he wants it too. Wants his approval, wants to make him feel good, wants to stay at his side for as long as he can.
Another twist of the chain and it is pressed tight against his neck as Sherlock fucks his mouth with frowning fury. John opens his eyes. Above him, Sherlock is looking down, staring at the metal in his hand. His cock thuds against the back of John's throat: water floods his mouth and he can't help but gag.
Reaching up, he rests his fingers against Sherlock's hands where he is gripping onto his chain - and that, apparently, is enough.
With a jerk and a solid groan, Sherlock spills inside John's mouth, hot liquid splashing into his throat. Sherlock's grasp relaxes and he slips out of John's mouth, softening - but he covers John's lips with his hand before John can try to stand up or even twitch. His grip is strong-fingered and irresistible.
"Swallow," he demands, breathless and hoarse.
John is tempted to spit into his hand just to spite him, but the desire to follow his orders is too ingrained for that. He gulps down his mouthful, and when the excesses dribbles free Sherlock chases it with his thumb and pushes it back inside. John sucks it from his skin and scrapes at Sherlock's nail with his teeth.
The entire time, Sherlock looks down and watches him with eyes that are nothing less than greedy. To have that sharp, all-seeing gaze pin-pointed on him distracts him from the thick after-taste that lingers in his mouth.
Abruptly, Sherlock pulls free and takes a step backwards, tucking himself away and then straightening his jacket. On stiff legs, John gets to his feet. "Uh, Sherlock?" John says helpfully. He looks down at his crotch, desperate for stimulation. "Aren't you going to...?"
He doesn't care what it is, just as long as Sherlock offers him something. Those attentive eyes investigate him, and Sherlock's mouth offers the hint of a smirk before he says, "No. I plan on fucking you after dinner."
"You - What?"
"You can wait." The mischievous glint in Sherlock's eyes is little short of evil. He chides, "You can't wear a collar for me and then be surprised by my reaction."
John coughs and splutters in surprise. His fingers touch the chain and he looks down, away from Sherlock, unable to face his knowing stare. "A collar? It's a necklace, Sherlock, you're-"
"A collar. I went to a pet-shop and bought it for you. I didn't think you'd agree to wear a leather one. Too kinky."
"And a metal one isn't kinky?" For a moment, the world seems too unreal to cope with. They haven't used that word before, 'collar', not plainly. He grabs hold of the edge of the counter until his knuckles go white. He'd known, of course. He isn't dim.
Across the kitchen, Sherlock watches him, before his attention shifts to the experiment hogging their kitchen table. "Get on with dinner, then," he says with no interest in his voice.
John turns and starts chopping the peppers while the knife trembles in his hand. Struggling not to think, it's a miracle he doesn't chop a finger loose.
*
True to his word, Sherlock fucks him through the mattress that evening, taking him from behind with a ferocity that makes John feel completely owned. It makes him ache; it's bloody brilliant. When Sherlock's done John collapses onto the mattress, panting for air, but Sherlock rarely stops moving. He's off the bed and pacing towards the window after taking barely a second to recover.
John lets him go and floats in slack sleep, awake enough only to hear the occasional shift of Sherlock's body. He's naked beneath the sheets, wearing only his collar around his neck, but he's more than warm enough. There might be a wet patch in the centre of the bed, but the thought of shifting is far too wearying.
"John," Sherlock says - and the curious, thoughtful lilt to his voice is enough to make John open his eyes. That tone never leads to anything good. "We need to get a leash."
John is worn out enough that all he can do is give a breathy laugh, even though he knows that Sherlock isn't joking. "What? Why?"
Sherlock peels away from the window, leaving its silver moonlight behind. His bare body seems to glow in the darkness, too pale to be real. "The collar says I have a claim to you," he says. He sits down on the edge of the bed, and his hand rests on the small of John's back, strong and large in a way that makes John groan despite being thoroughly spent. "But a leash... I could make sure you didn't disappear again. It's practical."
John twists his body, still lying on his front, so that he can see more of Sherlock's face. "I'm not going anywhere," he assures him.
"Not on purpose." They remember Moriarty, both of them, and John thinks that the events at the pool left deeper scars on Sherlock than he will ever be willing to admit. "It would be... good to have a way to keep you in line."
John tries to imagine it, a chain tethering him to Sherlock's hand. He'll admit that there's a thrill that runs through him at the thought - but it is very difficult to think about anything other than the attention they would attract, horrified stares and, perhaps, jibes from Sally or Anderson.
"Maybe in the flat," he offers as a compromise, "just once."
Sherlock smirks, worryingly, as if the battle has already been won.
*
Before two weeks have passed, Sherlock has him wearing it outside. The leash is a shiny chain of metal that is clipped onto John's collar, and then handle never leaves Sherlock's hand no matter how distracted he is - it's convenient, in its own way. Sherlock had said that it is to make sure he doesn't lose John, but it works just as well the other way around.
John will still only wear it for an hour at most, and he draws the line and unclips it himself when Sherlock tries to tether him to a lamppost outside a suspect's apartment, but other than that the experiment seems to be going swimmingly. The stares don't even bother him half as much as he thought they would.
And then, as always, Sherlock takes it a step further.
He takes him to a crime scene.
John's face is scarlet before anyone even gets around to asking questions. All it takes is a glance or two and he can feel the heat rushing to the surface.
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" he says under his breath to Sherlock as they walk through the public park that has been cordoned off.
Sherlock glances at him, impassive for a moment, before he gives the leash a playful tug. "Infinitely," he admits. "But you can take it off whenever you want."
John's jaw clenches - but his hands don't move.
Standing over the body, they fall silent. John is doing it out of respect; Sherlock is no doubt merely collecting the facts.
The body has been placed in a solemn mockery of piety, her hands folding over her chest as if praying. her wide, dead eyes stare up at the godless sky. Around her, there is a pentagram scorched into the grass, with melted stubs of candles leaking over the ground.
"Obviously an occult killing," Anderson drawls behind them.
"Obviously not," Sherlock corrects.
He kneels down beside the corpse and tugs on the leash to make John follow him. John pretends not to hear the snort of laughter from behind them, and tries to focus on what Sherlock wants him to see instead.
"How did she die?"
John knows that Sherlock has probably already figured out the cause of death, but he investigates anyway after tugging on a pair of gloves. He lists off superficial injuries, but notes that most seem to have been inflicted after death.
"Blunt force trauma to the head," he concludes. "Right side of the skull, just above the ear. Probably died very quickly - instantly."
"Exactly!" Sherlock exclaims, filled with glee.
It takes John a moment longer, but he frowns and says, "There aren't many occult rituals that involve thwacking someone 'round the head, are there?"
To that, Sherlock responds by grabbing his face and smacking his lips against his forehead. He hops to his feet, high on his own brilliance, and narrowly avoids choking John in the process. It's enough to cause Lestrade to warn him to be careful, something which makes John struggle to restrain a smile.
"Hmm?" Sherlock glances back at him, and his gaze drops to the red mark that has no doubt appeared on his neck by now. John's going to have bruises. With Sherlock around, he's probably going to have bruises for the rest of his life.
"He'll be fine," Sherlock says dismissively, and it makes John want to kick him in the shin. "The case, Lestrade. Try to focus."
Lestrade purses his lips in a way that speaks of irritation, but he doesn't voice it. "Yes?"
"Domestic. Occult trimmings were added afterwards - movie effects, cheap and uneducated. Probably an attempt to throw you off the scent. Weak and dull. Then again, with Anderson around it might have worked." Sherlock sighs as if he would have preferred if it truly had been an occult crime. More interesting: dangerous. "You're looking for a male close to her. Boyfriend, perhaps, but my money's on the father."
"You can't narrow it down?"
"I could." Sherlock's eyes glint and, for a fleeting moment, John thinks that he really is the devil. "But that would spoil all the fun for you."
With an instructive jangle of John's leash they are off again, ducking under police tape and walking away from that sad oasis of green. Sherlock doesn't talk much as they move, giving John as short answers as he is able to get away with - one syllable if possible. Usually means he's thinking. Sometimes means it's important.
They pass rows and rows of suburban homes before Sherlock comes across one that takes his fancy, walking through the small front garden to the window and pressing his hand against the glass.
"What are you doing?" John asks curiously, but curiosity shifts to alarm when he realises that Sherlock is sliding the old window open, stiff from years of being painted shut. "Sherlock!"
"They're on holiday," Sherlock says without looking at him. "See the plants."
John glances down at the potted plants on the inside of the window sill, slightly wilted. "Maybe they have brown thumbs," he suggests uncertainly.
"The front garden is meticulously maintained; gardener, perhaps, but look at the house: they couldn't afford one. More likely, a neighbour doing a favour for them while they're away - a neighbour with no key."
He looks extraordinarily smug with himself - John, however, has spotted what is on the far wall by now. "You saw the calendar, didn't you?" A 'Cats of the World' calendar, it has the two surrounding weeks circled in black marker men, with 'GREEK HOLIDAY!!!!!!!!' written as large as will fit into the space provided.
Sherlock hums at him, sounding put-out.
Yet he takes the opportunity to lead John inside the open window, while John puffs and complains and really hopes that Sherlock has a good reason for doing this. They land in the kitchen, having to shimmy over the counter to reach the linoleum floor. Sherlock looks around, running his fingers over the surfaces and taking in the kitchen table while John trails after him, wondering why on earth he persists in putting himself through this.
"Yes," Sherlock murmurs. "This will do nicely."
Exactly what they're doing there becomes clear once Sherlock's hands are on him, pushing his back against the wall while his mouth takes and takes from John, gracefully stealing the very air from his lungs. John moans and gives in, because when Sherlock's attention is focused on a person like this then there is really very little choice but to go with it: surrender becomes the only viable option.
Sherlock's mouth shifts - to the corner of John's lips, his jaw, the pulse point of his neck, and finally to the patch near his collar where he can take both skin and metal into his mouth. He sucks hard, leaving a mark with a sweet stab of pain. John slumps against the wall and shivers, eyes closed. His hands move, reaching to clutch the lapels of Sherlock's thick coat and then up into Sherlock's unruly hair.
In a flash, the sucking pressure on his neck vanishes - Sherlock grabs the leash hanging between them and wraps it firmly around John's wrists. Once. Twice. Tugs. Bound securely.
"Sherlock, what on earth-"
Before he can get any further, Sherlock grabs his shoulders and twirls him around, pressing him against the wall. His cheek rests against the wallpaper and he struggles, briefly, just to prove that he can. His hands are trapped securely between his body and the wall.
"Did you see them?" Sherlock asks, voice low next to his ear - and John knows that he's doing it on purpose. Sherlock had taken careful time to explore how the changes in his voice affect John, experimenting to ensure he knows how to get the reaction he wants. In this case, it is the downwards rush of blood, fuelled on by adrenaline and helplessness. "Donovan, Anderson... Did you see them?"
"Yes, Sherlock, I saw them," John snaps.
Sherlock presses closer. Whispers. His hands reach to the front of John's body, creating a gap by tugging John's hips back into him. He slowly undoes John's belt and works on the button of his trousers. "They saw you. They saw this." He traces his lips against the metal at John's neck. "Like they knew. They finally understood."
John struggles to keep up with Sherlock, to understand what he's driving at, but by now Sherlock's hand has pushed his trousers and underwear down, exposing him. Sherlock's hand wraps around his cock - and John, bound and collared, has never felt quite so completely at someone's mercy.
"People are idiots," Sherlock complains. "All of them. They need everything spelled out."
John's hips thrust into Sherlock's waiting hand, desperate for more; his grip isn't tight enough and Sherlock's barely moving at all, giving him nothing. It makes him gasp for air with his mouth cracked open, wanting with an intensity that frightens him.
"I think they must understand now," Sherlock muses. He sounds far more focused on what he's saying than what he's doing. "You're with me because you want to be."
John is trying to listen to him through a fog of need, finding it quietly infuriating how completely unaffected he sounds. "Is that it?" he gasps. "That's what all this is about?"
Sherlock chuckles, always an ominous sound, and withdraws his hand from its position around John's cock. His trousers slip down further, past the curve of his arse, but before he can react Sherlock pushes two fingers inside of him. John is still slightly slick and stretched from the night before, but it isn't enough. He breathes out, forcing himself to relax for Sherlock.
"In part," Sherlock says, continuing their conversation as if there has been no significant pause. "It affects me, to see you like this."
John tries to say something, anything, but with Sherlock's fingers inside him the most that he can do is whine. Sherlock's doing this on purpose, he thinks. He'd never admit to being emotionally compromised unless John was too far gone to make a big deal out of it.
"Yes," Sherlock carries on - and maybe, maybe, he sounds a little bit hoarse. "Pliant and surrendered. Did you know that I have devoted significant brain-space to all the ways that I can keep you addicted to me?"
John chokes helplessly as Sherlock pushes a third finger inside his stretched hole. He isn't slick enough for this: it burns. "Sick," he gasps. His wrists, still trapped in his leash, are starting to tingle with numbness.
"You don't complain," Sherlock says. "All this time - you could have walked away at any moment, or asked to go back to 'normal', and I wouldn't have stopped you. You didn't."
Sherlock's fingers pump inside him, opening him up until John is shaking and gasping for him: there's no room in his mind for anything else. "Please," he whispers. When it comes to Sherlock, when it comes to this, John doesn't know shame. "Sherlock, now. Damn it."
Sherlock's teeth scrape against the back of his neck and John's hips thrust blindly back against his hand. "Easy now," Sherlock purrs at him. "What would you like me to do?"
His fingers continue to slide in and out of John's arse, so slowly that John wants to yell at swear at him. "Stop it. Stop drawing it out - fuck me. Right now. Right now or, God, I'll- I'll..."
He's saved from having to come up with a threat when Sherlock pulls his fingers out. He hears the unmistakable sound of Sherlock ripping open his trousers before pushes his cock inside, shallow with only the tip at first. Their moans blend together and John pushes backwards to force Sherlock deeper: too much, too fast, it hurts. He doesn't tell Sherlock to stop.
Sherlock's hand presses against the back of his head to hold him firmly against the wall. He bottoms out, so deep inside him that John feels completely owned, completely possessed. Faintly aware of his lips moving, John thinks that he is chanting Sherlock's name, over and over as if he can brand him into the air itself.
"Sherlock," he says again, and his voice breaks, shattering half-way through. Sherlock fucks him so hard that John is forced up onto the tips of his toes, eyes closed, screaming silently. He can't do this. Can't. Can't hold onto his sanity - isn't sure if he's had it at all for months, actually, years. "Sherlock..."
It makes Sherlock groan against his skin, low and rumbling, before he stops - he holds John in place, a grip he can't resist, as he grunts and comes inside John, filling him up. "Don't stop," John demands. "Don't, Sherlock. Please - I can't. Don't leave me. Don't you dare leave me like this."
His hands are trapped and he can't touch himself, even achingly hard and knowing that Sherlock will probably make him wait until they get home - because he's a selfish bastard, stupidly self-centred.
"John, turn around," Sherlock instructs.
He doesn't feel strong enough to do it, but he rolls, resting his shoulders against the wall. Sherlock's hands are at his wrists instantly, letting him go. His hands spring free and reach down, red marks ringing his wrists that will form dark bruises tomorrow. Sherlock bats him away sharply and grabs hold of his cock for him, a firm grip that makes John shiver with a moan.
"Thank you," he says, limp and boneless against the wall. "Thank you thank you thank you."
"I look after you," Sherlock states as if he is making a point. "You should trust me."
"I do, I swear," john babbles. He reaches out blindly and clings to the thick wool of Sherlock's coat. He continues: "I do, I do."
He feels Sherlock looking down at him, drinking in every drop of desperation, and when Sherlock's grip tightens - speeds up - it's enough. Mouth open, John cries out and comes, spurting into Sherlock's hand. His spunk splatters against Sherlock's open trousers, a sticky stain, but he doesn't have the breath or clarity to apologise.
"Are you okay?" Sherlock asks, but there is no urgency in his voice - slow, amused and incredibly pleased with himself.
"Fine," John pants. His face still feels hot and pink. "Great. That was - Jesus."
Intense.
Before Sherlock had waltzed into his life, he couldn't have imagined experiencing anything like this: a mix of adrenaline and helplessness from the war, combined with a fascinating all-consuming desire for another person. "Very satisfying," Sherlock agrees. He reaches forward to close John's trousers for him, and his hands then slide up to fuss and fix John's damp hair. "You can take it off, if you'd like."
It takes John a moment or two to work out what he's talking about.
As he looks down at the leash, hanging like a noose down his front, Sherlock backs off to pull himself together. He tidies up his clothes and crosses the room to the sink, using a cloth to wipe away as much of John's spunk as he can reasonably expect to do.
John unclips the end of the leash from his collar, feeling instantly freed as he does so. He doesn't hand it back to Sherlock. Instead, he winds it around his hand and then places it into his jacket pocket - because it belongs to him just as much as it belongs to Sherlock. More, even.
The collar can stay on.
Sherlock has remained very carefully focused on the stain, and he only looks up when John clears his throat to indicate that he is ready. "Shall we head off, then? Probably should be getting back," John suggests, trying to brush past the situation. The air feels significant, and while he's not sure why he still doesn't want to examine it too closely.
Sherlock twitches his head in a manner that possibly suggests a nod. It's difficult to tell, and his eyes are so focused on John's neck that John begins to fidget. It's like being examined by a vampire - an incredibly hungry one.
"Yes," Sherlock says eventually, after shaking himself like a dog with wet fur. "Back the way we came. They really ought to do something about their windows." The way he says it makes it sound as if it is their own fault for not realising that horny consulting detectives would break in through their sealed windows. John considers leaving money behind to pay for bars or a lock, but it seems a little crass.
They climb and clamber out of the window, with John narrowly avoiding twisting his ankle on the way out. Sherlock places a hand at the turn of his elbow to steady him, but once he is firmly on his feet that hand shifts up, as if drawn by magnets, to the metal around John's neck. They might not be willing to talk about the decision John just made - that, yes, he is mad enough to want this and to make the conscious, pointed decision to carry on - but Sherlock has noticed it.
It's enough, John thinks, and he smiles as they walk home side by side.
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Word Count: 4665
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Collars, leashes, light bondage
A/N: Written for the "collars" square of my kink bingo card.
Summary: Sherlock gives John a chain to wear around his neck. John isn't sure why he accepts.
"It's for good luck," he says when Donovan asks him, though it's clear that she doesn't believe him.
The chain feels heavy and hot around his neck, half-hidden by the collar of his cardigan. He tugs and pulls to hide it a little better, and instantly feels the weight of Sherlock's gaze on him from across at the other side of the crime scene.It hangs around his neck with no pendant or decoration, a thick chain like a necklace: a gift from Sherlock, given to him once he'd got out of hospital and recovered enough to appreciate it.
"He called you my 'pet'," Sherlock had said, tone light even if his gaze was intense. "Let's make it official."
And John would have liked to have been insulted by that, but they had ended up on the ground, Sherlock's hand twisting the new chain so that it pressed against his neck as they rubbed and frotted against one another. They'd had bruises and carpet burns afterwards, but it had worked: John had hardly taken it off since.
Donovan looks across the scene to Sherlock, then back to John's neck. She can probably see faint bruises there, even in the dim light. "Luck," she repeats. "Right."
John smiles sheepishly, a tense flash that disappears in a moment, before he walks around the body to reach Sherlock's side. "There's blood on the wall over there," he says. "Just a few specks, but it's splattered like a gun shot."
Interesting and grotesque, especially considering that their victim had been strangled.
Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Excellent," he says, and his hand comes up to rest on the nape of John's neck, his fingers stroking against a few links in the chain. John's face heats up, as he becomes painfully aware of the way that Donovan is watching them.
John takes him to the blood splatter, located low on the wall, and Sherlock's hand lingers as they walk, only fading away once they reach the blood and he has other matters to excite him. The metal burns like a brand into John's skin - but he doesn't take it off. Not for the first time, he wonders, What the hell am I doing?
*
At home, Sherlock traps John against the counter as he's trying to make dinner. It digs into his front and Sherlock is plastered against his back, tall and lanky and with something vampiric about his entire air. His hands are at the chain and then his lips nuzzle against the heavy clasp that keeps it attached.
"I should get a tag for you. 'Property of Sherlock Holmes. If found, please return to 221b Baker Street."
John snorts and tries to sound dismissive instead of aroused. He can already feel the firm bulk of Sherlock's erection pressed against him; it makes his mouth water. Pavlovian. "Piss off," he says. "I'm not your dog."
Sherlock gives a thoughtful 'hmm', and lets his hand glide down John's side. "We could get you micro-chipped. That's what they do these days - a chip under the skin so you can't go missing."
John laughs, a nervous giggle, and he feels one of Sherlock's rare smiles against the nape of his neck. "Might freak the vet out."
"Pity," Sherlock agrees. His hand strokes John thoughtfully for a moment longer, enough to make John wonder if he's going to wake up to find himself tagged and marked like an endangered bird. "Are you busy?"
"I'm making dinner, actually," John says, waggling his knife at the chopping board right in front of him.
"I need to borrow your mouth."
Suspiciously, John frowns and asks what for: Sherlock's answer involves pushing his hip forwards so that his cock presses more firmly against John's arse. "Jesus," he gasps, dropping the knife and slamming his hand against the surface to steady himself.
"You see my problem," Sherlock responds. "Dinner can wait."
"Yeah, maybe," John agrees. He's breathless despite himself, and there are the first heated stirrings in his groin. Sherlock backs off an inch or two, just far enough to give John space to turn around and face him.
As soon as he has done so, Sherlock grasps the chain around his neck and yanks down hard so that John has no choice but to drop to his knees, hurting himself on the floor. "Careful, Sherlock," he complains.
Sherlock doesn't let go of the chain, reaching with his other hand to pull open his trousers and pull himself free. It's alarming to feel his mouth flood with saliva at the sight of Sherlock's cock, hard and red and waiting for him, but he doesn't have time to think about it; Sherlock pulls him forward by his chain, guiding himself into John's mouth.
"Shit," he breathes - and the sound makes a little thrill shoot up John's spine. Sherlock never swears: too undignified.
The dick in his mouth is clean and choking; it clogs all other senses, so he has to close his eyes and focus. Sherlock tugs and guides him, gentle pressure through the chain around his neck, so that Sherlock slides in and out of his bobbing mouth. The pace is slow at first but it speeds up fast, and Sherlock's hips move too, pumping into his mouth - and it's deep, too deep, more than John can take but he will take it, he will, because Sherlock wants it and that means he wants it too. Wants his approval, wants to make him feel good, wants to stay at his side for as long as he can.
Another twist of the chain and it is pressed tight against his neck as Sherlock fucks his mouth with frowning fury. John opens his eyes. Above him, Sherlock is looking down, staring at the metal in his hand. His cock thuds against the back of John's throat: water floods his mouth and he can't help but gag.
Reaching up, he rests his fingers against Sherlock's hands where he is gripping onto his chain - and that, apparently, is enough.
With a jerk and a solid groan, Sherlock spills inside John's mouth, hot liquid splashing into his throat. Sherlock's grasp relaxes and he slips out of John's mouth, softening - but he covers John's lips with his hand before John can try to stand up or even twitch. His grip is strong-fingered and irresistible.
"Swallow," he demands, breathless and hoarse.
John is tempted to spit into his hand just to spite him, but the desire to follow his orders is too ingrained for that. He gulps down his mouthful, and when the excesses dribbles free Sherlock chases it with his thumb and pushes it back inside. John sucks it from his skin and scrapes at Sherlock's nail with his teeth.
The entire time, Sherlock looks down and watches him with eyes that are nothing less than greedy. To have that sharp, all-seeing gaze pin-pointed on him distracts him from the thick after-taste that lingers in his mouth.
Abruptly, Sherlock pulls free and takes a step backwards, tucking himself away and then straightening his jacket. On stiff legs, John gets to his feet. "Uh, Sherlock?" John says helpfully. He looks down at his crotch, desperate for stimulation. "Aren't you going to...?"
He doesn't care what it is, just as long as Sherlock offers him something. Those attentive eyes investigate him, and Sherlock's mouth offers the hint of a smirk before he says, "No. I plan on fucking you after dinner."
"You - What?"
"You can wait." The mischievous glint in Sherlock's eyes is little short of evil. He chides, "You can't wear a collar for me and then be surprised by my reaction."
John coughs and splutters in surprise. His fingers touch the chain and he looks down, away from Sherlock, unable to face his knowing stare. "A collar? It's a necklace, Sherlock, you're-"
"A collar. I went to a pet-shop and bought it for you. I didn't think you'd agree to wear a leather one. Too kinky."
"And a metal one isn't kinky?" For a moment, the world seems too unreal to cope with. They haven't used that word before, 'collar', not plainly. He grabs hold of the edge of the counter until his knuckles go white. He'd known, of course. He isn't dim.
Across the kitchen, Sherlock watches him, before his attention shifts to the experiment hogging their kitchen table. "Get on with dinner, then," he says with no interest in his voice.
John turns and starts chopping the peppers while the knife trembles in his hand. Struggling not to think, it's a miracle he doesn't chop a finger loose.
*
True to his word, Sherlock fucks him through the mattress that evening, taking him from behind with a ferocity that makes John feel completely owned. It makes him ache; it's bloody brilliant. When Sherlock's done John collapses onto the mattress, panting for air, but Sherlock rarely stops moving. He's off the bed and pacing towards the window after taking barely a second to recover.
John lets him go and floats in slack sleep, awake enough only to hear the occasional shift of Sherlock's body. He's naked beneath the sheets, wearing only his collar around his neck, but he's more than warm enough. There might be a wet patch in the centre of the bed, but the thought of shifting is far too wearying.
"John," Sherlock says - and the curious, thoughtful lilt to his voice is enough to make John open his eyes. That tone never leads to anything good. "We need to get a leash."
John is worn out enough that all he can do is give a breathy laugh, even though he knows that Sherlock isn't joking. "What? Why?"
Sherlock peels away from the window, leaving its silver moonlight behind. His bare body seems to glow in the darkness, too pale to be real. "The collar says I have a claim to you," he says. He sits down on the edge of the bed, and his hand rests on the small of John's back, strong and large in a way that makes John groan despite being thoroughly spent. "But a leash... I could make sure you didn't disappear again. It's practical."
John twists his body, still lying on his front, so that he can see more of Sherlock's face. "I'm not going anywhere," he assures him.
"Not on purpose." They remember Moriarty, both of them, and John thinks that the events at the pool left deeper scars on Sherlock than he will ever be willing to admit. "It would be... good to have a way to keep you in line."
John tries to imagine it, a chain tethering him to Sherlock's hand. He'll admit that there's a thrill that runs through him at the thought - but it is very difficult to think about anything other than the attention they would attract, horrified stares and, perhaps, jibes from Sally or Anderson.
"Maybe in the flat," he offers as a compromise, "just once."
Sherlock smirks, worryingly, as if the battle has already been won.
*
Before two weeks have passed, Sherlock has him wearing it outside. The leash is a shiny chain of metal that is clipped onto John's collar, and then handle never leaves Sherlock's hand no matter how distracted he is - it's convenient, in its own way. Sherlock had said that it is to make sure he doesn't lose John, but it works just as well the other way around.
John will still only wear it for an hour at most, and he draws the line and unclips it himself when Sherlock tries to tether him to a lamppost outside a suspect's apartment, but other than that the experiment seems to be going swimmingly. The stares don't even bother him half as much as he thought they would.
And then, as always, Sherlock takes it a step further.
He takes him to a crime scene.
John's face is scarlet before anyone even gets around to asking questions. All it takes is a glance or two and he can feel the heat rushing to the surface.
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" he says under his breath to Sherlock as they walk through the public park that has been cordoned off.
Sherlock glances at him, impassive for a moment, before he gives the leash a playful tug. "Infinitely," he admits. "But you can take it off whenever you want."
John's jaw clenches - but his hands don't move.
Standing over the body, they fall silent. John is doing it out of respect; Sherlock is no doubt merely collecting the facts.
The body has been placed in a solemn mockery of piety, her hands folding over her chest as if praying. her wide, dead eyes stare up at the godless sky. Around her, there is a pentagram scorched into the grass, with melted stubs of candles leaking over the ground.
"Obviously an occult killing," Anderson drawls behind them.
"Obviously not," Sherlock corrects.
He kneels down beside the corpse and tugs on the leash to make John follow him. John pretends not to hear the snort of laughter from behind them, and tries to focus on what Sherlock wants him to see instead.
"How did she die?"
John knows that Sherlock has probably already figured out the cause of death, but he investigates anyway after tugging on a pair of gloves. He lists off superficial injuries, but notes that most seem to have been inflicted after death.
"Blunt force trauma to the head," he concludes. "Right side of the skull, just above the ear. Probably died very quickly - instantly."
"Exactly!" Sherlock exclaims, filled with glee.
It takes John a moment longer, but he frowns and says, "There aren't many occult rituals that involve thwacking someone 'round the head, are there?"
To that, Sherlock responds by grabbing his face and smacking his lips against his forehead. He hops to his feet, high on his own brilliance, and narrowly avoids choking John in the process. It's enough to cause Lestrade to warn him to be careful, something which makes John struggle to restrain a smile.
"Hmm?" Sherlock glances back at him, and his gaze drops to the red mark that has no doubt appeared on his neck by now. John's going to have bruises. With Sherlock around, he's probably going to have bruises for the rest of his life.
"He'll be fine," Sherlock says dismissively, and it makes John want to kick him in the shin. "The case, Lestrade. Try to focus."
Lestrade purses his lips in a way that speaks of irritation, but he doesn't voice it. "Yes?"
"Domestic. Occult trimmings were added afterwards - movie effects, cheap and uneducated. Probably an attempt to throw you off the scent. Weak and dull. Then again, with Anderson around it might have worked." Sherlock sighs as if he would have preferred if it truly had been an occult crime. More interesting: dangerous. "You're looking for a male close to her. Boyfriend, perhaps, but my money's on the father."
"You can't narrow it down?"
"I could." Sherlock's eyes glint and, for a fleeting moment, John thinks that he really is the devil. "But that would spoil all the fun for you."
With an instructive jangle of John's leash they are off again, ducking under police tape and walking away from that sad oasis of green. Sherlock doesn't talk much as they move, giving John as short answers as he is able to get away with - one syllable if possible. Usually means he's thinking. Sometimes means it's important.
They pass rows and rows of suburban homes before Sherlock comes across one that takes his fancy, walking through the small front garden to the window and pressing his hand against the glass.
"What are you doing?" John asks curiously, but curiosity shifts to alarm when he realises that Sherlock is sliding the old window open, stiff from years of being painted shut. "Sherlock!"
"They're on holiday," Sherlock says without looking at him. "See the plants."
John glances down at the potted plants on the inside of the window sill, slightly wilted. "Maybe they have brown thumbs," he suggests uncertainly.
"The front garden is meticulously maintained; gardener, perhaps, but look at the house: they couldn't afford one. More likely, a neighbour doing a favour for them while they're away - a neighbour with no key."
He looks extraordinarily smug with himself - John, however, has spotted what is on the far wall by now. "You saw the calendar, didn't you?" A 'Cats of the World' calendar, it has the two surrounding weeks circled in black marker men, with 'GREEK HOLIDAY!!!!!!!!' written as large as will fit into the space provided.
Sherlock hums at him, sounding put-out.
Yet he takes the opportunity to lead John inside the open window, while John puffs and complains and really hopes that Sherlock has a good reason for doing this. They land in the kitchen, having to shimmy over the counter to reach the linoleum floor. Sherlock looks around, running his fingers over the surfaces and taking in the kitchen table while John trails after him, wondering why on earth he persists in putting himself through this.
"Yes," Sherlock murmurs. "This will do nicely."
Exactly what they're doing there becomes clear once Sherlock's hands are on him, pushing his back against the wall while his mouth takes and takes from John, gracefully stealing the very air from his lungs. John moans and gives in, because when Sherlock's attention is focused on a person like this then there is really very little choice but to go with it: surrender becomes the only viable option.
Sherlock's mouth shifts - to the corner of John's lips, his jaw, the pulse point of his neck, and finally to the patch near his collar where he can take both skin and metal into his mouth. He sucks hard, leaving a mark with a sweet stab of pain. John slumps against the wall and shivers, eyes closed. His hands move, reaching to clutch the lapels of Sherlock's thick coat and then up into Sherlock's unruly hair.
In a flash, the sucking pressure on his neck vanishes - Sherlock grabs the leash hanging between them and wraps it firmly around John's wrists. Once. Twice. Tugs. Bound securely.
"Sherlock, what on earth-"
Before he can get any further, Sherlock grabs his shoulders and twirls him around, pressing him against the wall. His cheek rests against the wallpaper and he struggles, briefly, just to prove that he can. His hands are trapped securely between his body and the wall.
"Did you see them?" Sherlock asks, voice low next to his ear - and John knows that he's doing it on purpose. Sherlock had taken careful time to explore how the changes in his voice affect John, experimenting to ensure he knows how to get the reaction he wants. In this case, it is the downwards rush of blood, fuelled on by adrenaline and helplessness. "Donovan, Anderson... Did you see them?"
"Yes, Sherlock, I saw them," John snaps.
Sherlock presses closer. Whispers. His hands reach to the front of John's body, creating a gap by tugging John's hips back into him. He slowly undoes John's belt and works on the button of his trousers. "They saw you. They saw this." He traces his lips against the metal at John's neck. "Like they knew. They finally understood."
John struggles to keep up with Sherlock, to understand what he's driving at, but by now Sherlock's hand has pushed his trousers and underwear down, exposing him. Sherlock's hand wraps around his cock - and John, bound and collared, has never felt quite so completely at someone's mercy.
"People are idiots," Sherlock complains. "All of them. They need everything spelled out."
John's hips thrust into Sherlock's waiting hand, desperate for more; his grip isn't tight enough and Sherlock's barely moving at all, giving him nothing. It makes him gasp for air with his mouth cracked open, wanting with an intensity that frightens him.
"I think they must understand now," Sherlock muses. He sounds far more focused on what he's saying than what he's doing. "You're with me because you want to be."
John is trying to listen to him through a fog of need, finding it quietly infuriating how completely unaffected he sounds. "Is that it?" he gasps. "That's what all this is about?"
Sherlock chuckles, always an ominous sound, and withdraws his hand from its position around John's cock. His trousers slip down further, past the curve of his arse, but before he can react Sherlock pushes two fingers inside of him. John is still slightly slick and stretched from the night before, but it isn't enough. He breathes out, forcing himself to relax for Sherlock.
"In part," Sherlock says, continuing their conversation as if there has been no significant pause. "It affects me, to see you like this."
John tries to say something, anything, but with Sherlock's fingers inside him the most that he can do is whine. Sherlock's doing this on purpose, he thinks. He'd never admit to being emotionally compromised unless John was too far gone to make a big deal out of it.
"Yes," Sherlock carries on - and maybe, maybe, he sounds a little bit hoarse. "Pliant and surrendered. Did you know that I have devoted significant brain-space to all the ways that I can keep you addicted to me?"
John chokes helplessly as Sherlock pushes a third finger inside his stretched hole. He isn't slick enough for this: it burns. "Sick," he gasps. His wrists, still trapped in his leash, are starting to tingle with numbness.
"You don't complain," Sherlock says. "All this time - you could have walked away at any moment, or asked to go back to 'normal', and I wouldn't have stopped you. You didn't."
Sherlock's fingers pump inside him, opening him up until John is shaking and gasping for him: there's no room in his mind for anything else. "Please," he whispers. When it comes to Sherlock, when it comes to this, John doesn't know shame. "Sherlock, now. Damn it."
Sherlock's teeth scrape against the back of his neck and John's hips thrust blindly back against his hand. "Easy now," Sherlock purrs at him. "What would you like me to do?"
His fingers continue to slide in and out of John's arse, so slowly that John wants to yell at swear at him. "Stop it. Stop drawing it out - fuck me. Right now. Right now or, God, I'll- I'll..."
He's saved from having to come up with a threat when Sherlock pulls his fingers out. He hears the unmistakable sound of Sherlock ripping open his trousers before pushes his cock inside, shallow with only the tip at first. Their moans blend together and John pushes backwards to force Sherlock deeper: too much, too fast, it hurts. He doesn't tell Sherlock to stop.
Sherlock's hand presses against the back of his head to hold him firmly against the wall. He bottoms out, so deep inside him that John feels completely owned, completely possessed. Faintly aware of his lips moving, John thinks that he is chanting Sherlock's name, over and over as if he can brand him into the air itself.
"Sherlock," he says again, and his voice breaks, shattering half-way through. Sherlock fucks him so hard that John is forced up onto the tips of his toes, eyes closed, screaming silently. He can't do this. Can't. Can't hold onto his sanity - isn't sure if he's had it at all for months, actually, years. "Sherlock..."
It makes Sherlock groan against his skin, low and rumbling, before he stops - he holds John in place, a grip he can't resist, as he grunts and comes inside John, filling him up. "Don't stop," John demands. "Don't, Sherlock. Please - I can't. Don't leave me. Don't you dare leave me like this."
His hands are trapped and he can't touch himself, even achingly hard and knowing that Sherlock will probably make him wait until they get home - because he's a selfish bastard, stupidly self-centred.
"John, turn around," Sherlock instructs.
He doesn't feel strong enough to do it, but he rolls, resting his shoulders against the wall. Sherlock's hands are at his wrists instantly, letting him go. His hands spring free and reach down, red marks ringing his wrists that will form dark bruises tomorrow. Sherlock bats him away sharply and grabs hold of his cock for him, a firm grip that makes John shiver with a moan.
"Thank you," he says, limp and boneless against the wall. "Thank you thank you thank you."
"I look after you," Sherlock states as if he is making a point. "You should trust me."
"I do, I swear," john babbles. He reaches out blindly and clings to the thick wool of Sherlock's coat. He continues: "I do, I do."
He feels Sherlock looking down at him, drinking in every drop of desperation, and when Sherlock's grip tightens - speeds up - it's enough. Mouth open, John cries out and comes, spurting into Sherlock's hand. His spunk splatters against Sherlock's open trousers, a sticky stain, but he doesn't have the breath or clarity to apologise.
"Are you okay?" Sherlock asks, but there is no urgency in his voice - slow, amused and incredibly pleased with himself.
"Fine," John pants. His face still feels hot and pink. "Great. That was - Jesus."
Intense.
Before Sherlock had waltzed into his life, he couldn't have imagined experiencing anything like this: a mix of adrenaline and helplessness from the war, combined with a fascinating all-consuming desire for another person. "Very satisfying," Sherlock agrees. He reaches forward to close John's trousers for him, and his hands then slide up to fuss and fix John's damp hair. "You can take it off, if you'd like."
It takes John a moment or two to work out what he's talking about.
As he looks down at the leash, hanging like a noose down his front, Sherlock backs off to pull himself together. He tidies up his clothes and crosses the room to the sink, using a cloth to wipe away as much of John's spunk as he can reasonably expect to do.
John unclips the end of the leash from his collar, feeling instantly freed as he does so. He doesn't hand it back to Sherlock. Instead, he winds it around his hand and then places it into his jacket pocket - because it belongs to him just as much as it belongs to Sherlock. More, even.
The collar can stay on.
Sherlock has remained very carefully focused on the stain, and he only looks up when John clears his throat to indicate that he is ready. "Shall we head off, then? Probably should be getting back," John suggests, trying to brush past the situation. The air feels significant, and while he's not sure why he still doesn't want to examine it too closely.
Sherlock twitches his head in a manner that possibly suggests a nod. It's difficult to tell, and his eyes are so focused on John's neck that John begins to fidget. It's like being examined by a vampire - an incredibly hungry one.
"Yes," Sherlock says eventually, after shaking himself like a dog with wet fur. "Back the way we came. They really ought to do something about their windows." The way he says it makes it sound as if it is their own fault for not realising that horny consulting detectives would break in through their sealed windows. John considers leaving money behind to pay for bars or a lock, but it seems a little crass.
They climb and clamber out of the window, with John narrowly avoiding twisting his ankle on the way out. Sherlock places a hand at the turn of his elbow to steady him, but once he is firmly on his feet that hand shifts up, as if drawn by magnets, to the metal around John's neck. They might not be willing to talk about the decision John just made - that, yes, he is mad enough to want this and to make the conscious, pointed decision to carry on - but Sherlock has noticed it.
It's enough, John thinks, and he smiles as they walk home side by side.