Fic: The Game Is On. It Is So On.
Story: The Game Is On. It Is So On.
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Summary: John is tested, Sherlock is a kinky bastard, Mrs Hudson escapes unscathed.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything, just playing in the Beeb's sandbox. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Note: Sequel to Talk About The Blind Leading The Visually Challenged.
The Game Is On. It Is So On.
It had been two weeks since Sherlock had tied him up and shagged him silly. Two very busy weeks in which they’d frequented the mortuary more often than John cared for, chased a criminal mastermind around London and nearly drowned in the Thames in addition to being in need of decontamination. Two very long, sleepless and sexually frustrating weeks.
Contrary to Sherlock, John had what could be called a normal sex drive for a man his age. It was clear that Sherlock was just fine without it. But whenever John had plucked up his courage in the past and made a move on an otherwise preoccupied Sherlock (‘No, it shouldn’t turn red already. Why did it turn red?’), the gangly impossibility had responded with mild enthusiasm that developed into single-minded interest. Sometimes John wondered what it must be like to be Sherlock. He wouldn’t think in awkwardly structured sentences, that was for sure. John shook his head, silently laughing at his own daftness.
“What?” Sherlock asked him and startled him out of his reverie. John’s ears grew hot.
“Nothing. Just thinking.”
“Always a dangerous thing.”
John gave him a disparaging look and turned back to the newspaper he’d been pretending to read for the last twenty minutes. With Sherlock, having time for breakfast - and not only a slice of toast rammed between his teeth while he was taking two stairs at once - was an anomaly, so John made the most of it.
“Out with it, John! You’re thinking too loudly and it’s distracting.”
John sighed, already resigned to humiliating himself. The feeling was surprisingly familiar. It had become one of his standard moods around Sherlock Holmes, the mad genius. Or was it ingenious madman?
“I was just wondering if you ever felt like…well, if you ever wanted sex. On your own. Without anyone else instigating it.”
“Oh.” Sherlock looked slightly put out as if he’d expected something more profound and intellectually stimulating. And then the bastard made a face that spoke volumes about what he thought of physical needs in general and John’s question in particular and John just wanted to get back in bed and die a little inside undisturbed. Sherlock quickly noticed that this may not have been the best possible answer, having that look on his face that said he wasn’t sorry or repentant but willing to bow to whatever silly social conventions and niceties demanded. “I do usually not think about it, to be honest. It’s easy for me to blank it out. Why? Do you feel unsatisfied?”
“No!” John protested, shaking his head violently. “No, that’s not what this is about.” Sherlock’s raised eyebrow was a very eloquent response. “No, really. It’s not about me.”
Sherlock leant forward, halfway over the table, his eyes gleaming, predatory. “Is that so?”
John gulped.
***
It’s how he ended up being tied to the headboard again, only this time in Sherlock’s bed. Strangely enough, Sherlock’s room was what could only be called pristine. The bed looked as good as new with pressed sheets and unwrinkled white linen. John felt dirty just lying there and sullying the perfection.
“Do you ever sleep here?”
“Of course not,” Sherlock replied. “We have a perfectly functional sofa.”
John tried to remember whether there was indeed a sofa under the massive pile of tomes on anatomy Sherlock had brought home the week before. He was with books like other people were with homeless kittens. And after all, it could be worse. The perfectly functional sofa could have disappeared beneath something alive or recently deceased.
“It’s somewhere in the living room if I recall correctly…?”
Sherlock didn’t think that this deserved an answer. Moreover, he was busy getting undressed and folding his pyjama neatly over an armchair. Huh? John remembered clearly that Sherlock had never shown any attention to what happened to his clothes when they were anywhere else in their flat, especially in John’s bedroom.
“Um,” John said what he spotted Sherlock’s version of the cardboard box from under the bed. It was wrought-iron and had a big, antique lock.
Sherlock caught his look. “Don’t worry. Most of the things in there aren’t meant to be recreational. I picked them up on crime scenes for further study.” While Sherlock explained he handled an actual cat-o'-nine-tails with delicate care. John watched, enthralled and a little bit dazed. This couldn’t be real life, could it? “This one, however, is one of my favourites,” Sherlock added. And in his hands he held a rather impressive plug. It was dark red just like John’s good pair of knickers. And very big. Oh dear.
“Um,” John made again, unsure whether he should protest now before it was too late. Further down, another part of his body refused to be daunted. Sherlock observed his reaction, of course, and John knew he could just as well lean back and think of England. Only all he could think of was what the plug would feel like inside him.
“It will be a pleasurable experience. Trust me,” Sherlock purred, his face ablaze with hardly suppressed excitement. He liked pushing his buttons, John knew, liked testing his boundaries, liked this game more than anything. And suddenly John understood why Sherlock had avoided him for two weeks. He was a genius addict who’d found a new drug and knew that he’d all too readily abuse it, given the chance. And John had been more than ready and in arm’s reach. Trust, in the end it was all about trust. Trust in a man with no moral compass and only a radical understanding of the concept of ethics.
Sherlock was watching him intently from the edge of the bed, looming, waiting for him to make a decision. John sighed and dropped his head on the crisply starched pillow. Because yes, for whatever reason, he trusted Sherlock.
And Sherlock made sure that, embarrassingly quickly, the wish to get the damn thing inside his arse was the only thought that was left in John’s lust-addled brain. He used the extensive knowledge he had compiled about John’s body to make him crave it. God, John felt like he would die without it, aching and loose as he was know, with Sherlock’s exploring fingers inside him.
“For God’s sake, Sherlock, put it in already,” he snapped eventually. Sherlock’s head whipped up and there was a perverse twist to his mouth. Cold shivers wrecked John’s body as Sherlock crooked his fingers, rubbing his prostate again and again. “Please,” John begged contritely, desperately. Which of course meant that he had to wait another eternity before he felt the cool smooth plastic pressed against his opening. Fuck, it was big. John inhaled sharply as it was being pushed persistently into him. His hands flexed helplessly above his head, straining against the bonds.
“Interesting.”
“What is?” John asked, feeling as winded as after a two-mile run.
“No matter how thorough the preparation, the first breach by something this big is always slightly painful which often results in the temporary dwindling of sexual excitation, namely a flaccid cock. Yet yours isn’t at all affected by it, in fact, you’re showing signs of increased arousal, which means that your body interprets pain as a stimulant, at least to a certain extent.”
John felt a thrill at Sherlock’s matter-of-factness. He was an experiment, at least he felt like one, and god help him, he liked it.
“Do you ever wonder, John, why people enjoy this? Sex is a degrading activity that divests them of their dignity and higher brain functions. Not that most people appreciate or exercise them the rest of the time.” His voice was marginally deeper than usual, the only indication that this degrading activity affected him, too.
“People, Sherlock?” John asked.
The bastard smiled. “Fair enough. If someone bothers to remind me of them, I enjoy giving in to my physical needs. The loss of control and the release of various semiochemicals is similar to the rush certain drugs produce. And as you know I get off on having you at my mercy.” He pushed the plug deeper. “But make no mistake, you would recoil if you knew what I am thinking when I have you like this.”
It was John’s turn to smile. “You could fantasise about killing me for all I care. Fantasies are just that. And stop trying to do this. Scare me away. I trust you. I don’t know why but...ah...I do. With my life. Even if that sounds hackneyed.”
“Good.” Sherlock almost growled, swooped down on him and gave the plug a maddening twist. He was hot and solid against John’s thigh, which made John even harder. Whatever breath he had left was taken away by Sherlock’s mouth as he sucked on his bottom lips and then claimed, really claimed his mouth. Suddenly it was too much, felt too hot and claustrophobic and John needed to come, had to get away, needed to breathe.
“Sherlock! John! Are you boys in?” Mrs Hudson’s voice made him freeze and stare up at Sherlock in terror. Sherlock moved marginally; a finger pressed against his lips. John heard Mrs Hudson moving around their flat, muttering under her breath.
“Sherlock,” he mouthed against the finger. “You. You need to take care of this.”
“Why? This hasn’t affected your state of arousal,” Sherlock said in his normal voice.
“Would you tone it down? Oh god.” What if Mrs Hudson saw him like this? Tied up, starkers and stuffed with one of Sherlock’s ‘favourites’.
“Sherlock, dear, I’ve got your groceries and that thing John isn’t supposed to see. Really, it’s so naughty of you, keeping secrets from him,” Mrs Hudson went on in her cheerful, high-pitched voice. John threw the perpetual nuisance in his life a questioning glance. He didn’t get an answer, of course not. Sherlock’s weight shifted off him, leaving him cold and exposed.
Sherlock quickly dressed in his pyjama and dramatically threw over his dressing gown, covering up his erection fairly well.
“Sherlock,” hissed John. With his head he pointed to his restraints. But Sherlock only shook his head and disappeared through the door. The sound of it closing behind him sounded strangely final.
With Sherlock gone, the room felt as sterile as a hospital. White walls, white sheets, everything in its proper place. Except for him. He didn’t belong here, did he? He straightened his legs and shifted into a more comfortable position. The plug shifted with him, resting deep and heavy inside his arse and nudging against his prostate when he moved just so. John shivered, belatedly realising that Sherlock had been right, he was still hard. How mortifying.
“Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock bellowed. “You interrupted a crucial and very delicate experiment.”
“Are you all right? You look a little pale. Maybe you caught a draught, dear.”
“Where is it?”
“What?”
“You know what. Give it to me.”
“Sherlock, this isn’t proper. Where is John, by the by?”
“He’s tied up to the bed in my room.”
John’s jaw dropped and he let out a whimper before adrenaline shot threw him like lightning.
“Oh really, you shouldn’t joke like that. John could hear.”
John fervently agreed. He was covered in cold sweat and his heart was racing. His flight instinct screamed at him to tear the ties and get the hell out of there, out of Sherlock’s pristine and macabre chamber in which there were actual torture instruments stored under the bed. It took all the willpower and discipline he was capable of not to do it. To stay calm and breathe. To trust Sherlock, which seemed idiotic and foolhardy by now. Playing with fire. Because John had no idea to what lengths Sherlock would go. Even after all these months of knowing him, the man was impossible to read. He might lead their landlady into his room just to prove a point, whatever it was.
“I’m sure he could, Mrs Hudson.” John could hear the amusement in Sherlock’s voice.
“What am I going to do with you? Here, put this away before he gets home. The bill is on the table.”
Oh, John was curious about what Sherlock was trying to hide and what he had Mrs Hudson buy for him. But all curiosity was being drowned in the adrenaline that was still pumping through his body. He didn’t think he could get any more panicked when he heard Sherlock say, “Can’t you see, I’m busy, just put it in my room. That’ll be all, Mrs Hudson.”
Mrs Hudson would come in. She would see him. John looked around frantically. There was no way he could crawl under the blanket and look inconspicuous, not with his hands tied to the bloody headboard. He heard steps approaching and - bugger medical knowledge - there was no doubt in his mind that people could absolutely drop dead and die of shame.
And yet. And yet he’d never been harder. His cock was aching, and maybe if he kept up the movement that made the plug shift in his arse he would die a happy, blissful man. But no, it wasn’t enough, not nearly enough and Mrs Hudson would open the door any second now and...
The footsteps retreated. John let go of his breath he hadn’t been away he’d been holding. His legs were trembling, no, his whole body was. He was as wired as if he’d been under gunfire.
And then...nothing.
The minutes crawled by and with the ebbing of adrenaline, John was getting cold. Where was Sherlock? What the bloody hell was more important than getting back to him? The room seemed to become smaller and the silence louder. Just when he started playing with the thought of moving out and away from the madness that was Sherlock’s melodramatic universe, the door opened and Sherlock dashed in, his dressing gown billowing dramatically behind him. Only Sherlock could billow in a dressing gown without looking utterly ridiculous. John, however, would have been more impressed if he hadn’t been tied to the bed with a massive plug between his arse cheeks.
Sherlock came to a halt at the foot of the bed and looked at him. Observing. He looked very pale and handsome against the white walls of his room and John really hated him for that.
“What was that all about?” He enunciated every word very carefully.
“Don’t ask questions you already know the answers to, John.” Sherlock slipped out of his dressing gown and slid onto the bed.
“I don’t know what you’re hiding from me and when did Mrs Hudson become your dealer for secret goods?”
“That’s what you’re interested in?” Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “Really, John.”
“Untie me!” John demanded. Sherlock straddled him, the cool material of his pyjamas smooth against John’s skin. He shivered. Sherlock’s left hand glided up on John’s calf, up and up his leg until it rested on his hip. Sherlock leaned forward until his face was only inches from John’s, his eyes cold and pale.
“You know the safe word.” The voice darker and rougher again, driving the blood back into John’s cock. Damn him. And he was tempted to end it right then and there, just to see what Sherlock would do if he said it. If he’d really stop. If he was able to. “But then you will never know what it feels like.”
“What?” John bit out, still angry but wanting again.
“This.” Sherlock’s lips captured his, hot and lush, and John couldn’t suppress a moan, not with Sherlock kissing him like this, feverish and messy, not with his hand manipulating the plug again, twisting and screwing it until John forgot everything around him but this.
“Please,” he rasped, voice hoarse from raw desire. Sherlock pulled away and undressed, finally beyond being proper and carelessly discarding his pyjama. His angular body seemed to beg for John to touch, to run his hands all over it, to claim it like he’d been claimed before. John bit back a whimper as Sherlock finally, finally touched his cock, a short fleeting touch, too short, merely a tease, a reminder of things to come.
“Ask again.” Sherlock’s hands on his hips, pulling him down and tightening his restraints.
“Please, Sherlock. Just do something, I don’t care.” John was very much past caring.
Sherlock cocked his head, as if trying to decide. “Well, you were very good today, weren’t you?” He gripped the wider blunt butt of the plug, playing with it. “Very good indeed.” Sherlock pulled the plug out slowly. It made an obscenely wet sound and John’s cheeks grew hot. He felt empty then, strangely bereft. And very horny.
“Good enough for a proper shag?” he asked testily.
Sherlock gave him one of his charming, iniquitous smiles that could cut through paper. “Perhaps.”
He thrust into him without warning, pushing a low desperate sound out of John. Hot and smooth skin where he’d been filled with immobile plastic before. It felt fantastic. Sherlock’s long fingers dug into his thighs, keeping him in place and pulling him up, to give him better access. The angle changed and John saw stars. Sherlock’s thrusts were hard and ruthless, the slap of skin on skin and John’s breathy gasps the only sounds in his pristine bedroom.
Sherlock leant down again and licked his neck, something John wouldn’t have thought could be so erotic. Then the skin of his lower lip caught on John’s throat, soft and tender where Sherlock’s cock was brutal and relentless, the contrast maddening. John came with a muffled cry, his own cock trapped between their bellies. The harsh fucking increased and John took it, limp and dazed, his legs still held in place by Sherlock’s vice-like grip. John took a deep breath and looked at Sherlock. His face was drawn with pleasure, looking almost feral. But it was his eyes John was trying to catch. Because John wanted to see.
And Sherlock let him. It wrung another spasm out of his spent cock and sent a cold shiver up his spine. Whatever Sherlock saw in exchange made him bite his lip and thrust in deep, sending a jolt of pain through John’s over-sensitised nerves. Shuddering, he collapsed on John.
***
There was never an aftermath, not with Sherlock, who stirred without delay and rolled off him. The game was over and both were still intact. Well, mostly.
“Untie me,” John ordered, now feeling the strain on his wrists. The skin around them felt raw and irritated.
“Just pull the loose end next to your left hand,” Sherlock told him lazily from where he’d slumped.
“What?” John asked, incredulous, turning and facing Sherlock. He did what he was told and his restraints fell off immediately. He could have left. He could have left any time.
Sherlock read his expression. “Obviously. I tested you but it wouldn’t be fun if I didn’t give you an out.”
“I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t try.”
“You can be such a bastard sometimes,” John accused him.
Sherlock propped himself on his elbow. “Don’t you like learning something about yourself?”
“Oh, piss off.”
Sherlock smirked. “You’re angry at me for not taking advantage of your self-destructive streak?”
John wanted to sock him, he really did. He also wanted to kiss him. Considering that they were both naked and Sherlock looked unusually approachable and human with the heightened colour in his cheeks, John opted for the latter. No one could blame him for that. Well, no one who understood how their dysfunctions dovetailed. No one who counted.
Sherlock looked incredibly smug when they pulled apart, his lips red and glistening.
“But,” John said while feeling the reddened skin around his wrists. “But sending Mrs Hudson to your room. That was...”
“No gamble at all. After she discovered a rather complex experiment involving pig embryos the first time she brought up my post, she’s not entered my room again.” With a satisfied yet avid look, Sherlock trailed his fingers along the marks on John’s arms, which was rather distracting.
“I see. What if she’d come in anyway?”
“Then she would have learnt that lesson twice.”
“And the medieval torture instruments in your box?”
“Merely for your benefit,” Sherlock deadpanned.
John couldn’t help but grin and shake his head. But there was still something that was bothering him. Meanwhile, Sherlock didn’t seem ready to spend more time in bed than necessary. He’d already sat up and reached for his discarded clothes.
“The secret, Sherlock. What am I not supposed to see?”
Sherlock gave him one of his exasperated looks mixed with fondness. “John, it wouldn’t be a secret if you knew.”
John blinked. A challenge. Oh yes.
The game was still on.
Fin
***
Comments are tied up and thoroughly observed!
***
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Summary: John is tested, Sherlock is a kinky bastard, Mrs Hudson escapes unscathed.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything, just playing in the Beeb's sandbox. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Note: Sequel to Talk About The Blind Leading The Visually Challenged.
The Game Is On. It Is So On.
It had been two weeks since Sherlock had tied him up and shagged him silly. Two very busy weeks in which they’d frequented the mortuary more often than John cared for, chased a criminal mastermind around London and nearly drowned in the Thames in addition to being in need of decontamination. Two very long, sleepless and sexually frustrating weeks.
Contrary to Sherlock, John had what could be called a normal sex drive for a man his age. It was clear that Sherlock was just fine without it. But whenever John had plucked up his courage in the past and made a move on an otherwise preoccupied Sherlock (‘No, it shouldn’t turn red already. Why did it turn red?’), the gangly impossibility had responded with mild enthusiasm that developed into single-minded interest. Sometimes John wondered what it must be like to be Sherlock. He wouldn’t think in awkwardly structured sentences, that was for sure. John shook his head, silently laughing at his own daftness.
“What?” Sherlock asked him and startled him out of his reverie. John’s ears grew hot.
“Nothing. Just thinking.”
“Always a dangerous thing.”
John gave him a disparaging look and turned back to the newspaper he’d been pretending to read for the last twenty minutes. With Sherlock, having time for breakfast - and not only a slice of toast rammed between his teeth while he was taking two stairs at once - was an anomaly, so John made the most of it.
“Out with it, John! You’re thinking too loudly and it’s distracting.”
John sighed, already resigned to humiliating himself. The feeling was surprisingly familiar. It had become one of his standard moods around Sherlock Holmes, the mad genius. Or was it ingenious madman?
“I was just wondering if you ever felt like…well, if you ever wanted sex. On your own. Without anyone else instigating it.”
“Oh.” Sherlock looked slightly put out as if he’d expected something more profound and intellectually stimulating. And then the bastard made a face that spoke volumes about what he thought of physical needs in general and John’s question in particular and John just wanted to get back in bed and die a little inside undisturbed. Sherlock quickly noticed that this may not have been the best possible answer, having that look on his face that said he wasn’t sorry or repentant but willing to bow to whatever silly social conventions and niceties demanded. “I do usually not think about it, to be honest. It’s easy for me to blank it out. Why? Do you feel unsatisfied?”
“No!” John protested, shaking his head violently. “No, that’s not what this is about.” Sherlock’s raised eyebrow was a very eloquent response. “No, really. It’s not about me.”
Sherlock leant forward, halfway over the table, his eyes gleaming, predatory. “Is that so?”
John gulped.
***
It’s how he ended up being tied to the headboard again, only this time in Sherlock’s bed. Strangely enough, Sherlock’s room was what could only be called pristine. The bed looked as good as new with pressed sheets and unwrinkled white linen. John felt dirty just lying there and sullying the perfection.
“Do you ever sleep here?”
“Of course not,” Sherlock replied. “We have a perfectly functional sofa.”
John tried to remember whether there was indeed a sofa under the massive pile of tomes on anatomy Sherlock had brought home the week before. He was with books like other people were with homeless kittens. And after all, it could be worse. The perfectly functional sofa could have disappeared beneath something alive or recently deceased.
“It’s somewhere in the living room if I recall correctly…?”
Sherlock didn’t think that this deserved an answer. Moreover, he was busy getting undressed and folding his pyjama neatly over an armchair. Huh? John remembered clearly that Sherlock had never shown any attention to what happened to his clothes when they were anywhere else in their flat, especially in John’s bedroom.
“Um,” John said what he spotted Sherlock’s version of the cardboard box from under the bed. It was wrought-iron and had a big, antique lock.
Sherlock caught his look. “Don’t worry. Most of the things in there aren’t meant to be recreational. I picked them up on crime scenes for further study.” While Sherlock explained he handled an actual cat-o'-nine-tails with delicate care. John watched, enthralled and a little bit dazed. This couldn’t be real life, could it? “This one, however, is one of my favourites,” Sherlock added. And in his hands he held a rather impressive plug. It was dark red just like John’s good pair of knickers. And very big. Oh dear.
“Um,” John made again, unsure whether he should protest now before it was too late. Further down, another part of his body refused to be daunted. Sherlock observed his reaction, of course, and John knew he could just as well lean back and think of England. Only all he could think of was what the plug would feel like inside him.
“It will be a pleasurable experience. Trust me,” Sherlock purred, his face ablaze with hardly suppressed excitement. He liked pushing his buttons, John knew, liked testing his boundaries, liked this game more than anything. And suddenly John understood why Sherlock had avoided him for two weeks. He was a genius addict who’d found a new drug and knew that he’d all too readily abuse it, given the chance. And John had been more than ready and in arm’s reach. Trust, in the end it was all about trust. Trust in a man with no moral compass and only a radical understanding of the concept of ethics.
Sherlock was watching him intently from the edge of the bed, looming, waiting for him to make a decision. John sighed and dropped his head on the crisply starched pillow. Because yes, for whatever reason, he trusted Sherlock.
And Sherlock made sure that, embarrassingly quickly, the wish to get the damn thing inside his arse was the only thought that was left in John’s lust-addled brain. He used the extensive knowledge he had compiled about John’s body to make him crave it. God, John felt like he would die without it, aching and loose as he was know, with Sherlock’s exploring fingers inside him.
“For God’s sake, Sherlock, put it in already,” he snapped eventually. Sherlock’s head whipped up and there was a perverse twist to his mouth. Cold shivers wrecked John’s body as Sherlock crooked his fingers, rubbing his prostate again and again. “Please,” John begged contritely, desperately. Which of course meant that he had to wait another eternity before he felt the cool smooth plastic pressed against his opening. Fuck, it was big. John inhaled sharply as it was being pushed persistently into him. His hands flexed helplessly above his head, straining against the bonds.
“Interesting.”
“What is?” John asked, feeling as winded as after a two-mile run.
“No matter how thorough the preparation, the first breach by something this big is always slightly painful which often results in the temporary dwindling of sexual excitation, namely a flaccid cock. Yet yours isn’t at all affected by it, in fact, you’re showing signs of increased arousal, which means that your body interprets pain as a stimulant, at least to a certain extent.”
John felt a thrill at Sherlock’s matter-of-factness. He was an experiment, at least he felt like one, and god help him, he liked it.
“Do you ever wonder, John, why people enjoy this? Sex is a degrading activity that divests them of their dignity and higher brain functions. Not that most people appreciate or exercise them the rest of the time.” His voice was marginally deeper than usual, the only indication that this degrading activity affected him, too.
“People, Sherlock?” John asked.
The bastard smiled. “Fair enough. If someone bothers to remind me of them, I enjoy giving in to my physical needs. The loss of control and the release of various semiochemicals is similar to the rush certain drugs produce. And as you know I get off on having you at my mercy.” He pushed the plug deeper. “But make no mistake, you would recoil if you knew what I am thinking when I have you like this.”
It was John’s turn to smile. “You could fantasise about killing me for all I care. Fantasies are just that. And stop trying to do this. Scare me away. I trust you. I don’t know why but...ah...I do. With my life. Even if that sounds hackneyed.”
“Good.” Sherlock almost growled, swooped down on him and gave the plug a maddening twist. He was hot and solid against John’s thigh, which made John even harder. Whatever breath he had left was taken away by Sherlock’s mouth as he sucked on his bottom lips and then claimed, really claimed his mouth. Suddenly it was too much, felt too hot and claustrophobic and John needed to come, had to get away, needed to breathe.
“Sherlock! John! Are you boys in?” Mrs Hudson’s voice made him freeze and stare up at Sherlock in terror. Sherlock moved marginally; a finger pressed against his lips. John heard Mrs Hudson moving around their flat, muttering under her breath.
“Sherlock,” he mouthed against the finger. “You. You need to take care of this.”
“Why? This hasn’t affected your state of arousal,” Sherlock said in his normal voice.
“Would you tone it down? Oh god.” What if Mrs Hudson saw him like this? Tied up, starkers and stuffed with one of Sherlock’s ‘favourites’.
“Sherlock, dear, I’ve got your groceries and that thing John isn’t supposed to see. Really, it’s so naughty of you, keeping secrets from him,” Mrs Hudson went on in her cheerful, high-pitched voice. John threw the perpetual nuisance in his life a questioning glance. He didn’t get an answer, of course not. Sherlock’s weight shifted off him, leaving him cold and exposed.
Sherlock quickly dressed in his pyjama and dramatically threw over his dressing gown, covering up his erection fairly well.
“Sherlock,” hissed John. With his head he pointed to his restraints. But Sherlock only shook his head and disappeared through the door. The sound of it closing behind him sounded strangely final.
With Sherlock gone, the room felt as sterile as a hospital. White walls, white sheets, everything in its proper place. Except for him. He didn’t belong here, did he? He straightened his legs and shifted into a more comfortable position. The plug shifted with him, resting deep and heavy inside his arse and nudging against his prostate when he moved just so. John shivered, belatedly realising that Sherlock had been right, he was still hard. How mortifying.
“Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock bellowed. “You interrupted a crucial and very delicate experiment.”
“Are you all right? You look a little pale. Maybe you caught a draught, dear.”
“Where is it?”
“What?”
“You know what. Give it to me.”
“Sherlock, this isn’t proper. Where is John, by the by?”
“He’s tied up to the bed in my room.”
John’s jaw dropped and he let out a whimper before adrenaline shot threw him like lightning.
“Oh really, you shouldn’t joke like that. John could hear.”
John fervently agreed. He was covered in cold sweat and his heart was racing. His flight instinct screamed at him to tear the ties and get the hell out of there, out of Sherlock’s pristine and macabre chamber in which there were actual torture instruments stored under the bed. It took all the willpower and discipline he was capable of not to do it. To stay calm and breathe. To trust Sherlock, which seemed idiotic and foolhardy by now. Playing with fire. Because John had no idea to what lengths Sherlock would go. Even after all these months of knowing him, the man was impossible to read. He might lead their landlady into his room just to prove a point, whatever it was.
“I’m sure he could, Mrs Hudson.” John could hear the amusement in Sherlock’s voice.
“What am I going to do with you? Here, put this away before he gets home. The bill is on the table.”
Oh, John was curious about what Sherlock was trying to hide and what he had Mrs Hudson buy for him. But all curiosity was being drowned in the adrenaline that was still pumping through his body. He didn’t think he could get any more panicked when he heard Sherlock say, “Can’t you see, I’m busy, just put it in my room. That’ll be all, Mrs Hudson.”
Mrs Hudson would come in. She would see him. John looked around frantically. There was no way he could crawl under the blanket and look inconspicuous, not with his hands tied to the bloody headboard. He heard steps approaching and - bugger medical knowledge - there was no doubt in his mind that people could absolutely drop dead and die of shame.
And yet. And yet he’d never been harder. His cock was aching, and maybe if he kept up the movement that made the plug shift in his arse he would die a happy, blissful man. But no, it wasn’t enough, not nearly enough and Mrs Hudson would open the door any second now and...
The footsteps retreated. John let go of his breath he hadn’t been away he’d been holding. His legs were trembling, no, his whole body was. He was as wired as if he’d been under gunfire.
And then...nothing.
The minutes crawled by and with the ebbing of adrenaline, John was getting cold. Where was Sherlock? What the bloody hell was more important than getting back to him? The room seemed to become smaller and the silence louder. Just when he started playing with the thought of moving out and away from the madness that was Sherlock’s melodramatic universe, the door opened and Sherlock dashed in, his dressing gown billowing dramatically behind him. Only Sherlock could billow in a dressing gown without looking utterly ridiculous. John, however, would have been more impressed if he hadn’t been tied to the bed with a massive plug between his arse cheeks.
Sherlock came to a halt at the foot of the bed and looked at him. Observing. He looked very pale and handsome against the white walls of his room and John really hated him for that.
“What was that all about?” He enunciated every word very carefully.
“Don’t ask questions you already know the answers to, John.” Sherlock slipped out of his dressing gown and slid onto the bed.
“I don’t know what you’re hiding from me and when did Mrs Hudson become your dealer for secret goods?”
“That’s what you’re interested in?” Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “Really, John.”
“Untie me!” John demanded. Sherlock straddled him, the cool material of his pyjamas smooth against John’s skin. He shivered. Sherlock’s left hand glided up on John’s calf, up and up his leg until it rested on his hip. Sherlock leaned forward until his face was only inches from John’s, his eyes cold and pale.
“You know the safe word.” The voice darker and rougher again, driving the blood back into John’s cock. Damn him. And he was tempted to end it right then and there, just to see what Sherlock would do if he said it. If he’d really stop. If he was able to. “But then you will never know what it feels like.”
“What?” John bit out, still angry but wanting again.
“This.” Sherlock’s lips captured his, hot and lush, and John couldn’t suppress a moan, not with Sherlock kissing him like this, feverish and messy, not with his hand manipulating the plug again, twisting and screwing it until John forgot everything around him but this.
“Please,” he rasped, voice hoarse from raw desire. Sherlock pulled away and undressed, finally beyond being proper and carelessly discarding his pyjama. His angular body seemed to beg for John to touch, to run his hands all over it, to claim it like he’d been claimed before. John bit back a whimper as Sherlock finally, finally touched his cock, a short fleeting touch, too short, merely a tease, a reminder of things to come.
“Ask again.” Sherlock’s hands on his hips, pulling him down and tightening his restraints.
“Please, Sherlock. Just do something, I don’t care.” John was very much past caring.
Sherlock cocked his head, as if trying to decide. “Well, you were very good today, weren’t you?” He gripped the wider blunt butt of the plug, playing with it. “Very good indeed.” Sherlock pulled the plug out slowly. It made an obscenely wet sound and John’s cheeks grew hot. He felt empty then, strangely bereft. And very horny.
“Good enough for a proper shag?” he asked testily.
Sherlock gave him one of his charming, iniquitous smiles that could cut through paper. “Perhaps.”
He thrust into him without warning, pushing a low desperate sound out of John. Hot and smooth skin where he’d been filled with immobile plastic before. It felt fantastic. Sherlock’s long fingers dug into his thighs, keeping him in place and pulling him up, to give him better access. The angle changed and John saw stars. Sherlock’s thrusts were hard and ruthless, the slap of skin on skin and John’s breathy gasps the only sounds in his pristine bedroom.
Sherlock leant down again and licked his neck, something John wouldn’t have thought could be so erotic. Then the skin of his lower lip caught on John’s throat, soft and tender where Sherlock’s cock was brutal and relentless, the contrast maddening. John came with a muffled cry, his own cock trapped between their bellies. The harsh fucking increased and John took it, limp and dazed, his legs still held in place by Sherlock’s vice-like grip. John took a deep breath and looked at Sherlock. His face was drawn with pleasure, looking almost feral. But it was his eyes John was trying to catch. Because John wanted to see.
And Sherlock let him. It wrung another spasm out of his spent cock and sent a cold shiver up his spine. Whatever Sherlock saw in exchange made him bite his lip and thrust in deep, sending a jolt of pain through John’s over-sensitised nerves. Shuddering, he collapsed on John.
***
There was never an aftermath, not with Sherlock, who stirred without delay and rolled off him. The game was over and both were still intact. Well, mostly.
“Untie me,” John ordered, now feeling the strain on his wrists. The skin around them felt raw and irritated.
“Just pull the loose end next to your left hand,” Sherlock told him lazily from where he’d slumped.
“What?” John asked, incredulous, turning and facing Sherlock. He did what he was told and his restraints fell off immediately. He could have left. He could have left any time.
Sherlock read his expression. “Obviously. I tested you but it wouldn’t be fun if I didn’t give you an out.”
“I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t try.”
“You can be such a bastard sometimes,” John accused him.
Sherlock propped himself on his elbow. “Don’t you like learning something about yourself?”
“Oh, piss off.”
Sherlock smirked. “You’re angry at me for not taking advantage of your self-destructive streak?”
John wanted to sock him, he really did. He also wanted to kiss him. Considering that they were both naked and Sherlock looked unusually approachable and human with the heightened colour in his cheeks, John opted for the latter. No one could blame him for that. Well, no one who understood how their dysfunctions dovetailed. No one who counted.
Sherlock looked incredibly smug when they pulled apart, his lips red and glistening.
“But,” John said while feeling the reddened skin around his wrists. “But sending Mrs Hudson to your room. That was...”
“No gamble at all. After she discovered a rather complex experiment involving pig embryos the first time she brought up my post, she’s not entered my room again.” With a satisfied yet avid look, Sherlock trailed his fingers along the marks on John’s arms, which was rather distracting.
“I see. What if she’d come in anyway?”
“Then she would have learnt that lesson twice.”
“And the medieval torture instruments in your box?”
“Merely for your benefit,” Sherlock deadpanned.
John couldn’t help but grin and shake his head. But there was still something that was bothering him. Meanwhile, Sherlock didn’t seem ready to spend more time in bed than necessary. He’d already sat up and reached for his discarded clothes.
“The secret, Sherlock. What am I not supposed to see?”
Sherlock gave him one of his exasperated looks mixed with fondness. “John, it wouldn’t be a secret if you knew.”
John blinked. A challenge. Oh yes.
The game was still on.
Fin
***
Comments are tied up and thoroughly observed!
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