Folia, John/Sherlock, NC-17
Title: Folia
Author: s0ckpupp3t
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: BDSM, nonsexual kink, violin kink
Word Count: 1165
Beta: dapatty
Summary: John gets home from a failed date and roughs Sherlock up a bit.
John opened the door to the flat and walked up the stairs, listening to Holmes practice. If you could call it that. It sounded a lot more like someone playing pieces of the Presto movement of Vivaldi's Summer perfectly, then stopping, then playing the same four measures perfectly thirty-seven times, then playing the next four measures perfectly thirty-seven times, then playing all eight measures together perfectly thirty-seven times.
"And did you know this part sounds quite a bit like a passage in Corelli's Folia -- not 'La Folia,' mind, which is what most people say, irritating, it would be like saying 'Goodman's The Blues, which it's quite like, the later Folia being more of a chord progression for improvisation -- although Vivaldi did use Folia in 1705, here, listen. Corelli." And Sherlock played a passage of slurred double-stops. "Vivaldi." He played the few lines from Summer.
John reached the top of the steps, taking off his coat. "They do sound remarkably similar."
"Ah, there you are." Sherlock blinked, no doubt taking in the spilled wine on John's grey shirt. Wine that didn't appreciably change the color of it, and John drank red wine. White, then, and thrown in his face. "She dumped you."
"She dumped me, yes." John tried not to let it set his teeth on edge.
"Mmm. As I was saying, it's not just the chord progression, but the choice of double-stops. Now, that is likely an indicator more of what music preferences were like at the time, and what violinists can be easily coaxed to do, but--"
"Give me that." John took the bow out of Sherlock's hand.
"John. I was thinking. You know full well--"
"Yes." John said simply, and waited. Holmes made an impatient noise, then put his violin down in the open case and began unbuttoning his shirt with deft, precise movements. His hair was mussed. There was a red mark on the left side of his throat. He'd been playing violin the entire time John had been out.
Sherlock hung his shirt from the music stand. "Riesling, really. Not even Gewürztraminer. Didn't the last one like Pinot Gris?" He kept his tone light, but John knew when he was being needled.
"None of them like you." John loosened the horsehair of the violin bow in his fingers a bit. It was a gift from a client, carbon fiber, and therefore very strong and lightweight, but it wouldn't do to throw off the tension on it, even a bit.
"You have poor taste in women." There was a quirk to Sherlock's lips when he said it, lifting his arms to place his hands behind his head, lacing his fingers together. It tensed the muscles in his shoulders and chest. Dark eyes, pale skin, warm, well-worked muscle and sinew.
"Beautiful. Just like that. Turn." Sherlock faced the wall, and John lifted the bow. He curled his thumb around the frog of it, pulled back his arm and let the bow hit Sherlock's back with an audible slap.
"You can do better than that." Sherlock looked over his shoulder, eyes calculating. Always.
Self-important little shit, John thought fondly, and touched the tip of the bow to Sherlock's elbow, correcting him, moving his head back to stare at the yellow smiley-face. "Perhaps," he said out loud. "Should I?" He let the bow trail down over Sherlock's spine slowly, waiting.
"Yes." He said it softly, the end of the word a hiss.
John stepped to the side, lifted the bow again. It fell hard over Sherlock's shoulders, a cloud of rosin rising up from the stroke. Two. He didn't stop, giving just the barest of pauses before lifting the bow and hitting him again. Three. Four. Five. Six. Red lines began to raise on Sherlock's skin. John turned, walked to his other side, swished the bow through the air. He tapped the bow against Sherlock's shoulder a few times before drawing it back into the air and letting it fall with a satisfying thwack just above Sherlock's kidneys.
Sherlock gasped.
John gave him a few seconds before starting again. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. He stepped back, then, looking at the welts he'd raised, tracing them lightly with the tip of the bow. "Down," John said.
Sherlock let his arms fall to his sides and knelt, putting out a hand to steady himself on the sofa. He put his other hand on the centre cushion, too, and rested his forehead on the backs of his fingers, his back flat as a table. John briefly considered using him as one, what it'd be like to leave Sherlock there and make himself a cup of tea. Bring it out on a saucer with a biscuit, rest it on Sherlock's back, read the Evening Standard he'd picked up on the tube.
Maybe next time. Tonight, he would take advantage of the new angle he could reach with the bow when Sherlock was kneeling like that, the vertical stripes he could make. He fanned them out from Sherlock's shoulder blades like wings. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Sherlock was breathing hard, his thighs locked together. John stepped to Sherlock's right, standing with his right leg against the sofa.
"Seven, now. Ready?" John's voice was steady, almost calm.
Sherlock drew his fingers into fists, then relaxed them, settling against the cushion. "Yes."
John hit him, then, the bow thudding into the meat of Sherlock's torso. A soft moan followed. These last strokes would welt white almost immediately, puff up the skin so the pores showed large, fade to red within an hour, and would still be there tomorrow, faint stick-straight red shadows on skin that always healed so fast. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Sherlock's back heaved with the last one, and he lifted his head with a gasp. John stepped away to put the bow in the violin case, then stood on Sherlock's left, waiting. Sherlock pushed himself up, still kneeling, and John tangled his fingers gently in the soft dark curls of his hair. He leaned against John's leg, his cheek on John's thigh.
John stroked Sherlock's forehead, his temple, his neck, scratched his scalp gently, enjoying the quiet. It wasn't that Sherlock couldn't shut up. He did, sometimes for hours on end. But his mind was loud, his focus a palpable, living thing. And right now, it was quiet. This was what Sherlock thought people's brains must be like. Ordinary people's. He was wrong, of course.
Sherlock allowed himself a few more seconds before taking a deep breath and scrubbing his hands over his face. John sighed and stepped back.
"See you tomorrow," he said, closing the door behind him as he walked up the stairs to his bedroom.
Author: s0ckpupp3t
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: BDSM, nonsexual kink, violin kink
Word Count: 1165
Beta: dapatty
Summary: John gets home from a failed date and roughs Sherlock up a bit.
John opened the door to the flat and walked up the stairs, listening to Holmes practice. If you could call it that. It sounded a lot more like someone playing pieces of the Presto movement of Vivaldi's Summer perfectly, then stopping, then playing the same four measures perfectly thirty-seven times, then playing the next four measures perfectly thirty-seven times, then playing all eight measures together perfectly thirty-seven times.
"And did you know this part sounds quite a bit like a passage in Corelli's Folia -- not 'La Folia,' mind, which is what most people say, irritating, it would be like saying 'Goodman's The Blues, which it's quite like, the later Folia being more of a chord progression for improvisation -- although Vivaldi did use Folia in 1705, here, listen. Corelli." And Sherlock played a passage of slurred double-stops. "Vivaldi." He played the few lines from Summer.
John reached the top of the steps, taking off his coat. "They do sound remarkably similar."
"Ah, there you are." Sherlock blinked, no doubt taking in the spilled wine on John's grey shirt. Wine that didn't appreciably change the color of it, and John drank red wine. White, then, and thrown in his face. "She dumped you."
"She dumped me, yes." John tried not to let it set his teeth on edge.
"Mmm. As I was saying, it's not just the chord progression, but the choice of double-stops. Now, that is likely an indicator more of what music preferences were like at the time, and what violinists can be easily coaxed to do, but--"
"Give me that." John took the bow out of Sherlock's hand.
"John. I was thinking. You know full well--"
"Yes." John said simply, and waited. Holmes made an impatient noise, then put his violin down in the open case and began unbuttoning his shirt with deft, precise movements. His hair was mussed. There was a red mark on the left side of his throat. He'd been playing violin the entire time John had been out.
Sherlock hung his shirt from the music stand. "Riesling, really. Not even Gewürztraminer. Didn't the last one like Pinot Gris?" He kept his tone light, but John knew when he was being needled.
"None of them like you." John loosened the horsehair of the violin bow in his fingers a bit. It was a gift from a client, carbon fiber, and therefore very strong and lightweight, but it wouldn't do to throw off the tension on it, even a bit.
"You have poor taste in women." There was a quirk to Sherlock's lips when he said it, lifting his arms to place his hands behind his head, lacing his fingers together. It tensed the muscles in his shoulders and chest. Dark eyes, pale skin, warm, well-worked muscle and sinew.
"Beautiful. Just like that. Turn." Sherlock faced the wall, and John lifted the bow. He curled his thumb around the frog of it, pulled back his arm and let the bow hit Sherlock's back with an audible slap.
"You can do better than that." Sherlock looked over his shoulder, eyes calculating. Always.
Self-important little shit, John thought fondly, and touched the tip of the bow to Sherlock's elbow, correcting him, moving his head back to stare at the yellow smiley-face. "Perhaps," he said out loud. "Should I?" He let the bow trail down over Sherlock's spine slowly, waiting.
"Yes." He said it softly, the end of the word a hiss.
John stepped to the side, lifted the bow again. It fell hard over Sherlock's shoulders, a cloud of rosin rising up from the stroke. Two. He didn't stop, giving just the barest of pauses before lifting the bow and hitting him again. Three. Four. Five. Six. Red lines began to raise on Sherlock's skin. John turned, walked to his other side, swished the bow through the air. He tapped the bow against Sherlock's shoulder a few times before drawing it back into the air and letting it fall with a satisfying thwack just above Sherlock's kidneys.
Sherlock gasped.
John gave him a few seconds before starting again. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. He stepped back, then, looking at the welts he'd raised, tracing them lightly with the tip of the bow. "Down," John said.
Sherlock let his arms fall to his sides and knelt, putting out a hand to steady himself on the sofa. He put his other hand on the centre cushion, too, and rested his forehead on the backs of his fingers, his back flat as a table. John briefly considered using him as one, what it'd be like to leave Sherlock there and make himself a cup of tea. Bring it out on a saucer with a biscuit, rest it on Sherlock's back, read the Evening Standard he'd picked up on the tube.
Maybe next time. Tonight, he would take advantage of the new angle he could reach with the bow when Sherlock was kneeling like that, the vertical stripes he could make. He fanned them out from Sherlock's shoulder blades like wings. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Sherlock was breathing hard, his thighs locked together. John stepped to Sherlock's right, standing with his right leg against the sofa.
"Seven, now. Ready?" John's voice was steady, almost calm.
Sherlock drew his fingers into fists, then relaxed them, settling against the cushion. "Yes."
John hit him, then, the bow thudding into the meat of Sherlock's torso. A soft moan followed. These last strokes would welt white almost immediately, puff up the skin so the pores showed large, fade to red within an hour, and would still be there tomorrow, faint stick-straight red shadows on skin that always healed so fast. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Sherlock's back heaved with the last one, and he lifted his head with a gasp. John stepped away to put the bow in the violin case, then stood on Sherlock's left, waiting. Sherlock pushed himself up, still kneeling, and John tangled his fingers gently in the soft dark curls of his hair. He leaned against John's leg, his cheek on John's thigh.
John stroked Sherlock's forehead, his temple, his neck, scratched his scalp gently, enjoying the quiet. It wasn't that Sherlock couldn't shut up. He did, sometimes for hours on end. But his mind was loud, his focus a palpable, living thing. And right now, it was quiet. This was what Sherlock thought people's brains must be like. Ordinary people's. He was wrong, of course.
Sherlock allowed himself a few more seconds before taking a deep breath and scrubbing his hands over his face. John sighed and stepped back.
"See you tomorrow," he said, closing the door behind him as he walked up the stairs to his bedroom.