Sherlock Fic: Desdemona
Title: Desdemona
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: R
Warnings/Enticements: Contains an established D/s relationship and the negotiated rules thereof.
Note: Written for fandom_stocking for jacknjill270.
Summary: For this to work, John has to be able to trust Sherlock with the most precious thing of all: Sherlock's own well-being.
[Format note: if you don't see breaks between paragraphs, try viewing this page in Firefox, or click "view in my style" on the livejournal navigation bar at the top of the page.]
A single wince had tipped John off. They’d been at the Yard appeasing Lestrade with the usual debriefing when Sherlock, in demonstrating a point about futures market trading, had extended his arm out to the right and flinched at the strain.
John’s attention snapped to Sherlock immediately, and remained there throughout the explanation. He hadn’t said another word until Lestrade dismissed them.
In the cab, however, John had pounced. “Your shoulder’s in pain,” he accused.
“Slightly.” Sherlock shrugged, which had stretched the sore joint, but not enough that he couldn’t repress his instinctual reaction.
John kept watching him.“Did you wrench it this morning? Trip in the shower, maybe?”
“You know I didn’t,” Sherlock frowned.
John lowered his voice to a frequency that always intimidated suspects. “This happened last night.”
“Of course.” Sherlock remembered John dragging his hands up against his back and pinning them there while John fingered him open. He’d luxuriated in the feeling of being confined that way. John had never used restraints on Sherlock during their sessions, saying that Sherlock wasn’t ready for that level of responsibility. That continuing disappointment rather irked Sherlock, as he couldn’t fathom what responsibility he might be taking by allowing John to tie him down and use him.
But then John had pinned him with a dark look while London rushed by outside the cab. Sherlock said, “You should remember. You were there.”
“Yes. Yes I was.” John settled back into his seat and turned his attention out the window. “And I distinctly remember asking if I was hurting you.”
“It didn’t seem important,” Sherlock said. He remembered the question of course, and his answer--“No, I’m fine.”--but didn’t see the problem. He hadn’t wanted to discourage John’s rough handling of him. A strained shoulder seemed a small price to pay for the release John had provided last night.
“Not important.” John hit the phrase’s consonants harder than usual, and he stopped making eye contact. Sherlock hadn’t known yet what exactly that meant, but he also hadn’t been surprised when as soon as they’d arrived at the flat, John curled a hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck and said, “Now?”
Sherlock had nodded his agreement, and found himself in short order stripped, kneeling on the floor of the living room, and doing sod all. While John sat in his armchair and read. Until the sun went down.
Sherlock rebalanced his weight, leaning slightly more on his left knee to give the right a break, and ignored the complaining muscles in his thighs. He’d endured worse physical trials than this, and anyway, Sherlock knew for certain that this exercise was not meant to teach him good posture.
John reached for a cup of tea. Sherlock purposefully prevented himself from paying attention, from deducing the temperature of the tea, the probable subject of the text John was reading, or the elapsed time he’d been in this position.
So far Sherlock had managed to settle his mind and endure, using meditative techniques he’d read about, but now he considered begging John for mercy. Tasks, even difficult ones, Sherlock enjoyed. He could follow instructions precisely when he chose. John had often seemed pleased with his ability to behave as instructed. However, boredom tormented him. John understood that-how well he understood it-and used it only sparingly in their encounters. Enforced idleness represented the harshest discipline John could impose.
“Tell me why you’re being punished,” John said.
Sherlock needed an instant to realize he was being addressed. In the next moment, he congratulated himself on shutting down so fully as to allow John to surprise him. He needed no time at all to consider John’s question. He had worked out the answer to that during the early stages of the evening, before he’d been able to quiet his mind, and so he said, “Because I left out some information.”
John frowned. He set down his cup of tea, settled back in his chair, and regarded Sherlock critically. He looked as if he would be content to wait for hours.
Sherlock knew he could not endure even a single hour more in idleness. He made a concerted effort to see the situation the way John did. He ventured, “Because I lied to you.”
“Yes.” John reached out and took Sherlock’s chin in his hand, commanding his full attention. “You must always tell me when I ask you how something feels.”
“Yes, John,” he said.
“Even if you don’t mind the pain.”
“Yes, John.”
“Tell me why.”
It wasn’t until John asked that Sherlock discovered the answer. “Because it is not mine to decide. I give that choice to you, freely.”
John exhaled sharply. His hand slid down Sherlock’s neck to rest on his shoulder. “Promise me. You will not lie again while we’re doing this.”
Sherlock considered. Lies, half-truths, prevarications came easily to him when they aided in getting what he wanted. They were not a crutch, he promised himself. He could give them up for John, and count the cost a small one. “I will not lie. I swear it.”
“Good.” John pushed himself out of his chair and held his left palm out, facing downward, to indicate that Sherlock should stay. “In a moment, when I give the order, you’ll stand. I’m going to show you an item, and you’ll have thirty seconds to make observations, using any method you choose. Then you’ll report your conclusions. Understand?”
Sherlock felt a giddy rush of excited pleasure-sensual pleasure-welling up at that pronouncement. “Yes, John.”
“Up you get.” John beckoned with his outstretched hand.
Sherlock levered himself off the ground, and stumbled infinitesimally as he got his feet under him. He’d miscalculated the effects of kneeling for that length of him; he filed away the information for later analysis. Now, his attention was absorbed.
John held out his right hand, loosely grasping the bait: a rectangle of cloth.
Sherlock bent down for a closer look: fine weave, high thread count. Gray the precise color of a rainy dawn, might match a man’s suit, but it wasn’t long enough to be a tie, and the shape was wrong. Color uniform all over, no pattern, not meant to be decorative in itself.
His hand darted out to touch. He ran two fingers along the length draped over John’s palm, then down to fondle the dangling end: soft, smooth with frequent handling, so laundered often. Warm not just in John’s hand, but all over. Neatly finished edge, backing of same material, so a functional item, but no dirt or other debris on it, nor any pilled places on the fabric where it might have been scrubbed.
Sherlock dropped to a crouch and pulled the fabric end to his face. Smelled of John--though there was a chance that was just the proximity-and faintly of laundry soap-the brand John used-and, even more faintly, of the antiseptic smell of the clinic.
“Time’s up,” John said. “Well?”
Sherlock straightened up, his mind abuzz. “A handkerchief,” he said. “Yours. Not new, but not well-used, perhaps never used for its intended purpose. Frequently handled and washed, though, so you carry it with you, in your trouser pocket probably, and throw it in the laundry with the rest of your clothes. Cloth’s nicer than you would buy for yourself, but unlikely you received it as a gift. Three of the four people who are known to give you presents would not have bought you anything that trifling, and Sarah has expressed a preference for color in your wardrobe. She wouldn’t have bought you something gray. No, this is the sort of gift you might purchase for someone else: modest, practical. You bought it but decided not to give it to its intended recipient, but rather carry it on your person without using it. It’s still warm from being in your pocket, so you’ve had it with you since we began this evening, possibly even since before we went to the Yard. And it’s the exact color of the tie that complements the suit I acquired last fall.”
“Extraordinary.” John reached out to brush the back of his fingers against Sherlock’s temple. “You are a truly marvelous creature.”
Sherlock warmed under the praise. His keen mind, now awakened and hungry after its recent spate of denial, strayed again to the handkerchief: why had it remained unused?
“We hadn’t begun yet, we two,” John said, apparently accustomed enough to the workings of Sherlock’s mind to know his question. “When I thought about giving you this, I imagined all the things I could use it for, with you, and I couldn’t go through with it. I thought if I saw it in your hand, it would only make matters worse. Encourage the… urges I’d been feeling.” John caught Sherlock’s hand, lifted it, and pressed the handkerchief into his palm. “The things I want to do to you, Sherlock. Imagine.”
Tied around his eyes, leaving him at the mercy of his other senses to deduce where the next blow would fall. Stuffed into his mouth, muffling desperate pleas for release as John’s mouth teased him. Hitched tight around the base of his cock staving off the end as John moved inside him.
“Can you see it?” John asked.
“Yes,” Sherlock said in a voice that sounded entirely too weak. Yes, Sherlock had no shortage of imagination.
“Good.” John pressed Sherlock’s fingers into a fist around the handkerchief, then released his hand. “Go upstairs. We’ll begin.”
As he followed John’s orders, Sherlock decided, quite resolutely, that he would show John how very responsible he could be.
END
[Note: This fic is also archived at A03.]
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: R
Warnings/Enticements: Contains an established D/s relationship and the negotiated rules thereof.
Note: Written for fandom_stocking for jacknjill270.
Summary: For this to work, John has to be able to trust Sherlock with the most precious thing of all: Sherlock's own well-being.
[Format note: if you don't see breaks between paragraphs, try viewing this page in Firefox, or click "view in my style" on the livejournal navigation bar at the top of the page.]
A single wince had tipped John off. They’d been at the Yard appeasing Lestrade with the usual debriefing when Sherlock, in demonstrating a point about futures market trading, had extended his arm out to the right and flinched at the strain.
John’s attention snapped to Sherlock immediately, and remained there throughout the explanation. He hadn’t said another word until Lestrade dismissed them.
In the cab, however, John had pounced. “Your shoulder’s in pain,” he accused.
“Slightly.” Sherlock shrugged, which had stretched the sore joint, but not enough that he couldn’t repress his instinctual reaction.
John kept watching him.“Did you wrench it this morning? Trip in the shower, maybe?”
“You know I didn’t,” Sherlock frowned.
John lowered his voice to a frequency that always intimidated suspects. “This happened last night.”
“Of course.” Sherlock remembered John dragging his hands up against his back and pinning them there while John fingered him open. He’d luxuriated in the feeling of being confined that way. John had never used restraints on Sherlock during their sessions, saying that Sherlock wasn’t ready for that level of responsibility. That continuing disappointment rather irked Sherlock, as he couldn’t fathom what responsibility he might be taking by allowing John to tie him down and use him.
But then John had pinned him with a dark look while London rushed by outside the cab. Sherlock said, “You should remember. You were there.”
“Yes. Yes I was.” John settled back into his seat and turned his attention out the window. “And I distinctly remember asking if I was hurting you.”
“It didn’t seem important,” Sherlock said. He remembered the question of course, and his answer--“No, I’m fine.”--but didn’t see the problem. He hadn’t wanted to discourage John’s rough handling of him. A strained shoulder seemed a small price to pay for the release John had provided last night.
“Not important.” John hit the phrase’s consonants harder than usual, and he stopped making eye contact. Sherlock hadn’t known yet what exactly that meant, but he also hadn’t been surprised when as soon as they’d arrived at the flat, John curled a hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck and said, “Now?”
Sherlock had nodded his agreement, and found himself in short order stripped, kneeling on the floor of the living room, and doing sod all. While John sat in his armchair and read. Until the sun went down.
Sherlock rebalanced his weight, leaning slightly more on his left knee to give the right a break, and ignored the complaining muscles in his thighs. He’d endured worse physical trials than this, and anyway, Sherlock knew for certain that this exercise was not meant to teach him good posture.
John reached for a cup of tea. Sherlock purposefully prevented himself from paying attention, from deducing the temperature of the tea, the probable subject of the text John was reading, or the elapsed time he’d been in this position.
So far Sherlock had managed to settle his mind and endure, using meditative techniques he’d read about, but now he considered begging John for mercy. Tasks, even difficult ones, Sherlock enjoyed. He could follow instructions precisely when he chose. John had often seemed pleased with his ability to behave as instructed. However, boredom tormented him. John understood that-how well he understood it-and used it only sparingly in their encounters. Enforced idleness represented the harshest discipline John could impose.
“Tell me why you’re being punished,” John said.
Sherlock needed an instant to realize he was being addressed. In the next moment, he congratulated himself on shutting down so fully as to allow John to surprise him. He needed no time at all to consider John’s question. He had worked out the answer to that during the early stages of the evening, before he’d been able to quiet his mind, and so he said, “Because I left out some information.”
John frowned. He set down his cup of tea, settled back in his chair, and regarded Sherlock critically. He looked as if he would be content to wait for hours.
Sherlock knew he could not endure even a single hour more in idleness. He made a concerted effort to see the situation the way John did. He ventured, “Because I lied to you.”
“Yes.” John reached out and took Sherlock’s chin in his hand, commanding his full attention. “You must always tell me when I ask you how something feels.”
“Yes, John,” he said.
“Even if you don’t mind the pain.”
“Yes, John.”
“Tell me why.”
It wasn’t until John asked that Sherlock discovered the answer. “Because it is not mine to decide. I give that choice to you, freely.”
John exhaled sharply. His hand slid down Sherlock’s neck to rest on his shoulder. “Promise me. You will not lie again while we’re doing this.”
Sherlock considered. Lies, half-truths, prevarications came easily to him when they aided in getting what he wanted. They were not a crutch, he promised himself. He could give them up for John, and count the cost a small one. “I will not lie. I swear it.”
“Good.” John pushed himself out of his chair and held his left palm out, facing downward, to indicate that Sherlock should stay. “In a moment, when I give the order, you’ll stand. I’m going to show you an item, and you’ll have thirty seconds to make observations, using any method you choose. Then you’ll report your conclusions. Understand?”
Sherlock felt a giddy rush of excited pleasure-sensual pleasure-welling up at that pronouncement. “Yes, John.”
“Up you get.” John beckoned with his outstretched hand.
Sherlock levered himself off the ground, and stumbled infinitesimally as he got his feet under him. He’d miscalculated the effects of kneeling for that length of him; he filed away the information for later analysis. Now, his attention was absorbed.
John held out his right hand, loosely grasping the bait: a rectangle of cloth.
Sherlock bent down for a closer look: fine weave, high thread count. Gray the precise color of a rainy dawn, might match a man’s suit, but it wasn’t long enough to be a tie, and the shape was wrong. Color uniform all over, no pattern, not meant to be decorative in itself.
His hand darted out to touch. He ran two fingers along the length draped over John’s palm, then down to fondle the dangling end: soft, smooth with frequent handling, so laundered often. Warm not just in John’s hand, but all over. Neatly finished edge, backing of same material, so a functional item, but no dirt or other debris on it, nor any pilled places on the fabric where it might have been scrubbed.
Sherlock dropped to a crouch and pulled the fabric end to his face. Smelled of John--though there was a chance that was just the proximity-and faintly of laundry soap-the brand John used-and, even more faintly, of the antiseptic smell of the clinic.
“Time’s up,” John said. “Well?”
Sherlock straightened up, his mind abuzz. “A handkerchief,” he said. “Yours. Not new, but not well-used, perhaps never used for its intended purpose. Frequently handled and washed, though, so you carry it with you, in your trouser pocket probably, and throw it in the laundry with the rest of your clothes. Cloth’s nicer than you would buy for yourself, but unlikely you received it as a gift. Three of the four people who are known to give you presents would not have bought you anything that trifling, and Sarah has expressed a preference for color in your wardrobe. She wouldn’t have bought you something gray. No, this is the sort of gift you might purchase for someone else: modest, practical. You bought it but decided not to give it to its intended recipient, but rather carry it on your person without using it. It’s still warm from being in your pocket, so you’ve had it with you since we began this evening, possibly even since before we went to the Yard. And it’s the exact color of the tie that complements the suit I acquired last fall.”
“Extraordinary.” John reached out to brush the back of his fingers against Sherlock’s temple. “You are a truly marvelous creature.”
Sherlock warmed under the praise. His keen mind, now awakened and hungry after its recent spate of denial, strayed again to the handkerchief: why had it remained unused?
“We hadn’t begun yet, we two,” John said, apparently accustomed enough to the workings of Sherlock’s mind to know his question. “When I thought about giving you this, I imagined all the things I could use it for, with you, and I couldn’t go through with it. I thought if I saw it in your hand, it would only make matters worse. Encourage the… urges I’d been feeling.” John caught Sherlock’s hand, lifted it, and pressed the handkerchief into his palm. “The things I want to do to you, Sherlock. Imagine.”
Tied around his eyes, leaving him at the mercy of his other senses to deduce where the next blow would fall. Stuffed into his mouth, muffling desperate pleas for release as John’s mouth teased him. Hitched tight around the base of his cock staving off the end as John moved inside him.
“Can you see it?” John asked.
“Yes,” Sherlock said in a voice that sounded entirely too weak. Yes, Sherlock had no shortage of imagination.
“Good.” John pressed Sherlock’s fingers into a fist around the handkerchief, then released his hand. “Go upstairs. We’ll begin.”
As he followed John’s orders, Sherlock decided, quite resolutely, that he would show John how very responsible he could be.
END
[Note: This fic is also archived at A03.]