Zen and the Art of Dominant Aftercare
Zen and the Art Of Dominant Maintenance: Sherlock and John are play partners. John is excellent at aftercare, but it takes awhile for Sherlock to realize John does aftercare for himself as well. Written for a prompt on the sherlockbbc-fic kinkmeme.
Rating: Hard R
Word count: 2459
Pairing: J/s
Warning: BDSM, implied sex, fluff (YES FLUFF), unbeta'ed or Britpicked.
Disclaimer: I am not related in any way to the Beeb, Sherlock, Doyle, etc, all rights belong to them.
There were five eyebolts in the ceiling of Sherlock's room in 221b Baker Street. They could be easily mistaken for plant-hooks, or punching-bag rings, even if they looked a little sturdier than usual, and certainly Sherlock kept various bizarre things hanging off them in a rotating pattern. They were installed for another purpose, though, and as sherlock hung from the two facing the window - mercifully with the blackout curtains closed - a tiny part of him was glad that John had installed them, after checking the studs in the ceiling and carefully choosing the sturdiest eyebolts he could find on the Internet. John was very careful about things that could harm people, and even more so when it came to Sherlock, who was quite capable of harming himself on accident.
The hemp bit comfortingly/painfully into his wrists, the lark's-head knots keeping it from tightening beyond endurance, and the ropes themselves running under his hands for the inevitable collapse (like now). Through the comforting haze his mind had become, sherlock could vaguely hear John carefully setting down the short whip (Dragon's tongue, his memory supplied, and he shivered) in the trunk that had become sherlock's favorite item in the house. Not his, oh no - it was most decidedly John's, and it was the one thing in the house he would never touch without permission. His shoulders ached from being pulled apart, and he vaguely considered putting his feet flat on the floor to hold him up. Just a minute, he thought fuzzily, I'll do it in a minute...
Then John was there, carefully wrapping his hands around sherlock's ribs. sherlock hissed as the warm fingers pressed into the weals kissing his ribs and back, and allowed John to help him to his feet. John did not embrace him - that would be too soft for this moment. Instead, he stood behind sherlock, his easily-missed strength (usually hidden by jumpers and slightly baggy coats) keeping him upright until sherlock found his feet again and shakingly stood on his own. Three measured breaths, and John slowly removed his fingers. sherlock attempted to steady his legs, but the quivering muscles ignored his mind's entreaties. John had already moved the flogging bench in front of sherlock and had begun slipping the knots that kept the ropes attached to the eyebolts in the ceiling, first on one side, then the other. As each arm was released, sherlock slowly put his arms in front of him on the flogging bench, holding himself up until John came to him and carefully slipped his arms around him.
The fiery burn of his welts made sherlock moan, and John's eyes lit briefly with a possessive hunger. "Come on, pet," he said softly, gently, shifting sherlock so that he was leaning on John's side. "Come on."
(Sherlock had taken to eating more, even during cases, after John had finally opened the silver-banded trunk for him. A bit of sluggishness was worth having more targets for the kiss of the lash. If others saw his eating as just another good influence of John Watson, well...let them keep their illusions. This was one thing he felt should remain silent.)
The coolness of the cloth was beginning to do its work, as the flush cooled slightly. Back into the bowl of cool water it went again, and across sherlock's body, and then to the bowl. This time it stayed, and the coolness of John's hand alone traversed its way across the bumpy territory of sherlock's back. John's territory, indisputably, claimed with every welt and bite and bruise, and sherlock shuddered a little at the sweetness of it.
~~~~~
The pain had been a means to an end, in the beginning, a way of quieting the whirling thoughts in his head. After John had, in his own intuitive way, discovered sherlock's secret - where he disappeared to occasionally, coming back with a quiet, slightly doped smile, and then wearing long-sleeved dark shirts buttoned all the way up and scarves for days - the silver-bound trunk had finally come out from John's bed, and silently appeared one night on Sherlock's. Sherlock had already discovered it, of course, but had kept silent about it, since he was, in fact, aware of John's feelings of privacy, and realized almost at once that revealing that he knew about this would be beyond a "bit not good". Its presence in his room, though, had stopped him a few strides into the door, surprised into stillness the way he usually was only at his own epiphanies.
John's voice behind him had startled him (although he did not show it - years of training and all that). "I thought perhaps I could help," he said simply, leaning on the doorframe. Slowly Sherlock had turned, his eyes glowing, searching John's face in intense study. Calm, on the surface, John's perfect English calm, but beneath it - the slight rapidity of the breath, the mild dilation of the eyes, John's own tell of his flicking tongue told Sherlock all he needed to know. It was indeed John's hand that held the toys locked away in the trunk (Sherlock had been nearly certain, but the spectre of the mistake of Harry made him give the question its due). The images that flooded Sherlock's brain - John, expertly tying knots in the well-treated hemp that lay neatly along one side, piled by length; John, using the twin floggers packed at right angles to the rope (would he florentine*? Surely not, that tended to be the mark of a show-off...but he could see it, in his mind, John's face absolutely intent as the floggers whirled, not caring about impressing anyone, just the thud-thud-thud-thud of the thongs hitting his submissive's back); John, raking his short-cut nails down sherlock's chest (and now he was the one in the visions now, not a faceless sub, this had happened fast) - it was too much, it had been too much before he walked in his room (to get his scarf, to go out, to get things to slow down), Sherlock couldn't deal with it and -
John took three long steps through the room and curled his fingers into Sherlock's hair, pulling just a bit, and sherlock inhaled as his eyes closed and his head tilted back. "Yes, I think I better had," John mused, his fingers slowly tightening and relaxing, sherlock's breathing fluctuating with the pulls, the information streaming through his head starting to quiet as the pain-pleasure flooded his synapses. The gentle pressure downward was easy to follow, and sherlock sank to his knees before his flatmate as if they'd been doing this all along, as natural as breathing.
"Yes," John said softly. "Good."
~~~~~
The power play and the pain were good - very good. John, indeed, knew his way around his toybox, and was quick to learn where sherlock's limits were. During the day, Sherlock was still in charge, at cases, dashing about London, ordering John about the flat; everything was the same. When it got too much, though, it only took one glance for John to realize it was his turn. Then the silver-bound trunk came out, the latches were opened, and sherlock got to put away the world for awhile and find blessed, blessed silence in his brain.
Somewhere along the line, though, the simple, impersonal aftercare became...otherwise. The touches John used to soothe the overexcited skin acquired a tenderness that would surprise Sherlock, but somehow in the afterglow of the endorphins sherlock only noticed it as something he yearned up toward. The soft, relaxing murmurs gained a note that sounded like a smile, and lowered lashes. The night that John pressed a soft kiss to the curve of sherlock's shoulder it came as no surprise, and neither did the rest, the gentleness and the achingly slow touches that wound up with both of them breathless and sweaty and sherlock feeling utterly, utterly loved for the first time he could remember. "What's this?" John asked, in hardly a whisper. The corners of sherlock's mouth were as wide as they could go, and John's finger found one small drop nestled in the fold of one closed eye.
"I think it's joy," sherlock whispered back.
~~~~~
The night that Sherlock noticed John's ritual had been an odd one. The play had been effective, but subdued, as if neither one of them had been completely into it. It had been a long, frustrating case that night, and Sherlock had needed nothing more than to get out of his head - too much data, not enough pieces to the puzzle. John had not quite gotten used to Sherlock's sleep cycle during a case, and this one had been 21 hours and counting and he was weary; not enough to make mistakes, but the intensity just wasn't there. sherlock had gotten what he needed, but it was fairly soon after the ropes had come off and the flannel had been run across his back that Sherlock was...not bored, but back out of subspace**. John had wrapped him in the blanket, as usual, with a bottle of water in easy reach, and left him to tidy up. Usually sherlock was content to lie under the blanket and doze a bit, listening to the sounds of John moving quietly about, but this time Sherlock propped himself up and watched as John put away his toys.
It was fascinating. John's trunk was set with clamps for certain toys, and partitioned spaces for the ropes and leather cuffs (not sherlock's favorite, as John had quickly discovered; the hemp gave sherlock something to focus on and he hit subspace faster) and the few gags John owned in with the climbing carabiners, the swivel, and the solid three-inch ring for suspensions, with leather straps with snaps that held everything firmly in its spot if the trunk somehow got tossed around. John had a particular way of packing his trunk: first, the ropes were tied. John's way of doing this was going with the ends from palm around elbow until he had a round and a half or two rounds left, and then wrapping the excess around the middle and tucking the end under the last wrap. (It made for an impressive show if done correctly - a flick of the wrist and the rope smoothly rolled out, ready for tying, with the bite*** between John's fingers; a feat that always made sherlock's breath hitch a little.) Each rope was tucked in its compartment, longest at the bottom, shortest at the top.
Next, whatever gag might have been used; wiped with antibacterial wipes he kept in the same compartment, stowed in a plastic bag, and tucked in carefully. Sherlock knew that John usually washed the gags he'd used the night before in the bathroom sink after he'd gotten home from work, but hadn't seen the wipes used as well. Unsurprising, from John, really.
Next, the short handled toys that had been used put in their clamps or straps - variously, the paddle with leather on one side and rabbit fur on the other and the round wooden paddle; the twin Wartenberg pinwheels; the EMT scissors; the flat box containing the inch-long claws John had bought a few weeks back as an experiment (a highly successful one - Sherlock was considering asking if John might be interested in blood play with those if they were slightly sharpened); the vibrator (strictly for out-of-body use, but wildly exciting none-the-less) and the furry vampire glove, with its tacks faced toward the lid. The canes and the riding crop (explicitly forbidden in the mortuary) ran along the bottom, strapped down at each end.
Last, in the largest compartment, the various floggers, the floppy leather paddle, and the Dragon's Tongue, with the blindfolds on the top.
John's movements during all of this were slow, calm, thoughtful; the act of winding the rope began it, and the deliberate movements in the precise placement of the toys seemed almost like an act of meditation. Leaning his head on his hand and tilting his head to the side, Sherlock merely watched, his brain not quite whirring as fast as usual. Gradually, though, the look on John's face suggested something to Sherlock. This was John's private aftercare, what he indulged in and used to center himself after a scene.
Sherlock had never truly considered the idea that a Dominant might need aftercare as well - the place he had gone to quiet his mind was professional, and what happened after he walked out never crossed his mind. Now, however, it was John who took Sherlock out of his head and brought sherlock back into his body, and suddenly Sherlock felt slight shame at never having thought of this before. He stayed silent, however, as John wiped down the flogging bench, took it apart and stowed it in its case, and rehung the original contents of the eyebolts in their respective places. Only after everything was in its proper place did he turn around and find Sherlock's eyes on him. He blinked, and automatically asked, "You ok?"
"Fine," Sherlock said, voice only mildly husky now. He lifted the edge of the blanket in invitation, and after a slight hesitation John stripped off his clothes, quickly and efficiently, and slid in beside Sherlock. He carefully wound his arms about the reddened chest and back, resting his neck on Sherlock's arm and looking up inquisitively at him. Sherlock smiled back. "Just noticing what you do when I'm normally coming back," he rumbled, bringing up a hand to smooth John's sandy blond hair off his forehead.
"Mm," John replied, giving him a brief smile in reply. "It's like cleaning a weapon, it helps me ground. Otherwise I have a bit of trouble calming myself after a scene - only made that mistake once, and I will never do it again!"
"Makes sense," Sherlock replied. "I daresay this gets a bit intense for you as well."
"With you? Always," John chuckled. "Keeping one step ahead is a challenge, and keeping myself in control can be even worse!"
There was a small stillness at that, a truth that hadn't been uttered ringing loudly in their ears. John flushed a little. "This...is complicated, isn't it," he said quietly.
"It is," Sherlock said just as quietly.
"Bit not good?" John asked, only a tiny quaver in his voice betraying the calm he'd gained.
"Mm...no. To steal your own line, 'It's all fine,'" Sherlock answered, a smile flickering around the corner of his lips.
John looked surprised for an instant, and then his face lit up. "Really," he breathed, almost a confirmation rather than a question.
"Really," Sherlock agreed, the smile firmly in place as John closed the short distance between their lips.
*florentine - a rapid style of flogging done two-handed, usually fairly difficult.
**subspace - the term used for the headspace subs get into during play.
***bite - the middle of the rope.
Rating: Hard R
Word count: 2459
Pairing: J/s
Warning: BDSM, implied sex, fluff (YES FLUFF), unbeta'ed or Britpicked.
Disclaimer: I am not related in any way to the Beeb, Sherlock, Doyle, etc, all rights belong to them.
There were five eyebolts in the ceiling of Sherlock's room in 221b Baker Street. They could be easily mistaken for plant-hooks, or punching-bag rings, even if they looked a little sturdier than usual, and certainly Sherlock kept various bizarre things hanging off them in a rotating pattern. They were installed for another purpose, though, and as sherlock hung from the two facing the window - mercifully with the blackout curtains closed - a tiny part of him was glad that John had installed them, after checking the studs in the ceiling and carefully choosing the sturdiest eyebolts he could find on the Internet. John was very careful about things that could harm people, and even more so when it came to Sherlock, who was quite capable of harming himself on accident.
The hemp bit comfortingly/painfully into his wrists, the lark's-head knots keeping it from tightening beyond endurance, and the ropes themselves running under his hands for the inevitable collapse (like now). Through the comforting haze his mind had become, sherlock could vaguely hear John carefully setting down the short whip (Dragon's tongue, his memory supplied, and he shivered) in the trunk that had become sherlock's favorite item in the house. Not his, oh no - it was most decidedly John's, and it was the one thing in the house he would never touch without permission. His shoulders ached from being pulled apart, and he vaguely considered putting his feet flat on the floor to hold him up. Just a minute, he thought fuzzily, I'll do it in a minute...
Then John was there, carefully wrapping his hands around sherlock's ribs. sherlock hissed as the warm fingers pressed into the weals kissing his ribs and back, and allowed John to help him to his feet. John did not embrace him - that would be too soft for this moment. Instead, he stood behind sherlock, his easily-missed strength (usually hidden by jumpers and slightly baggy coats) keeping him upright until sherlock found his feet again and shakingly stood on his own. Three measured breaths, and John slowly removed his fingers. sherlock attempted to steady his legs, but the quivering muscles ignored his mind's entreaties. John had already moved the flogging bench in front of sherlock and had begun slipping the knots that kept the ropes attached to the eyebolts in the ceiling, first on one side, then the other. As each arm was released, sherlock slowly put his arms in front of him on the flogging bench, holding himself up until John came to him and carefully slipped his arms around him.
The fiery burn of his welts made sherlock moan, and John's eyes lit briefly with a possessive hunger. "Come on, pet," he said softly, gently, shifting sherlock so that he was leaning on John's side. "Come on."
(Sherlock had taken to eating more, even during cases, after John had finally opened the silver-banded trunk for him. A bit of sluggishness was worth having more targets for the kiss of the lash. If others saw his eating as just another good influence of John Watson, well...let them keep their illusions. This was one thing he felt should remain silent.)
The coolness of the cloth was beginning to do its work, as the flush cooled slightly. Back into the bowl of cool water it went again, and across sherlock's body, and then to the bowl. This time it stayed, and the coolness of John's hand alone traversed its way across the bumpy territory of sherlock's back. John's territory, indisputably, claimed with every welt and bite and bruise, and sherlock shuddered a little at the sweetness of it.
~~~~~
The pain had been a means to an end, in the beginning, a way of quieting the whirling thoughts in his head. After John had, in his own intuitive way, discovered sherlock's secret - where he disappeared to occasionally, coming back with a quiet, slightly doped smile, and then wearing long-sleeved dark shirts buttoned all the way up and scarves for days - the silver-bound trunk had finally come out from John's bed, and silently appeared one night on Sherlock's. Sherlock had already discovered it, of course, but had kept silent about it, since he was, in fact, aware of John's feelings of privacy, and realized almost at once that revealing that he knew about this would be beyond a "bit not good". Its presence in his room, though, had stopped him a few strides into the door, surprised into stillness the way he usually was only at his own epiphanies.
John's voice behind him had startled him (although he did not show it - years of training and all that). "I thought perhaps I could help," he said simply, leaning on the doorframe. Slowly Sherlock had turned, his eyes glowing, searching John's face in intense study. Calm, on the surface, John's perfect English calm, but beneath it - the slight rapidity of the breath, the mild dilation of the eyes, John's own tell of his flicking tongue told Sherlock all he needed to know. It was indeed John's hand that held the toys locked away in the trunk (Sherlock had been nearly certain, but the spectre of the mistake of Harry made him give the question its due). The images that flooded Sherlock's brain - John, expertly tying knots in the well-treated hemp that lay neatly along one side, piled by length; John, using the twin floggers packed at right angles to the rope (would he florentine*? Surely not, that tended to be the mark of a show-off...but he could see it, in his mind, John's face absolutely intent as the floggers whirled, not caring about impressing anyone, just the thud-thud-thud-thud of the thongs hitting his submissive's back); John, raking his short-cut nails down sherlock's chest (and now he was the one in the visions now, not a faceless sub, this had happened fast) - it was too much, it had been too much before he walked in his room (to get his scarf, to go out, to get things to slow down), Sherlock couldn't deal with it and -
John took three long steps through the room and curled his fingers into Sherlock's hair, pulling just a bit, and sherlock inhaled as his eyes closed and his head tilted back. "Yes, I think I better had," John mused, his fingers slowly tightening and relaxing, sherlock's breathing fluctuating with the pulls, the information streaming through his head starting to quiet as the pain-pleasure flooded his synapses. The gentle pressure downward was easy to follow, and sherlock sank to his knees before his flatmate as if they'd been doing this all along, as natural as breathing.
"Yes," John said softly. "Good."
~~~~~
The power play and the pain were good - very good. John, indeed, knew his way around his toybox, and was quick to learn where sherlock's limits were. During the day, Sherlock was still in charge, at cases, dashing about London, ordering John about the flat; everything was the same. When it got too much, though, it only took one glance for John to realize it was his turn. Then the silver-bound trunk came out, the latches were opened, and sherlock got to put away the world for awhile and find blessed, blessed silence in his brain.
Somewhere along the line, though, the simple, impersonal aftercare became...otherwise. The touches John used to soothe the overexcited skin acquired a tenderness that would surprise Sherlock, but somehow in the afterglow of the endorphins sherlock only noticed it as something he yearned up toward. The soft, relaxing murmurs gained a note that sounded like a smile, and lowered lashes. The night that John pressed a soft kiss to the curve of sherlock's shoulder it came as no surprise, and neither did the rest, the gentleness and the achingly slow touches that wound up with both of them breathless and sweaty and sherlock feeling utterly, utterly loved for the first time he could remember. "What's this?" John asked, in hardly a whisper. The corners of sherlock's mouth were as wide as they could go, and John's finger found one small drop nestled in the fold of one closed eye.
"I think it's joy," sherlock whispered back.
~~~~~
The night that Sherlock noticed John's ritual had been an odd one. The play had been effective, but subdued, as if neither one of them had been completely into it. It had been a long, frustrating case that night, and Sherlock had needed nothing more than to get out of his head - too much data, not enough pieces to the puzzle. John had not quite gotten used to Sherlock's sleep cycle during a case, and this one had been 21 hours and counting and he was weary; not enough to make mistakes, but the intensity just wasn't there. sherlock had gotten what he needed, but it was fairly soon after the ropes had come off and the flannel had been run across his back that Sherlock was...not bored, but back out of subspace**. John had wrapped him in the blanket, as usual, with a bottle of water in easy reach, and left him to tidy up. Usually sherlock was content to lie under the blanket and doze a bit, listening to the sounds of John moving quietly about, but this time Sherlock propped himself up and watched as John put away his toys.
It was fascinating. John's trunk was set with clamps for certain toys, and partitioned spaces for the ropes and leather cuffs (not sherlock's favorite, as John had quickly discovered; the hemp gave sherlock something to focus on and he hit subspace faster) and the few gags John owned in with the climbing carabiners, the swivel, and the solid three-inch ring for suspensions, with leather straps with snaps that held everything firmly in its spot if the trunk somehow got tossed around. John had a particular way of packing his trunk: first, the ropes were tied. John's way of doing this was going with the ends from palm around elbow until he had a round and a half or two rounds left, and then wrapping the excess around the middle and tucking the end under the last wrap. (It made for an impressive show if done correctly - a flick of the wrist and the rope smoothly rolled out, ready for tying, with the bite*** between John's fingers; a feat that always made sherlock's breath hitch a little.) Each rope was tucked in its compartment, longest at the bottom, shortest at the top.
Next, whatever gag might have been used; wiped with antibacterial wipes he kept in the same compartment, stowed in a plastic bag, and tucked in carefully. Sherlock knew that John usually washed the gags he'd used the night before in the bathroom sink after he'd gotten home from work, but hadn't seen the wipes used as well. Unsurprising, from John, really.
Next, the short handled toys that had been used put in their clamps or straps - variously, the paddle with leather on one side and rabbit fur on the other and the round wooden paddle; the twin Wartenberg pinwheels; the EMT scissors; the flat box containing the inch-long claws John had bought a few weeks back as an experiment (a highly successful one - Sherlock was considering asking if John might be interested in blood play with those if they were slightly sharpened); the vibrator (strictly for out-of-body use, but wildly exciting none-the-less) and the furry vampire glove, with its tacks faced toward the lid. The canes and the riding crop (explicitly forbidden in the mortuary) ran along the bottom, strapped down at each end.
Last, in the largest compartment, the various floggers, the floppy leather paddle, and the Dragon's Tongue, with the blindfolds on the top.
John's movements during all of this were slow, calm, thoughtful; the act of winding the rope began it, and the deliberate movements in the precise placement of the toys seemed almost like an act of meditation. Leaning his head on his hand and tilting his head to the side, Sherlock merely watched, his brain not quite whirring as fast as usual. Gradually, though, the look on John's face suggested something to Sherlock. This was John's private aftercare, what he indulged in and used to center himself after a scene.
Sherlock had never truly considered the idea that a Dominant might need aftercare as well - the place he had gone to quiet his mind was professional, and what happened after he walked out never crossed his mind. Now, however, it was John who took Sherlock out of his head and brought sherlock back into his body, and suddenly Sherlock felt slight shame at never having thought of this before. He stayed silent, however, as John wiped down the flogging bench, took it apart and stowed it in its case, and rehung the original contents of the eyebolts in their respective places. Only after everything was in its proper place did he turn around and find Sherlock's eyes on him. He blinked, and automatically asked, "You ok?"
"Fine," Sherlock said, voice only mildly husky now. He lifted the edge of the blanket in invitation, and after a slight hesitation John stripped off his clothes, quickly and efficiently, and slid in beside Sherlock. He carefully wound his arms about the reddened chest and back, resting his neck on Sherlock's arm and looking up inquisitively at him. Sherlock smiled back. "Just noticing what you do when I'm normally coming back," he rumbled, bringing up a hand to smooth John's sandy blond hair off his forehead.
"Mm," John replied, giving him a brief smile in reply. "It's like cleaning a weapon, it helps me ground. Otherwise I have a bit of trouble calming myself after a scene - only made that mistake once, and I will never do it again!"
"Makes sense," Sherlock replied. "I daresay this gets a bit intense for you as well."
"With you? Always," John chuckled. "Keeping one step ahead is a challenge, and keeping myself in control can be even worse!"
There was a small stillness at that, a truth that hadn't been uttered ringing loudly in their ears. John flushed a little. "This...is complicated, isn't it," he said quietly.
"It is," Sherlock said just as quietly.
"Bit not good?" John asked, only a tiny quaver in his voice betraying the calm he'd gained.
"Mm...no. To steal your own line, 'It's all fine,'" Sherlock answered, a smile flickering around the corner of his lips.
John looked surprised for an instant, and then his face lit up. "Really," he breathed, almost a confirmation rather than a question.
"Really," Sherlock agreed, the smile firmly in place as John closed the short distance between their lips.
*florentine - a rapid style of flogging done two-handed, usually fairly difficult.
**subspace - the term used for the headspace subs get into during play.
***bite - the middle of the rope.